From the time children are born, they have a built-in fan base between parents, grandparents, siblings, and other relatives. These fans help guide, encourage, and motivate children for future adventures. This idea of finding a fan base hit me like a bolt of lightning in the middle of the night, and I’ve mulled it around in my mind for hours now. As adults where do we gather our fan base and share our biggest goals?

The photo above is the screen shot I took from the national small college rugby championship feed. We could only afford for one parent to fly to Pennsylvania; I sent the Mr. first class for the experience of a life time. Eldest hung up his baseball cleats, after twelve years of playing, and slipped into new spikes his freshman year of college. His confidence in his ability to play a new sport and succeed blew my mind. Through hours of hard work studying plays, watching film, and stepping out on the practice field multiple times a week he earned a starting spot on the team. Luck would have it the stars aligned and his team went on winning the small college national championship that year. Last year they made regionals, but too many injuries plagued their team. I’ve asked the eldest what made him switch from baseball to rugby since he’s still a die-hard lover of the diamond. His response surprised me a little. He said, “You and Dad always support me to go for my dreams without limitations. I know baseball will always be around, and I can play softball well into my golden years. But the opportunity for me to try to new things is dwindling. As I get closer to ending my academic career and embark on my next chapters this is the time for change. Rugby is a way for me to learn something new, keep active, and be a part of a team.” He’s also joined a build and design team for F3 racing cars. They are a group of engineers from several disciplines who create and test new aerodynamic designs, electronic systems, and hybrid fuel sources. He still attributes his willingness for joining different groups or trying something new directly with our continued encouragement and support.

For years in education, the idea of an authentic audience for young and emerging writers has been a buzz phrase. Educational companies put forth several media outlets safe for kids to upload and share pieces they have created. I’ve always shied away from public social media outlets because my students’ ages leave me uncomfortable with the mass public scrutiny. However, application programs such as Edmodo, Kidblog, Google Classroom, and Haiku have opened up a way to share work and responses in a controlled environment. I often suggest to kids who are avid writers to set up a Wattpad account if they want to dip their feet into a little more public forum where they can receive feedback under their own pen name or handle.

My own writing and ideas were kept from public scrutiny for years. Of course, I wrote scripts for short thirty to sixty-second commercials, but directors, actors, graphics, and post production editors took those scripts and made them so much more than the written words themselves; I never considered this a public forum of my own work. Over the last two years, I’ve stretched and grown as a writer exploring different avenues for sharing my creations. Some have failed miserably while others have grown roots and become more than I ever dreamed.

My Master’s thesis was published in an educational journal and a few big names in education have reached out and opened up lines of communication. The National Writing Project opened the door for me to lose a little more of my introverted personality and share the fictional works (and some nonfictional pieces) with a new authentic audience. However, the biggest eye-opener, as a writer, is the openness of the Indie writing community. These authors and readers share a bond and fan base like nothing I’ve seen before. When authors need support for a cause near and dear to their hearts, their fans do all they can to spread the word, donate, or volunteer something which fills the need. They promote one each other’s works, write reviews, and provide sounding boards on multiple forums. These grassroots style promotions created a new branch of authorship which has changed the back bone of publishing. The strength iof the relationships being built is a direct sign of the times correlating with the 21st century technology advancements.

As I dip my feet further into this world, I’m constantly admiring the depth with which each facet of the process opens new doors. While my family still holds me up and cheers me on each and every day, this new community of friends and colleagues still blows my mind away. Quite simply, the connection for success is still directly attributable to the family, friends, and fans who continue to encourage and motivate you through both the thick and thin times. I’m only embarking on my journey, shoot I haven’t even left the dock yet, but the incredible reception and wealth of shared information compares to nothing I’ve experienced before. As everyone settles into their daily routines I ask you who’s your biggest fan?

My Mr. and I have been together since 1990. We actually met in the fall of 1989. Me, the big college sophomore with plans to complete my degree and student teaching in three and half years, because why waste time. (I did accomplish this goal; I was always nerdy) The Mr., a big defensive nose tackle with a stellar freshman plan: play football, tear up the gridiron, be the best, end of story. Academics only existed as a minor speed bump to achieving what he wanted. We met through my roommate, who was assigned as his guide through academic and campus life, and making sure he kept out of trouble. We were both eighteen, and our worlds couldn’t appear more polar opposite.

