Working Mum

Posted on by A.R. Geiger

I had a week of meetings this month.

Long meetings.

Hot coffee turning cold, conversations through lunch, white boards erased multiple times kind of meetings.

Creative meetings. The kind with lots of ideas, people laughing, and problems that take hours to fix and are so, so satisfying once they’re solved.

It’s always one of my favorite weeks out of the entire year.

This year, of course, was a little different. I had a baby at home, and that meant driving the hour commute every day instead of staying home so I could squeeze his tiny cheeks.

I was also sick this year, but we won’t talk about that, because I’m still working through my frustration at being sick the ONE week of the year I really needed not to be.

Ugh.

Anyway, my lovely husband (and my awesome sister) took time off work to watch our boy while I was away, and I called in whenever I slipped away to pump so I could coo at him and see his tiny cute face.

He was crying when I called y’all. And then he heard my voice. And started grinning. And laughing. And playing up for the camera.

What a little ham.

I love him.

Adjusting to life as a working mom is definitely a different experience, but we’re getting there! And judging by that grin, he’s not suffering terribly.

3 Things I Wish I Knew Before Committing to the Writer’s Life

Posted on by A.R. Geiger

I love being a writer. I love being a full-time writer, and I’m looking forward even more to being a full-time writer who is also a stay-at-home mum.

That’s still a weird concept for me, by the way. Me, being a mum.

Probably will have to get used to that at some point.

Existential crisis aside, I love being a writer. But there are things about this life that I wish I had known before I started.

Three things, in particular.

1) Writing Is… Different

I started out in my writing career because I loved it. I loved stories and I loved words, and I wanted to make my living with them.

But writing as a career is . . . different. I still write to enjoy myself. I still enjoy what I write. But the time I spend writing for pleasure is significantly decreased, and I’m more often motivated by impending deadlines and a paycheck that I need than I am by an urgent desire to write. I still love writing, and I’m certain that I always will, but it is a job, not a hobby, and a job means writing when you don’t necessarily feel like it.

2) Stability Who?

I am the sort of person who thrives on stability. I like a paycheck that comes in promptly every other Friday at the same time with no exceptions.

Writing is . . . not that way. Freelancing is not that way. The paychecks come in when I finish a project, and if I don’t have the energy to be creative, I don’t get paid. Money comes in, but it’s not regular or very predictable, and I have to trust that God is my provider and that the checks will continue to come in, even when I can’t see it.

3) Writing Isn’t The Whole Story

Yes, I’m a writer.

I’m also a business owner, an accountant, a publicist, a social media manager, a director, a public speaker, and my own personal life coach, because apparently someone has to keep me motivated and moving forward in my career.

Basically, every part of my career is my responsibility. Taxes, publicity, social media. All the hats are mine, and I have to be far more savvy in things that I never would have dreamed of when I was still writing the first drafts of my books ten years ago, dreaming of getting to where I am now.

To be honest, I didn’t know almost anything when I first started writing. I didn’t know how long it would take to start earning money, I didn’t know how much I still had to learn, I didn’t know how much of my job would consist of me constantly being out of my comfort zone and forcing myself to do things that were difficult and felt too big for me.

If I had known, would I still have chosen to pursue it? It’s definitely different than I expected it to be . . . definitely harder, and definitely less glamorous. Would I choose it again?

I’d like to think so. Personally.

I’d hope so, anyway. I’d hope I’d have the courage. I’ve faced a lot of challenges in the last ten years, and a lot of moments that felt like more like an end than a beginning.

But I hope I’d have the courage to face them again.

Really, though. Maybe that’s the reason we can’t see everything that’s coming, and everything that will be required of us.

I Mailed A Letter Today

Posted on by A.R. Geiger 
I Mailed A Letter Today

I mailed a letter today,
I wrote it just for you.
The words were traced with gray-green ink,
It’s still my favorite hue.

I pasted in a poem,
The kind I knew you’d save.
Full of loss and hope and bitter tears,
And the love he wished he gave.

I wrote about the time,
We laughed beneath the trees.
While autumn winds and winter snows,
The leaves began to tease.

I tucked a teabag inside too,
From all those endless nights.
When we sat and talked and sipped and cried,
And made up for a dozen fights.

I mailed a letter today,
I wrote it just for you.
I slipped my heart between the sheets,
In case you missed me too.

I hope it finds you well,
And you have an answer soon,
Fill it with your thoughts and dreams,
And your most favorite tune.

