I wrote in my journal a lot that day, because it was such a momentous turning of the century. I was working from home, and on my television in the background Peter Jennings reported celebrations as they happened all around the world – Sydney, Hong Kong… I watched several of them. All the lights stayed on, and nobody imploded just as 2000 rolled around, so that was cool.

I wrote about that and I wrote about my little baby boy sleeping most of the day away as if he didn’t care that he was born in the last quarter of the last year of the MILLENNIUM, and now he was entering a new one. And the next day I wrote about our own celebration when a preacher said to us, “Look around you, and ask yourself if this is where you want to be. Look at your friends and your loved ones. Look at your life, this moment, in this place. Are you supposed to be here?”

I flat-out loved that. I didn’t have any doubts then. Even looking back, I don’t really have doubts about whether or not I was supposed to be there. Even if I don’t like some of the things that preacher taught me over the years and even though I always kind of grumbled when we held church meetings at midnight on New Year’s Eve in the first place. I don’t have doubts, because I love the take-away from that moment. It wasn’t so much, “Are you supposed to be here?” It was more like, “Notice that you ARE.”

I relive that moment all the time. I make myself wake up from the lull we can enter through the monotony of life, or I close my eyes to the race we think is so important that we can’t slow down. And I notice where I am and the people I’m with and the reason we’re there. And almost without fail, I’m glad. Even if for some reason, there’s a piece I need to change, I’m glad, because I might not have known that without the noticing.

I was here.

I like to think about the billions of people all over the planet, living their lives beside me. One reason I loved visiting Manhattan is because the billions felt so close at hand. ;) And I like to think of them, because when I look at any one of those billions of lives – when I pick it out of the crowd and think about how its troubles and stresses and wonderings are so very similar to the rest of us and how those troubles melt into the whole – then it’s easy to feel that simply waking up to my life, that’s the way to make it matter.

Am I supposed to be here? Absolutely. Right here, right now. These friends, these three boys, this man, this roof, this community. They’re mine. This is the life I’m in, and to own that is to love it.

Just kidding. No one asks me that. But it would be a good lead-in to today’s post. With my writing, I want to tell stories. That is, I want to write fiction. And in case you have also been told that you have a knack for stringing words together and you think you can therefore write the great American novel, you should try it. It’s HARD. Writing and storytelling are not the same thing.

Still, I’m trying. Which led to my first manuscript, Dear Hollywood.

Dear Hollywood is the story of a girl who wants to be famous. She’s certain of that, but she’s having trouble taking the leap she’s pretty sure she’ll need to take in order to get there. She writes out her hopes and her fears letter-style to the people she sees living the life for which she is aiming, Hollywood.

I got the idea….because I knew this girl once. (Uh, me.) I wanted to write my own letter to Hollywood. And I had some very specific questions for them. And the biggest, the one that ate at me all the time, the one I still want to ask sometimes is this: How did you decide you were allowed to go there?

I didn’t feel allowed. First by others – I mean, let’s set aside the moral standard within a person that might keep them from doing certain things on screen, but seriously how do the Saturday Night Live comedians get over the fact that their mother might be watching? But I also did not feel allowed by me. And I called this thing – this restraint – My Faith.

I called it this because my faith, if you look at it a certain way, comes with a lot of rules, and Hollywood didn’t seem to have quite so many of those. And it definitely told stories sometimes where people didn’t live by very many rules at all. And how could I go somewhere and pursue something where maybe I would have to promote rule-breaking or, God-forbid, be dragged down to the pit and begin to break them myself.

Well, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I never ran off to Hollywood. I really like my life, and I’m really proud of it. And then of course, there’s the fact that I still plan to be in [another] movie one day even if I have to wait until I’m old and gray and can only play parts like the Bird Woman on Mary Poppins. It. Will. Happen. But I also think that FAITH is definitely the wrong word for what kept me from going to Hollywood in the first place.

FAITH is the substance of things hoped for. (Seriously, that’s a quote from the Big Guy.) In a very cool analogy I heard once about rule-following, I learned that a roller coaster is only fun because you are restrained (otherwise, you don’t really live to enjoy it). Similarly, the Christian ride through life does come with a certain amount of restraint. Thanks to religion, which could be defined as our intense need to help each other stay in the faith, it usually comes with a LOT of restraint. But I believe the actual faith part is not why you walk carefully. It’s why you DO THINGS. Often hard things, sometimes scary ones, definitely things that come with a certain amount of leap.