Looking back, our beginning would have ended up on the nightly news as a college stalking report. We met before email, cell phones, and the internet. The library in the college was an actual place for studying, typing papers (yes, very few word processors existed at the time), and searching endlessly through the card catalog for research materials (hopefully they were located on our own college campus) occupying quite a bit of the academic student’s life. Our worlds collided because the stars aligned just right, and included things like the library, resourcefulness, and determination.

He soon began stopping by my classes when they would end. All in hopes of getting a single date. He’d offer to carry my books, take me to lunch, study in the library. I always refused, sent him packing, and complained bitterly to my roommates about the “Dumb Jock” following me around. He then began lurking in my residence hall, coming by my room, asking for help or other various ingenious calculated plans for striking up a conversation. Again, I deferred him to my roommate, who was assigned the task of helping him. This kept up for months: the same bantering, the same stalking, the same refusing. (I always wondered how he knew where I’d be since we didn’t have the technology; to this day, he tells me it is his only secret.)

I finally stopped one day as he trailed me to class, and became the mean girl. I explained that under no uncertain terms would this baseball-loving, dedicated student ever date a football player, who by the looks of him would fail out of college before the end of his freshman year. You would think this would stop the freight train cold. Oh no, not Mr. determined, it only stoked the coals for the fire, and built up the steam in his momentum.

After Thanksgiving break, I broke. I accepted a date. I figured it would be my last mean act. He’d give up. We went shopping for Christmas presents for my roommates. We met at a mutual location, and I kept my distance. His attentiveness and open mannerisms started growing on me. Before the shopping ended he asked me to dinner. I accepted, because the experience had not been as painful as I’d worked it up in my mind. Dinner was another trap; he had already set it up so I’d meet his dad. His dad cooked us dinner. His mom, a CCU/ICU cardiac RN, worked that evening, but his dad willingly played chef. Once again, The Mr. made his plan and executed it flawlessly. He manipulated the situation, which outwardly I fought against. Inwardly I thought, “Well played, maybe he isn’t as pea-brained as I’d thought.”

Before long, winter break crept in and I packed up ready for the drive home. The Mr. called and asked for my home number. His confidence over the phone shown as he unfolded his next little tactical move. He explained how he’d like to take me to the beach, sit and watch a beautiful sunset, hold my hand during dinner, and then see where things might land. He was a little smarmy for my outer-self, but the inner-girl slowly broke a little more. I laughed when he said he wrote the number on the weekly TV guide (yes, we dated in the days before channel guides were available, and remotes were still a luxury).  I told him his mom would throw it away, so it was nice knowing him.

When he never called over break, I knew things had run their course. We were finished. Who writes a number on the weekly trash anyway, and this actually suited what my first impression about him was anyway. I wasn’t sure how he’d crept into my life anyhow, which only built my walls back up again and I refocused my mindset back on my goals.

January arrived, back in classes, volunteering in classrooms, and all study times penciled on the calendar, I focused on rocking the new year. A knock on the door changed everything. A sad Mr. waited on the other side; not the confident, cocky, six-foot three, two hundred eighty-pound lusting boy, but a broken soul. His grades mailed over vacation showed a less than stellar outcome. Football, his life’s breathe, needed him to up his game on the academic side. He also spent the break searching the trash for my number since his mom threw away the weekly guide when the new one arrived. I didn’t say “I told you so”, I actually sat down and helped him work on a better study plan. Before long we developed a friendship through hours of studying and learning little things about one another during those sessions. I learned very quickly he’d never worked as hard academically as he had athletically, and this was the basis of his struggle. He knew what his goal was with football all along. Nobody had ever asked him what his academic endgame looked like. I found this intriguing.

By mid-February, we were inseparable outside of classes and his off-season football schedule. He even got up early running with me catching the dawn or visiting the gym in the afternoons for a second work out. All this just to spend time with me. We experienced a few laughable dates; including one which involved running out of gas, a large cow patty riddled field, his roommate, Twinkies, and the cops. Another where a mixture of Malibu rum, cheap beer, a second story window, and poor innocent people below experienced a puke bath. But as the saying goes, “What happens in college, stays in college!”

We’d spent time with his parents, who lived close to campus. His mom still laughs about the Christmas she and his grandmother spent digging through the trash, because The Mr.’s future wife’s number had been thrown away. He told his parents way back in August, before speaking to me, he’d met the one. I did not know this until much later. Realistically, if I’d known, I’d have run fast and far, far away. Sometimes things need hidden for a while.