If I Were A Pilot

Posted on by A.R. Geiger 

If I were a pilot,
I’d fly so very far.
Probably to Malaysia,
Or maybe Zanzibar.

I’d take my plane above the clouds,
As high as we could soar.
Then drop down low so we could see,
That strange and distant shore.

I’d fly us to a jungle,
And land among the trees,
So we could hunt for lions,
Such mighty prey we’d seize.

With lions in our cargo bay,
And a snake or two,
We’d take off to the skies,
We fleet and fearless few.

I’d fly to a volcano,
And land beside the flow,
To seek the mighty dragons,
Who fuel that fearsome glow.

With a dragon in my carry-on,
And burning rocks inside my case,
I’d fly us off to somewhere new,
With adventures we could chase.

What a trip we’d have,
If a pilot I could be.
I’d take us all around the world,
And still be back for tea.

Writer/Director

Posted on by A.R. Geiger

I flew down to California a few weeks ago.

Wait. Let me be more specific.

A few weeks ago, I woke up at 2:30 AM and drove forty five minutes into town to the airport so that I could catch a 5:45 AM flight to Burbank, California.

Then I got picked up at the airport and drove straight to the studio, because the whole point of getting up at ridiculous-o-clock in the morning was to first watch Phil Lollar direct two episodes of the radio show we both write for, then direct my own episodes the following day.

What is my life, right?

Did I also mention I did all this while I was ten weeks pregnant?

And having regular bouts of morning sickness?

And taking at least one nap every single day, sometimes as early as 8 AM, because I am currently growing a tiny human who is committed to sucking away my energy, brain, and most of my sanity to fuel his (or her) growth and development?

Yeah.

Anyway, it was a miracle that I made it through without puking or falling asleep on the floor. I’m pretty sure God was looking down from heaven on me and thinking that if he didn’t give me a double shot of caffeine/adrenaline to run on for the two days I was in-studio, I was probably going to die.

Probably because I spent the two weeks before I flew down telling him that if he didn’t give me a double shot of caffeine/adrenaline to run on for the two days I was in-studio, I was definitely going to die.

Thank you, Jesus, for grace.

And adrenaline, because pregnant ladies cannot have caffeine. At least not in the dosages I would have needed.

Once I got over the nerves of being in the studio to actually direct for the first time, I had a lot of fun. Recording sessions are wildly unpredictable, and I’ve learned in my nearly-three-years working with this radio program to say ‘yes’ on the fly and worry about the consequences later. This particular session, that meant jumping into a booth to read opposite a few of the actors for one of the longer, more populated scenes, which was missing a character.

Yup, I had my own mic and headphones. Nope, you will never hear those recordings. There was a reason I became a writer instead of an actor.

But! It was fun, experience, good memories, and it helped the team, because the real actors in the scene didn’t have to do any awkward pauses to leave space for a character who wasn’t there.

I made up for it the next day, when I was the one in the director’s seat, and one of the guys on the team was filling in for one of my characters.

He had a lot more pages than I did, but I didn’t feel too bad. He’s got more experience. And talent. He played a pretty convincing teenage girl, although I think the part will still go to the original actress.

Once my episodes were recorded, we flew home the next day, and to make up for two packed days without a nap or pregnancy symptoms of any kind, I was sick for four days straight and barely got out of bed.

Growing a tiny human is hard, y’all. But at least I can now tell people that I have two skeletons inside of me. And one of them is growing.

That alone is worth the lack of sleep.

Perfectly Imperfect

Posted on by A.R. Geiger 
I’m perfectly imperfect,
And by that I mean to say,
I’ve got a lovely golden star,
For my awesome, faulty day.

I gave myself a dozen points,
And a silver crescent moon.
For eating all my breakfast,
And cleaning up my room.

My dishes aren’t clean today,
But I don’t feel so bad.
My laundry’s in the washer,
So I guess I’m pretty rad.

I even called the doctor,
Which I was scared to do.
So I’m pretty sure I earned an Oscar,
And a quart of ice-cream too.

I didn’t finish everything,
All my millions of to-dos.
But I smiled at my dog today,
And didn’t blow my fuse.

I’m perfectly imperfect,
That’s all that I can be.
A dented, shining version,
Of a polished, messy me.

How it feels to be pregnant! 😊 Surprise!

Adventurer Beware!

Posted on by A.R. Geiger 

Adventurer beware!
I have a tale that I could tell.
Of giant ants and fearsome beasts,
And monsters black and fell.