I still have lots of questions about how you decide to do things or go places or play characters you’d never EVER want to be in real life. But I no longer blame my faith for the leaps I didn’t take. I think faith is more like the wings that get you off the ground.

Do you ever feel that? I feel it not in a sad way (i.e., If only I were rich) but in a matter-of-fact sort of way. I think about it in terms of another life. For instance, in another life, I’m a hermit, living away in a mountain cabin somewhere or a beach house. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, because I really like people. But somewhere inside? There’s a recluse.

Then of course there’s the life in which I went to Hollywood instead of a bible college in the Midwest. There’s the one where I live on the Upper West Side or in Chelsea or Greenwich Village, and I work in a really tall building overlooking the streets of Manhattan.

And maybe most likely of all, I should have been Donna Reed. In that one, I’m not employed, and my work is to clean all the things and cook well and garden and pack the lunches. I used to think surely that was my calling, you know? A wife and mama is all I ever wanted to be – especially in those later high school years when I should have been running toward college but had to be shoved instead.

Fortunately, in one of these scenarios, in a life I’ve imagined living, I have a job in an office, with walls. I organize things and capture the minutes and file during the day – a delightfully varied group of tasks way, way outside the creative writing and pondering I like to do on the side. And because the Donna Reed dream was only one happy version of me, I find that I’m almost unmixedly happy in this version too. In fact, for the moment, I’m happier, because while working from home I was sort of the poor man’s Donna Reed – with less cooking and less cleaning and nary a daytime dress.

There are a few moments in any given day when I sit at my shiny new job and wonder What Have I Done? I Miss My Boys at 3 p.m. And WHEN will I Write? But those moments are swallowed whole by the happiness that after thirteen years of one version of me, I’m getting to try another. In yet another Little Women reference, it was hard sometimes to always be the one left behind. They all went off to work and school. They came home to kiss me then headed off to practices and youth groups and games. Now we all leave together. And somehow it’s that much more fun when we all eventually come home.

Of course, the title of this post is a little bit pretend. I can’t actually tell you how to love your job. I only know it’s possible. I know you can not really want a day job at all because what you really want is to go to the library between laundry loads and make homemade frosting for the graham cracker snacks after school – all while becoming J.K. Rowling. But then knowing you need to have a job you make a list of all you hope it could be, and then you get one and it IS all those things. And you’re perfectly willing to belong to it for the hours of the day in which it neatly fits.

Now – seriously – WHEN am I going to write?

Along those lines, I loved this post by author Lindsey Leavitt (she writes Princesses, among other things, and every girl’s dream to get to be one for just a little while). In the post she talks about the let-down that often accompanies the realizing of a goal. She does it brilliantly. Dreamers aren’t always this open and vulnerable about the journey. It’s hard enough to be one as it is.

Having a book in the world, as you know, was a dream of mine. I was pretty sure I wanted it to happen a certain way, and it didn’t. Traditional publishers didn’t take on my little book with the sadly all-too-familiar central theme, and I had to go another way. And because of that I’ve realized the difference between “my wildest dreams” and my goal. In my wildest dreams, Oprah called. But the goal was more like: I’m pretty sure I have things to give. I want to work really hard at it and put it out there so that I know I’ve done my part.

And now? I’m there. I did all that. I wrote the book. I revised the book. I put it out there. It feels more like a gift than a vacuum (in which I attempt to suck all the good for myself), and that adds much to the happy. Dad likes it. My oldest son told me it will be big someday. My uncle cried. And you know what? It’s enough. I’ll never stop dreaming. I’ll never stop writing. And as I’ve mentioned before, a decent Want List is actually a sign of happy for me – so I’ll be tweaking that one too. But that horrible ache that wonders if I’ll ever accomplish anything close to my goal, if I’ll ever work hard enough or if I’ll ever get OUT the something I knew was inside, that ache is gone.

Well. At least it’s gone for now.

Today I started a new job in a new shirt and new shoes. And when I got there my new boss had a welcome card for me and a sweet little plant called a Money Tree. When she opened a supply cabinet and revealed shiny new ink pens in Tiffany blue, I knew it was a sign. (Tiffany’s is my signature color.)

Besides this, I will within a couple of weeks have a real live book in the world. And once I don’t feel quite this tired, I plan to dig in to another, with all the joy of escaping just for a little while into a story.

I can still see those fortune cookies (that really probably weren’t) flying around my car as I drove through them. And, yeah, life feels kind of like that.