When spring break rolled around I invited him to meet my parents. This step truly solidified our relationship. My parents liked him. His eighteen-year-old self, held up through the line of questioning put forth by my parents, brother, and grandparents.  He also earned brownie points, helping my dad with a few manly things around the house, and sweet talking my mom. I knew when they all liked him our relationship found its solid footing.

Second semester finals arrived in May, he began acting a little strange, taking me to the mall (I hate shopping) where his sister worked. He’d have us perusing jewelry stores and asking all kinds of what if questions:

“What if we were to live together, where would that be?”

“What if you were looking for a wedding ring, are you a big gem girl or a traditional band girl?”

“How young is too young to begin a family?”

I chalked all these questions, and odd mall trips, to his Ohio upbringing. He spoke about friends back east getting married right out of high school, so I questioned nothing about his inquiry. Then, he sold his car. The beloved camouflage Baja Bug, which ran out of gas on the freeway only a few months earlier. It wasn’t like he needed a vehicle on campus, but it was a project vehicle he enjoyed modifying. Again, my content nineteen-year-old self-trusted his words and if this made him happy, who was I to stop it.

I finished my last final a day before his. My roommates also finished, and we were ready for a little fun before leaving for summer. However, The Mr. had asked me over to his dorm before he began studying for his last final. I figured he needed a little ego boost since he’d been working his rear end off, raising his GPA. (He did raise his grades and graduated with an overall 3.3 GPA. Playing four seasons of football, landing him national athletic accolades, and finishing his degree in three and half years. Not bad considering his 1.9 GPA at the end of his first semester)

It didn’t take me long, when he dropped to his knee, voice shaking, ring on his pinky, and he began his spiel, to figure out his intentions. The innocent part of his personality grabbed my heart immediately as his words flowed. The Mr. kneeling, the bunk beds unmade, and a life-size inspirational poster of Howie Long overlooking us as he popped the question. With zero doubt in my mind, the yes gushed out and the ring slipped onto my finger. (I proudly wear that Baja Bug on my left ring finger each and every day!)

In the heat of August 2016, we embark on our twenty-seventh year of knowing one another. The ride continues each and every day. We still hate being away from one another. We both love our three children beyond words. We always work as a team.

He still does silly little things like kiss each one of my fingers in hopes it will inspire my creative process. He never leaves the house without saying “I love you”, and he supports me in everything I’ve ever dreamed of, while I, in turn, do the same for him. He is my best friend, my lover, my protector, my rock, and my everything, every day of the year and twice on Sunday’s (even if we are still a house divided between football and baseball!).

This poem was written last year as part of my National Writing Fellowship, it should hopefully make a little more sense after my long diatribe!

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning back in December of 2013. I’m psyched to be working on my final discussion boards for my second course of my Masters. The hubby knew I was stressed. He took all three kids away for a few hours, so I’d get a little peace and quiet, while I wrapped up my class. Sipping on my diet Dr. Pepper, selecting my iTunes playlist, I settle in getting down and dirty with my on line colleagues.  I’m in my zone, when the silence is broken by the annoying ring of the house phone. I try to let it go. Something tells me I need to check the caller ID. My heart stops. The display flashes the orthopedists number. Our twelve-year-old had been complaining about severe knee pain for several months. Finally, after she complained loud enough, being third she really needs to scream loud to get attention, we sought medical attention. Now the phone display fills me with fear; only bad news from a doctor’s office arrives early on a Sunday morning. Lifting the phone, a weak, “Hello” squeaks out.

“Hello, is this the mother of the little? This is Doctor Cook from SCOS.” The pause is awkward; I don’t want to answer.

“Yes, this is she.” The lump in my throat builds.

“Good morning, I was going over test results this morning. Little’s case caught my attention. The good news, nothing is torn, and we only see a minor build up in her plica band. These are all good things we can easily fix to make her more comfortable.” I’m starting to feel relief. This is short lived.

“However,” that one word you never want to hear, “we do see a band of 5 to 7 lymph nodes behind her knee. This is not usual. Lymph nodes are not located in this area. I’ve gone ahead and sent her her files onto Children’s Hospital. They have an opening tomorrow, and I’d suggest you get her over there. It’s probably nothing, but with her age, and if she was mine, I’d get her there.” His voice trails off. I stand in the kitchen with tears swelling in my eyes. The message shouting in my head reminds me doctors don’t call on Sundays unless it is bad news.