Adventurer beware!
When once you mount that trusty steed.
Home you’ll leave behind you,
Down dangerous roads your search will lead.

The Forest Gloom awaits you,
On your most magic quest.
Haunted by enormous spiders,
And a dragon with a glowing breast.

Mighty villains you must face,
And raging beasts galore.
To conquer all your many fears,
And reach that shining shore.

Adventurer beware!
The prize is close to hand.
A precious, glimmered jewel,
Awaits you in that distant land.

Adventurer beware!
Many tales will speak of you,
Songs sung of courage,
Written for the mighty few.

An adventure of adventures,
A mighty hero’s quest.
You’ll never be forgotten,
Even when you’ve gone to rest.

So close your eyes and off to bed,
My brave, resourceful knight.
Your mighty deeds protect you,
And I’ve left on your bedtime light.

To Fool A Witch

Posted on by A.R. Geiger

Witches, I’ve been told, are very difficult to fool.

I’ve got a witch on my block. She lives three houses down from mine, behind the gate that’s climbing with ivy and blue morning glories. I’ve seen her a few times, working in her garden, or sweeping off her steps with a twiggy broom that I’m pretty sure she flies about on when the moon is full.

I haven’t let her see me. Not even once, although I’m sure she’s tried. Sometimes I take the long way home from school, walking all the way around the block to reach my house from the other side, to keep from passing her door. Sometimes I get down on my hands and knees and crawl past her gate, although the gravel on the sidewalk cuts my knees in the worst kind of way. Sometimes she isn’t in her yard at all, and I can hurry past without being seen.

Today is that sort of day. Her yard is empty and a little smoke curls up from her chimney as I go by. I wonder what she is cooking in her big black kettle, and hope it isn’t a child that forgot to duck when he was walking by her gate. Tommy, I think, is a very probable candidate. Tommy does not believe in witches, even though he’s got one living on his block, and sometimes he does forget to duck.
But he’s waiting for me at the bus stop, same as every other day, and I decide that the kettle was probably full of squirrel guts and frog eyes instead of careless children.

The kids at school all know about the witch on my block. I tell them stories about her every day. Today, I tell them about her bubbling, steaming kettle, and the frog eyes that she collects in her garden an hour after midnight. Only Tommy pretends not to believe me, but I can tell my stories are getting into his head. Tomorrow, I think he’ll duck when he goes past the gate.

Just in case.

I’ve been thinking about our witch more and more lately. I sit in the back of the bus on the way home, so as to think better, and put my mind to the problem. Witches have extremely sharp eyes, and I’m sure that one day she’ll see me walking by her house. Maybe she’ll follow me home, just to see where I live, or maybe she’ll lure me inside her house with something that I can’t possibly resist. A new baseball glove, maybe. Or a white mouse in a cage, like Eliza Finch has in her bedroom.

I don’t think I could resist a white mouse. Their pink paws are so impossibly tiny.

When we climb off the bus, Tommy suggests I come to his house to play basketball in his basement, but I tell him I can’t today. I have other things to do. Important things. He leaves me to myself, and I take the long way home, down our shady street, thinking all the way.

Witches, I’ve been told, are very difficult to fool. Only the cleverest sort of person can do it, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got a chance. I’ve won the school spelling bee three times in a row, after all, and I am the only boy in school who knows how to count backward by threes. That has to count for something, I am sure.

So I go home the long way around and stop to pick a whole handful of daisies from the empty lot at the end of the street. I find some thistles too and add them to the bunch, because I’ve heard that witches like to use thistles to fill their pillows. They prick my fingers, so I’m not sure why a witch would like to sleep on them at night, but I bring them anyway, right up to her front gate.

She’s working in her yard again. She has a black cat with her, which is very fitting for a witch, and she comes over to the gate to see me when I knock. Her eyes are very blue, and she has a hooked nose and gray hair and a long, pointy chin. She smiles when I give her the flowers, a witch’s kind of smile, and asks if I would like a cookie. I’m cleverer than she is, so I say no—because witch’s cookies are made with spells—and thank you—because it’s always wise to be polite to a witch—and walk home.

The next day, I bring her a muffin from the school bake sale and tell her about the batch of brownies that Ellen Stauch tried to sell, even though they were made with salt instead of sugar and tasted worse than anything I’d ever eaten in my life. She tells me her name is Milly-Jane, which I think is a terrible name for a witch, but I don’t say so, because maybe she’s self-conscious about not having a really good witchy name.

