Odd Girl In (originally posted July 2016)

I'm odd. I think it goes without saying. I've never fit the standard textbook definition of "normal" and, you know, it's seldom bothered me. Oh, I'm not weird or strange. I mean not so much that people recoil from me or are embarrassed to be seen with me. I'm odd...like a square peg with rounded corners that almost (almost) fits into the round hole. I'm accepted not because I'm like everyone else; I'm accepted because I'm different. Odd, if you will. I'm not like anyone anyone will ever meet. Luckily, I've met a lot of people who like that sort of thing.

I used to think that I was a truly square square peg. Don't get me wrong, I was ok with it. I was ok with never fitting in, being so different as to not be universally accepted. Because I was accepted enough. Usually by others who were a bit squared-off themselves. And that was ok, too. But just ok.

I want to get it out there early that I have never willfully changed myself to fit in. I didn't get out a palm sander and round off my sharp corners. In middle school, before the term "transgender" was really anything, kids asked when I was going to get a sex-change and a substitute teacher kicked me out of the girls' locker room (I've stopped counting the number of times this has happened). In high school, I was called a "faggot" for wearing pink pants and a "girl's" letter jacket (Look closer, douche-bag, I'm a girl). As a grad student, I was uninvited from playing in a softball league because I wasn't a lesbian. In my thirties, I came under fire for not being feminine enough to be considered a woman (I had dared to suggest that the boundaries of femininity be expanded). Through it all I remained steadfast. I didn't start dressing more like a girl or less like a "fag", nor did I suddenly become a lesbian to play softball (that took another five years and was more about a beautiful curly haired girl than softball).

Instead, I have learned to stand up for who I am. I'm odd, there's no denying it. And why would I want to? I'm not like a lot of other women my age - I've never been married; I don't have kids; I occasionally wear baggie shorts and my ball cap backwards (incidentally, I'm also about as likely to wear skinny jeans and high heel boots). I'm spiritual atheist (which means I'm not your standard atheist...and we know how well atheism is accepted among believers); I like contemporary classical music, Frank Sinatra, and modern country and pop more than I like classic rock; I work a nothing job and write novels on the side; I'm a socialist, politically and economically speaking; I'm also happen to be gay (Some will tell you I'm not gay enough. Apparently, liking women is not the only necessary and sufficient clause that makes one a lesbian).

On first blush, there's really no one group I could possibly fit with. And yet, I have found, in my middle adulthood, nearly universal acceptance. Why? I think this has as much to do with me as with the people around me. I can narrow this down to one short phrase - I'm authentic. What does that mean? I'm me, Stacee, and I make zero apologies for who I am. People, by and large, seem to like that. Maybe it's because it's something they struggle with or maybe it's because they too seek to live an authentic life. I'm sure it's a little of both. In turn, I accept people at face value and truly believe that everyone is doing the best they can. I'm sure that helps, too.

Tennis, though, has brought the most acceptance. I used to think I was accepted by other tennis players because I'm a decent player. Truthfully, especially in Austin, there are a lot of really good players (and many who are light-years better than me), so that can't be it.  My game might open the door, but what keeps it open? Why do my teammates who I seemingly have so little in common with appear to love me unconditionally? I've always been the odd girl and yet... And yet time and time again, I've found teammates that love me and want me around (Ok, so there was that one time I was asked - in way that seemed like telling - if my 'people' had their own teams). Maybe tennis gives us a common frame of reference which then allows for more personal exploration.

I don't really know, but I do know that it feels good. Even in Texarkana, where I couldn't have been more different (a lesbian atheist in the Bible Belt), I found people who accepted me for who I was. I truly believe it was (and is) my authenticity that shaved off my sharp corners and allowed me to fit.

The moral of the blog? Be who you are, even if that means you come off as somewhat (or completely) odd. People admire people who are honest and self-assured. And really, who wants to hang out with a bunch of people who are merely Stepford versions of themselves? I know I don't. I'm good with being odd. What's really odd is that the more I've come to accept it, the more I fit in. I'm the odd girl in and it's pretty cool.