I scramble for a pen and paper, start writing down all the information he rattles off, thank him for his diligence, hang-up, and let the tears flow. Of course I jump on the net and start researching. This is the worst idea. I find every terrible childhood disease possible. By the time Mr. S. arrives home, I’m a mess. He’s taken back when he sees my read swollen face and ushers the kids upstairs. Through sniffles, chokes, and gasps I spill the beans. We both sit stunned and he proceeds gluing me back together, reassuring me not to worry.

Before long we’re right back to massive testing. Nobody can give us any answers, but the next two months of testing are grueling. The little is a trooper though. She gets poked and prodded without a complaint or a tear shed. She just wants the pain to subside. Before long the medical community nails down four possibilities.

1. A rare form of cancer – not sure they’ve seen it before
2. Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA)
3. Autoinflammatory Disease – an offshoot from RA
4. Osgood-Schlatter Disease – most severe form

This really does not help. I continue researching, she’s still in pain, Mr. S. continues to be a rock. I try shoving down all the emotions, as my research leads me to places that are dark and disturbing.

After more than seven months of testing, the medical community is still stumped, her knee still hurts, and we are still left with researchers around the nation perusing her file. She’s been allowed back to physical activity, which helps her mental state. Finally, the doctors rule out cancer, but want her markers checked for the next several years. This does not reassure my shattered mental state. They dive in deeper into RA and Autoinflammatory Diseases, because each of these can also cause lymph nodes to randomly pop up when the body is trying to fight something off. They begin treating her knee with physical therapy because one set of doctors believes Osgood-Schlatter Disease, in its worst case scenario, is part of the key.

This has been an ongoing situation which still looms over us. The doctors are still searching and testing her. Her CHOC doctor is an RA specialist. She has turned much of her case over to an Autoinflammatory Disease research team, because they’ve never seen anything like this. When your child goes through something like this you feel isolated, sad, and alone.

A few months ago as I finished up my first book, and began digging deeper into how to go from creation to publication, I was fortunate enough to run across an author and his wife who deal with a young son who suffers the effects of one type of Autoinflammatory Disease. Sloane Howell and his wife opened my eyes to a group, autoinflammatory.org, who helps families dealing with children diagnosed and handling living with these types of issues. Not only does a disease cause physical issues it also takes loads of resources and finances to navigate through it all. Often times the financial burden is overwhelming. I’d researched the disease, reading through dry boring medical journals, but came up with nothing that helped with the emotional side of a diagnoses. The Howell’s shared information lead us to a whole new resource. The blessing of sharing resources can never be repaid properly when you’ve been running scared for a long time.

The bottom line of things I learned along the way, although our little is still an anomaly to the medical community, resources are available. The need for parents to share information is invaluable. There are so many supportive groups around families need to embrace them because the emotional road is too difficult to handle alone. Finally, resist the urge to fill your brain with internet searched diagnosis. Filling your head with needless information before diagnosis only results in a little ride to crazy town for a while! And the biggest lesson learned lean on your spouse or partner. Together you can both reach the highs and muddle through the lows. Sharing can be difficult, but when you’re in the trenches together nobody else can touch you.

Neal Shusterman’s Unwind is the ultimate dystopian genre piece of modern times. His twisted concept of where a life begins, ends, or continues to live over time is warped and wonderful. He raises the hairs on the back of the necks of his reader’s as they delve deeper into the issues post the second civil war.  I’ve now read it multiple times, and each time I find new literary author moves used by Shusterman which absolute fascinate me.

Sadly, each of these marks and stickies are a trade mark of my reading and processing. With the recent transition over to digital forms my annotation obsession continues. I often go back to those annotations as I’m getting ready to read a new work by an author I’ve read before or rereading a piece I’ve loved. It is a nerdy confession to admit. I like to annotate and reflect on those author’s craft maneuvers which really up the ante on why I enjoy a book. This also helps me as a writer develop a voice, showing detail, or maybe dialectical dialogue sections I’ve struggled with. There are multiple works I’ve read 5, 7, possibly 10 times to process each crafty move unveiling the plot right under my nose. I may not be the highest level grammarian, not my favorite part of English, but hot diggity if I can’t dissect and pull out all those subtleties in the literary structures development! Confession session over and now I’m off to read and write!