Image Source: Superficial Sydney

Spring weather gets inside me. Autumn weather gets inside me too. It gets into my soul and soothes it and inspires me to remember. But spring weather gets into my fingertips and my bare feet and my smile. It makes me want to be better things and do happier things and enjoy all the things.

My dear friend Lori has moved away, and she recently asked me, “Is my tree blooming yet?” And I looked down the street, and saw only branches at first, though I noticed when I drove by for a closer view that the buds were there, but closed. But then the very next day…

Lori’s tree is this one: The glorious, the breathtaking, the beautiful tree that I call a magnolia, though I’m not quite sure that’s correct. There are several in my neighborhood. And there is no sight like this tree! I look at it and think, “I will never be unhappy AGAIN,” and “I’m going to be the best version of myself from this moment on,” and “I. So. Believe.”

The thing that always hurts me though and strikes me as so very strange is that this absolute miracle of nature only lasts a few days really. The blooms are blown away so shortly after they arrive. The tree is perfectly pleasant-looking when it’s green, but that awe-inspiring, this-can’t-be-true kind of wonderful only lasts a moment.

Life only happens right now. Today is the only part we know for sure is blooming. And I just hope you’re flat out showing it off.

There came a point when we decided independent publishing was the way to get this book into the world. After all, THE THANK YOU ROOM has so many people I love in it, and it’s nicer to read a book as a book instead of as a Word document. And the Word document could never get to some stranger out there, who’s never heard of me or my blog, but is going through a big, fat, ugly mountain that scares them and makes them feel alone.

So…. my book had been through revisions, but now it’s been through the eyes of a detailed copyeditor. Jaymes of jaymichaelphoto.com took some pictures and designed a beautiful cover. Book Baby was suggested as a good company to get the process started as they will take my Word document and format for all the e-readers on the planet (and computer screens too). And, you know – above all – Mom said. So I did it.

Because of that, in two to three weeks you should be able to go to quite a number of online bookstores and purchase a nicely-priced little memoir with the beautifully designed cover you see here. The description is as follows:

Serenity Bohon is twenty-nine, married to her childhood sweetheart and mother to two young sons. After becoming pregnant again, Serenity is diagnosed with a rare, aggressive cancer. As she faces her worst fears, and struggles with what it really means to have faith, she gathers around her the people she has loved. The Thank You Room is the story of how they survived together.

I’m in the movie industry to tell stories about the human experience in a way that reminds you what’s important in life – love and the love of family. ~ Hilary Swank

I love to hear why anyone does the thing they do, especially if they love it. And since I have so much love for the film industry in theory, I like to hear from people on the inside who love it in actuality. I discovered this Hilary Swank gem in an old InStyle magazine and was drawn to it since her reason to be in the industry is one of the many reasons I admire it. I have other reasons too. For instance, I heard Brad Pitt say on a recent video that he admires film’s ability to convince us something we never thought could change, actually can. And you know what his example was? DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME. “Why do we have that?” he asked. “I don’t know. It’s a pain in the…” And I think I speak for all of us when I say, YES IT IS. Of course, I’m sure what he really meant was that film can convince us we can change corrupt governments, famine, and bigotry. And to that I definitely say amen.

Tonight I’m on the red carpet for The Hunger Games premiere. Only the carpet is actually black. And by there I mean live-streaming thanks to MTV.com. And I want to really be there someday. I do. When Suzanne Collins walked by, declining to be interviewed, I felt the magic of it – an author of books at the movie premiere for the film inspired by the story she told. But it won’t matter if I never get there, because the pursuit is so much fun, and the imagining, and the ability at this point to believe I could be her someday or I could be Jennifer Lawrence (‘s mom) and be the actress playing the most important part. Because there’s really nothing stopping me from any of it – not really. There’s nothing in the way from me to that except to try. And it may take lots and lots of trying, and I may even go from this life to the other before I accomplish it. But as long as I’m trying, I’m basically on my way unless I decide not to be. And that’s why I can be happy simply in the pursuit.

Hearing or seeing people talk about why they love what they do inspires me both to find more ways to do what I love and to find more reasons to love what I already do.

I love to mother. I love it so much that if I can remove myself from the whole day and just live in the moment, I love hanging up Mizzou t-shirts because they’re so much a part of my boys. I love reading library books about vampire bats and snakes even though I can’t unsee that horrible image of the little mouse feet hanging out of that terrible cobra’s mouth. I love scooting the tiny table chairs back under the tiny table no less than three times every day after they’ve been moved. And I love the tiny table.