Life is an Endurance Sport

I'm reading this book about running. Now before you say 'Oh, God....another blog about running', roll your eyes and click off, hear me out. Yes, it's a book about running and surviving and succeeding in the world of professional distance running, but I urge you to keep one thing in mind - Life is an endurance sport. The lessons Deena Kastor lays out in her book, Let Your Mind Run, apply to every aspect of our lives. Not just sport, and certainly not just endurance sport. All. Of. Life. So, dare to read on. You won't be disappointed. Well, maybe you will be in my writing and interpretation of her message, but the message itself is absolutely magnificent and the key to winning at life.

~~

I won my first race in December 1992. It was a 10k and only the second time I'd raced that distance. I PR'd by three minutes. I thought it was a fluke - either the course was short or the timer was off - so I raced again the next day. I hadn't thought of that second race in years - forgotten about it totally, if I'm honest - until I saw an Instagram post earlier today that tagged Fiesta Island. That's where that second race was held. It's not much of an island. At least it wasn't back in the day. A sandy intrusion in Mission Bay where they played (and according to Google just now still play) an annual Over-the-Line tournament. The course wasn't much. Just the paved road that circumnavigated the island. I seem to remember two loops, but I could be way off. Anyway, I won again that day, finishing within seconds of my time in the previous race. It hadn't been a fluke.

I was still running in the 40s (Translation: 40:00 for a 10k) then and today I attribute those victories to a lack of good competition rather than my speed. My dad was proud. He was present at both races but only got to see me cross the finish line the second race. The first race I hadn't expected to run as fast as I did so he wasn't anywhere near the finish line. When I told my sister, she shrugged and said I needed to break 40. Tough love. A couple months later, I ran a 38.

That's when shit got real. I had coaches and untapped potential, track workouts and growing expectations. I collected a lot of trophies, won a little money at a couple races, and I hated it. I liked winning, but each victory came at a huge emotional and physical cost. The pressure was intense. To train harder. To perform at an even higher level. To be the runner everyone expected me to be.

I just wanted to run (which I seldom enjoyed) and burn calories (which I enjoyed immensely) so one day in the summer of 1993 I announced to my coaches that I was going to run a fall marathon. They washed their hands of me and said over and over again how stupid I was. It wasn't the right time in my training, in my career. I needed a fast 10k or 10,000m first, maybe qualify for the Olympic trials, before I expanded my portfolio to include the marathon. Blah, blah. I quit the Tuesday night track sessions (I'd never gotten used to the pain) and started doing longer and longer runs (which were a lot less painful). Long story short... I won the Wichita Marathon in October 1993, but snapped a stress fracture in my tibia at Mile 16 and limped my way to the finish in 3:08, a far cry from the sub-3:00 I predicted and expected. After five months off, I resumed running and won one more race before I quit running all together in December 1994. My running career lasted a little over two years.

I had potential, that much is true, and maybe with the right coaching and the right mindset I might have actualized some of it. I dunno. I think about that now sometimes. I'm back running and considering the amount of training I do, I'm reasonably competitive. After each half marathon season, I contemplate the next. What if I joined a running group, a team? Got coaching? What if I did structured workouts? What if I increased my speed? Competed more? Pushed myself more? How good could I be, even at forty-nine? The answer is that I'd probably be pretty good. I have incredibly good genetics for endurance sport. I have the build, the physical strength.

The only thing I lack is the mind.

So somewhat coincidentally, I started reading Let Your Mind Run, the book by Deena Kastor that I mentioned above. In her day, Kastor was a highly competitive professional distance runner and she still holds the U.S. record for women's marathon. In the book, she attributes much of her success as a runner to psychology, her ability to properly re-frame her thoughts and mindset to overcome the challenges and pressure that elite athletes inevitably face. Ok, so my genetics aren't hers nor is my natural ability, but if I knew then what Kastor writes about now, how different would my running career have been? Would I have handled the expectations, the pain, my dislike of all things running differently? Would I have found a way to balance the mental and the physical?

