Kelly Flowers

writer


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Writing Lessons From My 4-Year-Old In A Whack-A-Mole World

The other day, my 4-year-old, to a room full of cousins and aunts and uncles, performed her song, an original masterpiece called “Flowers In The Field”.

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It went like this…

Flowers in the field

Where is everything that grows

A girl walks with her daddy

And picks a flower and the flower dies

But she puts it in water and it comes alive 

Flowers in the field

Flowers in the field 

I turned to my friend Neil and said, “Remember being that fearless about your own creativity? Brave enough to write a song and then sing it out for a room full of people?”

“No,” he said.

“Yeah. Me neither,” I replied.

But I was braver as a child. There’s proof. My first “publication” was a poem in my school yearbook. When running for Elementary School Treasurer (laughable, I know) I gave speeches off-the-cuff. And I sang in talent shows, LOTS of blood-curdling talent shows. Now, I can’t even drunk-karaoke without hyperventilating.

And why is that? Surely, I have a better vocabulary; can more likely carry a tune; and have a lot more thoughtful things to say. I just no longer have the guts to say them. What about growing up beat the bravery right out of me?

So, it got me thinking… How do we recreate the fearlessness we had as children?

3 solutions come up mind…

1. Always be amazing, superhuman – a genius even. Get all A’s. Problem solved.

2. Only show your work to people (like your doting parents, spouse, etc.) who will love you, praise you and top off your confidence cup, regardless of what you produce.

3. Just not care. Seriously. Sociopaths aren’t worried what other people think. Continue reading

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The 48 Hour Wedding (Also, Apparently I’m A Stress Junkie)

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Hot tub’s are just places where bad decisions are made. It wasn’t “Swimming Pool Time Machine” or “Couch Time Machine”. They knew what they were doing. Hot tubs are their own kind of transport, rife with half-baked schemes, incomplete epiphanies, insincere flattering and unreasonable promises (and usually a fuzzy enough memory to never learn).

Late at night, sipping something strong and looking at the stars, more things are possible. Like running, for instance.

“I swear,” you say in a staccato mash of words. “I’ll be up at 6am to run that 10k with you. I loooove running.” Bah!

A polar bear swim, that extra finger of Sailor Jerry (you know who you are), committing to a 6am 10k, writing a book, a fourth child. You know. Whatever.

But occasionally an intriguing idea actually pops up and whoever is present swats at it for awhile. (In my hot tub’s defense, much of my book has been concocted while sipping something strong and staring at the stars)

Last Friday, with my sister and her fiancé in town, we sat in the blue glow of the jacuzzi, ripe for making life-changing decisions. Out of the blue, my sister’s fiancé says “I want to get married. Like now.” And we laugh. Hahaha. Get married now? Haha.  You’re hilarious. But… “Would it be that crazy?” I say and we swat at the idea for a little bit.

The answer is yes. It would be crazy. 48 hours?! My kind of crazy. I was already planning a wedding in my head. You didn’t know I liked planning weddings, did you? It’s a little hobby I have.

This was on Saturday. Wedding day would be Monday, before they left town on Tuesday. Muahahaha! What a thrill.

Aaaaand 48 hours later, we were sipping champagne and giving cheesy, teary, impromptu speeches. Fondly admiring our masterpiece, shotgun wedding.


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Just Have Less Time – Stress, Day Drinking and Ninja Writing

The last 24 hours have been… well, let’s just say… I’m day drinking.  You want stress? Try herding 7 people, including an infant and toddler, through TSA airport security (only to have your 16 year old randomly pulled aside for secondary as she is EVERY time we travel. Profile a’ready. Just sayin’.) and onto a plane where everyone needs water, food, books and headphones all at once and you, (being the responsible traveller that you are) have them all packed in YOUR carry on.


Remember the scene in Home Alone where they leave the kid behind? I totally get that now.

So now, all 7 of us are turbulating (Yeah yeah. Not a word. Today it is.) over the country. The kids and bags are accounted for and everyone is either snoozing, watching frozen or obsessively playing solitaire. But not me. Nope. I have a sleeping 3 month old in my lap and one hand free so I am one-handedly (the left hand even) typing on my phone and glugging Cabernet.

Ninja writing like a boss! And you know what? I’ve been on fire this last week. My house is impeccable. My to do list is the shortest it’s been since… well… since the last time I left town. And I’ve managed to knock out the writing projects that keep getting pushed to the next list and the list after that because, what the hell, right? May as well leave with every ball out of my court. And besides schlepping two carts of luggage and a straggling crew through the entire terminal, I’d say I’m only a 6 on the stress Richter scale.

I think I’ve discovered a new theory on life management.

HAVE LESS TIME.

The last week wouldn’t have been as productive if I didn’t have an impending absence because I would’ve undoubtedly mosied through my list while intermittently snapchatting or trolling Instagram. (The jury is still out on whether these things can be considered productive on some level. How else would I know what “ish” is or what Gigi Hadid had for breakfast? Who gets to say which information is valuable?)

So yeah. Have less time. (Disclaimer: writer is unaware of long term affects of this theory. Please day drink responsibly.)

ninja


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So This Is What My Life Looks Like.

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Snapchat. Oh snapchat. How else would I project a life that is way more interesting than the one I actually live?

Of course. Sometimes it’s pretty spot on, maybe too spot on. After taking a picture I often look at it and think, “Hmm. So that’s what my life looks like, huh?”

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Take this morsel of my snapchat story for example. (Why, you ask, am I spending my limited spare time on snapchat? To this I say, I have no idea. See second picture for further proof of this squandered nap-time hour.)

In my snap of novel editing, notice the fancy alphabet placemat and literary classic If You Give A Moose A Muffin. This is how you write like a Ninja.

This, I’ve come to accept, is a proper representation of where I’m at. Let’s just call it well-rounded. Mmm-kay?