July 11, 2014

A Simple Bio

Oddly enough I sat down today to start a "bio" for The Hive Publications.  A and Paul have been asking me for weeks to get it done, and I guess that subconsciously I have been putting it off. 

"Why?" you ask.  Isn't it easy for those of you assuming narcissistic authors to write about yourselves?  Isn't that why you write?

Not really, the narcissist in us all comes out in various forms.  That word encompasses all of the human race at some point in their life. 

I hear the familiar "hmmm..." as I ponder the question you all are probably asking...the answer is already swimming around in my head and I am guessing it has to do with the fact that after all of these years of "pimping out" my writing, it's time to own it.

All of my marketing, all of my networking, all of my connecting...is finally coming to a head.  I've waited for months and months to finally be in a place to accept the fact that I am, a recognized writer.  I have waited for months and months to be a part of something so powerful and it's finally here.

Now I realize that I have no actual title.  I went over to our website and scrolled through some of the other bios.  They are all so impressive. 

Some of the other talented writers and artists I am associated with, well, I just don't believe I am in the same category or spectrum that they rise to.

I have to "label" myself.  Am I a simple "writer"?  No.  Am I a philosopher or a philanthropist?  Sometimes I pretend to be.  But for some reason, I come here...I speak, and people  from all over the world listen and reach out to me on a daily basis.  It might be a post that is a year old, it might be last week's update.  I don't know why, but when I write, they listen.  They interact.  They open up with brutal honesty that exposes their most intimate feelings. 


I grew up in a single wide trailer in the literal, middle of nowhere.  80 acres of nothing.  We were poor.  We were "those" people.  A product of an immature and volatile relationship where I felt as if neither parent wanted me, and then the stand-in that followed my father was less than stellar.  I grew up fiercely protecting a brother and sister from their own father, and protecting a mother who just couldn't stop loving the wrong man. And then I repeated that mistake in two failed marriages, dragging 4 children through the midst of all of my mistakes in the name of love

 

I have no "home".  Although if I had to claim a hometown, I suppose it would be those dusty back roads where I spent a majority of my youth doing things I shouldn't have done along with the other misfits of our tiny farm town.  Do I use that as my "hometown"? No.  It doesn't fit.  I switched schools and homes my senior year of high school.

So now what?





I am not a recovering alcoholic, nor am I recovering from a drug addiction.  Sure, we grew up in a violent home, but that was buried years ago when I realized that my mother did the best she could do with what she ended up with, as well as my gypsy father who just, well, comes and goes.  (If the two of you are reading this, it isn't written with disdain, only the bare bones of the truth.) I've accepted both of them and am actually very grateful for the qualities we share, and the lessons I learned as a product of our lives intertwining.  I don't have any addictions, unless you count the fact that I've again picked up the habit of smoking the occasional cigarette.  The only addiction I fight, currently.  I went this entire week without smoking.   I drop the "f bomb" probably more than I should.  Okay, yes, I do. There is no probably in that statement.

I own more shoes than one normal woman probably needs to own, and then I covet them.  I have a slight obsession with photography and vintage clothing.  (Which I covet as well, just start counting those sins up...)

Maybe I am addicted to learning the lessons of loveLove.  I guess that would be another one.

Well...shit. 

Hmmm....again, nothing.

When we are children, we see the mistakes of the adults around us, and we somehow seem to think we can avoid those mistakes.  Then adolescence hits and we just KNOW that we will NEVER make those mistakes.





But then guess what happens?  Never say never. 

Life takes over.  We find ourselves in less than desirable situations, we make mistakes, we hurt and we get hurt, and then we wake up in our thirties and attempt to put the pieces back together.

I am not a yoga instructor, nor some fitness buff.  I am not a healer or a gifted spiritual guide.  I am not an awarded author, and yet I am recognized internationally.  I am not a preacher, nor do I offer any kind of meditation classes (unless you count the thousand times I try to attempt to convince my friends that it works).  I am not a full blown naturalist.  I have a nauseating obsession with figuring out the lessons behind each and every moment that passes, whether it brings pain or joy with it.