I guess I could test that theory now,  but - not to burst anyone's bubble - I'm not going to. Not on a grand scale anyway. I am far too diversified in my extracurricular pursuits to focus too heavily on one. I simply lack the time and bandwidth to make competitive distance running anything other than a hobby. I'll always set goals and put in the work, but never enough to be truly competitive. And I'm ok with that.

That's not to say that the lessons from Kastor's book won't come in handy. Like I said above, life is an endurance sport. There are pressures, expectations, stuff we hate, bad days, bad weeks, injuries, bosses who try our patience, goals we struggle with. What Kastor discusses isn't rocket science, nor is it mind games or slight of brain. It's basic psychology. Call it How to Live a Successful Life 101.

• Seek happiness.
• Explore gratitude daily.
• Re-frame the negative into a positive.
• Visualize your success/goals daily.

I'm only halfway through the book but this is what I've taken away so far. I do a lot of it already. Always have. A few years ago when I found myself near the bottom of life's bottomless pit and decided the only way to go was up, I started paying closer attention, doing it a little more and a little more vociferously. In time, a funny thing happened - I discovered a buoyancy I never thought possible, a level of happiness and contentment I'd never encountered. 

The way I see it, the sky's the limit. How happy can I be? How strong? How positive? How content? How successful? How thankful? Man, there's no telling. If I just keep doing what I'm doing, if I focus on what's important (See the list above), I can't miss. 

Since delving into the book (That I found only by happenstance, by the way. I subscribe to a blog for half marathoners and came across a quote from the book in a blog post. It intrigued me so much that I decided I needed to read the source material) I've begun experimenting with even more of the good stuff. During my weekly long run this week, for example, I battled a stomach cramp and a hitch in my left calf by telling myself that I was merely getting ready for race day. Easy doesn't make you tougher...or race ready. The next day, during an hour long Spin workout, my legs were understandably tired. I could have stopped, but instead I persevered telling myself that weakness was simply strength waiting to discover its full potential. Moreover, after a lifetime of saying that visualization is a load of bunk (even though I've read the scientific studies and know there is some credence to it), I've started doing a little. When I feel stressed or anxious (occasional issues for me), I visualize the happiest and most content place I can imagine being (traveling on a train or bus somewhere, cheek against the cold window, scenery a blur, and music in my head). Strangely, it works. I almost immediately feel calmer, more myself. 

I doubt that any of us out there are elite endurance athletes. Truthfully, that ship sailed long ago for me, if it ever made it into the water. That said, we can and should strive to be elite at life. You can define success anyway you want, but for me it involves happiness, perseverance, hard work, and kindness. One day I may write a best selling novel or win my age group in a half marathon, but that's not what I call a successful life. Life for me is in the day-to-day. It's putting in the work and coming out on the other side smiling. It's saying "I love you" and "thank you" and holding a door for a stranger. It's holding myself accountable on one hand while giving myself a high-five with the other. It's staying positive and buoyant regardless of the condition of the seas around me. 

There isn't a one of us that's going to get out of this alive. I've said it before - we get this one go-round and we get to make it what we will. It's either chicken shit or chicken salad, lemons or lemonade, and then we die. I'm partial to chicken salad and lemonade. What about you?

~~

So, yeah, it was another blog about running...but running is a lot like life, don't you think?

Then Today...

I don't know how many of you read my post last week (Bat-Sh** Crazy...Among Other Things) about how I'm a little bat-sh** crazy. And a fiction writer. I truly think those two go hand-in-hand. Please don't make me name names. Suffice it to say, nearly every book/poem/short story you read in your high school lit class was written by someone a lot like me. Though, given their fame and success, I'd argue they were all probably crazier. I'll have to ask my sister if anyone sane has ever been included any of the Norton Anthologies. I'm honestly curious now.

Anyway, I digress. I'm here today to offer further evidence. I made light in the introduction, but something big happened to me as a writer this morning. Yes, to all you non-writers out there, it's going to make me seem beyond nuts. However, my hope is that, when writers read this, they'll raise their fists in the air and exhale a euphoric, "Yesssssssssssssssssssss!" in my honor. They'll get it. They know I'm not crazy. Well, at least not any crazier than they are.

Last week I listed a couple things that have to come together in order for a novel to get written. I'll abbreviate the lesson here so we can get down to today.