After that, I meet her at her gate almost every day after school. I bring her lots of things, like thistles or ugly plants that I think a witch might like or river rocks that are extra smooth. Once, I even brought her a toad I found, and she seemed to like that more than anything else. I give her the gift and tell her about the pop-quiz at school, or about being chosen last for the baseball team and still hitting that home run, or about the white mouse I want to buy when I’m old enough. Sometimes she lets me into her garden, and I help her pull weeds or pick up sticks so she can mow her grass, and she gives me a cookie and some lemonade that she made in an ordinary kitchen, without any spells.

Witches, I’m told, are very difficult to fool, but I’ve fooled mine. I’m not afraid to walk past her house anymore, because I know she won’t try to boil me up in her kettle or turn me into a toad for her garden. If she did, who would bring her interesting treasures for her window sills, or tell her about baseball and bake sales and the girl at school who I’m pretty certain is actually a vampire?

No one, that’s who. So I guess I’m pretty safe.

A Thousand Things

Posted on by A.R. Geiger

I want to be a thousand things,
With a hundred thousand skills.
I want to paint and write and draw,
And do the things that give me chills.

I want to be an artist,
Better than the best.
I want to sketch and speak and write,
And never, ever rest.

I want to be a teacher,
And pass on what I’ve learned.
I want a box that’s overflowing,
With all the skills that I have earned.

I want to be a thousand things,
If I only had the time.
I’d steal so many skills away,
They’d want me for a crime.

I want to be a thousand things,
Instead I’ll have to choose.
What fits me best,
What I love most,
What I can’t stand to lose.

3 Tips for Taking Action

Posted on by A.R. Geiger

Have you ever had a stunningly brilliant, once-in-a-lifetime, on-fire idea that you were pretty sure was going to win you the Nobel prize or an Academy Award or something else of equal significance.

And then you just . . . never acted on it.

Ever?

You meant to. You had it all planned out in your head, did hours of research, maybe even told your friends and family about it and acquired some much-needed support and enthusiasm. After all, it was a brilliant idea. Of course everyone you told loved it.

But after that . . . it just . . . petered out. Got put on a shelf somewhere. Gathered dust. Stuck waiting for that perfect moment. You know the one. When planets align and the stars begin to sing and the universe decides that it’s your turn for that one spark of success that has been passed around through humanity since the beginning.

When you’re ready, in other words. When it’s time.

I have never, in all my life, experienced that moment.

I’m going to guess that you haven’t either. Nor, realistically, are you expecting to—not really. But taking that first step on a new project or idea—especially if that first step could result in criticism—is tough. It’s easier to let the idea remain just that—an idea, with nothing concrete to dislike or criticize.

Unfortunately, ideas only go so far. The book has to be written to be worth anything. So, here are my three favorite tips for taking action when it feels impossible.

1) Let Go of the Vision
I know, this one seems counterintuitive, but bear with me. You had this great idea. It’s been building up in your head for weeks or months or even years. You know exactly what you want it to look like, down to the last detail.

Only it’s not going to match your vision once you start. First drafts—of anything—never do. They’re awkward and stilted and ugly and they very rarely, if ever, match the vision in your head of what you wanted to produce. But, they’re a step beyond an idea, and however the project shifts and changes with the execution, it will be better for it.

Eventually.

2) Know Your Why
Why did you latch onto this particular idea? Why does it matter to you? Where do you want it to lead you down the road? Big projects—writing or otherwise—take a lot of time and energy to bring to realization, and getting started isn’t the only place people get stuck. Some of the projects that I’ve worked on seem to get stuck every other chapter, and the effort it takes to get unstuck feels exhausting.

But, I know why it’s important. I know why I don’t give up, and haven’t in the last ten years of being a writer. That ‘why’ pulls me through the bad days, and helps me take action when it’s hard.

3) Map it Out
Sometimes, failure to take action is connected to a lack of clarity. You don’t know where to start, so you never do. After all, ‘Write a book’ is a pretty tall order, especially if you’ve never done it. Instead, give yourself some steps that don’t feel like climbing the entire mountain in one leap.

Write one chapter.

Flesh out an outline.

Read a book on story structure.

Write for ten minutes before bed every night.

Whatever your list of small steps is, take the first one. And the second. Commit to yourself, your idea, and the vision of the future that this idea spurred. No matter how hard taking action is, I can guarantee it won’t be more difficult than watching that awesome idea you had wither to ash because your ‘moment’ never came.