I am a hippy who has another coveting obsession with makeup.  Again, a complete contradiction, when you think of a hippy you usually don't think of eyeliner and stilettos.




 “If a nation loses its storytellers, it loses its childhood.”
—Peter Handke


Well...shit.  Again. 

What the hell am I, and why do people come here to listen?  This bio is over-due.  It's time.  This is it, Tiffany.  This is the moment you've been waiting for.

A?

Paul?

Anyone?

Nope, I have to write this myself.  It has to be MY bio.  

“To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.”
—Allen Ginsberg, WD


And then it hit me.  I am real for so many (especially women) because I write from both the light and dark sides.  I don't hide behind the positive only.  I am a recovering addict from life.  I love every single moment that we are in.  Aren't we all recovering addicts of life and it's emotional roller coaster?  We crave it.  We need it.  Because when it goes stagnant, well, that is when you see someone break away from those confines.  They lose it.  They break.   Change is inevitable when life goes stagnant.  Whether by our own hand, or the forceful hand of the Universe. 

I am a mother.  I am a sister.  I am a daughter and a grand-daughter of the Cherokee Nation and the Blackfoot indian tribes.  I am a receptionist by day and a philanthropic author who touches on the philosophical side of life by night.  I recycle, when I remember.  I love astrology and the affect of the moon and sun.  I stumble through heartfelt mistakes and heartfelt moments of emotion.  I sleep next to the most wonderful man I have ever met, that I am not only in love with, but trust and respect with every ounce of my heart, and that is after tucking sometimes 5 children in to bed with a kiss and a hug and one more drink of water.  I am a teacher.  I am an artist. I am a lover, and sometimes I hate.  I live in a modest home in a modest community and refuse to drive a mini-van.  I have unfinished pieces of art all over my house along with scrap paper of emotional ramblings and poetry.



I am a liberal, and yet I am conservative.  I attempt to use soft skills in my everyday communication and encourage others to do the same.  I think before I speak, most of the time.  I have an obsession with traveling and learning.  I have a foul taste in my mouth for justice, and yet, crave it at the same time.  I am a friend to many, and they are spread out all over the world.  Not just a small crevice, but vast and overpowering miles separate us. 

I am a fiction author who pours her heart out here for the world to read. Because the world needs to see both sides of that fine line.  And because the world needs to see that someone can be vulnerable in front of others.  This blog ended up being a huge lesson in vulnerability for me, and that was a lesson I fought for years.

The fiction often blends with the realty of non-fiction.  Then we are left with the momentary confusion of deciding just how exactly that truth bleeds through.  But it does, and sometimes there isn't an explanation for it. 

Somehow I ended up here emotionally vomiting yet again on the blog.  But to be honest, it might just be one of my best pieces yet.

 “Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”
—Enid Bagnold

No worries, A....the bio is on its way.

Visit us at The Hive Publications and watch for my interesting bio.


Live, love.

Tiffany













Hate 2013

It took me a long time to accept the fact that I hate you. 

It took me a long time to accept the fact that I needed too.  

Days turned in to weeks as I struggled to fight the mad dark that had buried itself deep in my heart.  

I struggled to understand how I could love and hate from the very same place, and maybe from the start. 

Bu I will let the love take more space.  And remember your gift every time I see your face.  

The hatred may never fade. 

Saying that it will is a facade. 

Someone once gave me a box full of darkness, this is true.  

And that box full of darkness was you. 

I tried to force the hatred out. 

But it wasn't until last night when I embraced the full magnitude of those I had learned to hate. 

That I finally understood, without learning to accept the emotions of hate, without stepping through the vast gate, 

Then I wouldn't fully understand what it means to love without hating you.  

If you had not given darkness and lies, 

I would have never had him, and the happiness, and the sighs. 

When you fully understand that I took your darkness, 

And learned more about my light, 

You will be the one who can't sleep through the night. 

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.Live, love.

.Live, love.