1. There must be trust between the writer and the characters.
2. The characters must be ready to tell their story.
3. The writer must feel confident in her ability to tell the story.

I went on to talk a little about a novel I've been researching and pondering for awhile. I have characters who want me to tell their story. "Only......... It's big, huge really, and I worry constantly that I'm not good enough, that their story is bigger than my ability to write it. They're still around - Anna, Helen, and Eleanor are - so we shall see." I've thought a lot about them over the past week. If I'm honest, they are almost always with me. The past week was no different. Their story swirls around me constantly. I get bits and pieces laid out. And then.....it's like it all just disappears in a fog. I've always know where their story begins. Until this morning, I wasn't sure how it ended. Or why it ended. Now I know.

It's hard for me to explain. One minute I was running along, tangentially thinking about my upcoming water stop and those particular characters. Let me back up (See? This all kind of confusing...). I listen to music while I run. It's a pretty diverse playlist so I've got everything from Pink to Mozart. I also listen to music when I write and research. For example, I have a particular station on Pandora that brings to mind Stella and Maggie. Helen, Anna, and Eleanor also have a soundtrack - "In a Time Lapse", an album by Ludovico Einaudi. Keeping in mind that there's definitely some overlap in my running and writing playlists... This morning a song from the Einaudi album played on my run. As it always does, the song brought to mind Anna, Helen, and Eleanor. For a moment, I was with them, imagining their story. And that's when it happened. 

I've long thought my struggle with their story was about me. See #3 above. It was about my confidence. I questioned my worthiness constantly. There was a reason I could never seem to grasp the entire story and I attributed it to my skill as a writer. What I didn't see - until this morning - was that it wasn't all me. As with any relationship, Anna and I needed time. You see, it's her story to tell. All of it. I assumed that she was ready and that she trusted me - she brought the story to me after all. I simply needed to be ready to tell it. I have seldom been more wrong.

Then today...after two years together - two years of sorting through my doubts and apparently hers, too - we finally met on level ground. On the Lady Bird Lake Hike & Bike trail seven miles into my eleven mile run, Anna spoke her truth. All of it. To me. I gasped, tears burned behind my eyes. I abruptly stopped running, put my hands on my knees, and cried. My tears were born of sadness, but some joyous ones found their way in. Anna trusts me; she really trusts me. And she's ready.

I imagine a conversation between Anna and Helen about me, their writer. 

Helen: Just tell her. You saw what she wrote last week. She's doubting herself. What if she backs out?

Anna: I can't. I've never told anyone.

Helen: You'll have to eventually. You said you trust her.

Anna: I know...

Helen:  Come on. Do it. 

So Anna did. 

And now I know. There's no going back. She'd never told anyone. Except me. I am honored and a little scared, but now I am committed. I will do right by her story and her secret.

Ok, ok.... I know. This is about when I start to seem bat-sh** crazy. Look, I get it. To those of you on the outside, the creative process is a mysterious business. What was her name? And she said what? Like out loud? Oy. Many of you believe Jesus walked on water and rose from the dead. I'm not trying to turn this into a religious debate, but if you can suspend reality and make that stuff a key tenet of your religion, you can toss me a solid and look at me a wee bit less skeptically. 

Personally, I was blown away this morning. I've had a character (a woman named Malin Jonasson) knock on my (figurative) door and ask me to write her in (I did. She's a major plot mover in a novella called Holy Buckets), but this today... It was beyond all imagining. Spooky, unearthly, transcendent, stupefying, wondrous. Like the moment you learn your intuition was right. Or meet someone you know will end up being your greatest love. I'm trying to put the experience into words that the gen-pop can understand, but dammit... It's hard because I don't quite understand it myself. Name something that has literally stopped you in your tracks. That's as close as I can get you. 

For a writer, I spend a lot of time at a loss for words. I wish I could explain it better. This morning, time, space, spirit, and creativity converged. Two women -  a writer and her protagonist -  came together for split second and a truth was revealed. Maybe I am bat-sh** crazy. I damn well could be. But I was there. And I know.

Anna trusts me.