I love to work. It’s satisfying to be occupied in that way when only the lucky ones are. When I hear the unemployment percentage for a state or even our nation, I feel grateful that I somehow stayed outside it. I’m thankful someone chose me and trusts what I can do. I’m glad some of the bills are paid because of me.

And I love to write. I love to write with a pen in the thick, pink journal I’ve just started and with a keyboard on this blog or on the projects I only hope others someday read.

It’s a powerful thing to know what you want and a beautiful thing to realize that you have it.

I’m not rich yet, which is just…weird. I thought for sure I’d be able to afford that summer home by now. I was thinking Prince Edward Island, which I’m pretty sure would only be truly satisfying in the summer what with it’s being in Canada and all. Or maybe the Florida Keys, you know, if Michael wins. And really I knew the cottage in the south of France or the English countryside was a little far-fetched, but now I’m actually beginning to wonder.

I don’t own a single pair of Christian Louboutins. Not one. That is just craziness really. In fact, my wardrobe in general has never surpassed the year it was at its best which was probably – I’m gonna say – 1995. Right now it evokes that feeling, you know, at the very end of the paycheck when you open your pantry and find only that one can of vegetable juice you don’t even remember buying because what do you use that for? My closet is like that. It’s at the end of its decade. A while ago.

I’ve never published a novel, and Carrie Underwood has yet to sing the song I wrote for my wedding. Don’t even get me started on the movie premiere that hasn’t and the years of awards shows I continue to watch from my living room.

I got cancer but not a movie script based on the trial. I lived but not to radically change my life and save the world. You see what I mean? It’s weird.

But, seriously, I think the weirdest thing of all, the part that makes no sense whatsoever, is that I wake up every single morning as if all these things will any minute occur. And I go to bed at night intensely, deeply satisfied with all the things that have.

Thank goodness for the middle of the day when I obsess more over the have-nots, and the appropriate cause-and-effect of life seems perfectly intact.

Photo Source

This year Michele is moving a few hours away. She says I should keep coming every year anyway, but just in case this year she did it big. Usually I balk at dressing up too much for the show because the only way to enjoy the fact that you’re watching from home instead of from the Kodak Theater is to glory in the fact that you can wriggle your toes and cover up with a blanket and eat through the entire program and other such luxuries not available to the poor women who are actually there and in shape-wear and heels.

But when I walked into Michele’s glamorous room, draped with black (thank you, Scott!) and drenched with Oscar goodness, I changed my mind.

Here are other things I loved about the 84th Annual Academy Awards (that’s two years older than Christopher Plummer, who got his first Oscar last night and skyrocketed me one point closer to winning the ballot game).

Billy Crystal. They never should have let him go.

All my Clark Gables were there (a la Judy Garland singing, “Dear Mr. Gable…You made me love you…I didn’t want to do it…”): George Clooney, Brad Pitt (he’s from Missouri – I’m drawn to him), and Tom Cruise (he did what? he jumped on Oprah’s couch and weirded everyone out with his religion, which was invented by a science fiction author? I never heard about it….).

THE MONTAGES. You know I always love these. I think in montages. I pretend I’m living one. And in this case, besides the In Memoriam and the movie clips, I adored the Magic of the Movies black-and-white video interviews with fellow movie lovers popular actors. Adam Sandler’s truth, Reese Witherspoon admitting to how happy she gets watching Overboard! (YES and ditto), and all of them talking about how hard they try to do it well and how in awe they are when their peers so beautifully manage it.

Meryl Streep thanking her husband first, because when she saves him for last the music cuts it off, horribly diminishing the fact that he’s the most important one.

Angelina’s leg. Ha! Just kidding. Though if I HAD that leg, I’d probably pose that way too. And honestly, I did like it. It was sort of a sassy reflection of my own delight in the evening. Plus, I’m that girl whom in this context is really, really hard to displease. I LIKED JAMES FRANCO LAST YEAR. That’s the depth of my unwillingness to discern when it comes to this show.

Our hostess, on the right

Penelope Cruz, Sandra Bullock, Cameron Diaz, Gweneth Paltrow, Octavia Spencer, Michelle Williams, and Jessica Chastain – some of my favorite looks.

Cirque du Soleil. That was are-you-kidding me cool.

And – this one will kill you – this is where we separate the fans from, well, me. I love the fact that it wasn’t one second shorter than four hours. That length of time only barely satisfies, and I always feel a wee bit sad when that legendiest of celebrities comes out to announce best picture.

I swear my Monday was better because of these things. It was just so nicely backdropped – or maybe saturated really – with that wonderful thing they call the Magic of Movies.