The Moments I Knew

April 14, 2014April 14, 2014 ~ hilly miller ~ 2 Comments

I would say I’ve wanted to be a writer my entire life.

I have had many dreams outside of writing, but it was always “I’ll be a _____ and a writer.” (Blanks include marine biologist, nautical archaeologist, several other things that end in -gist, mathematician (ha!), and museum curator.)

But writing. Writing was always there, and every once in a while I get a reminder that it’s what I’m supposed to do with my life. Like little whispers to my heart, those moments of peaceful certainty are enough to sustain me through every hard writing day, countless rejections, and each time I have to throw away a story out and start again. Those quiet moments mean a lot, and they don’t happen very often.

But I had one this weekend.

The first “writing aha” moment was when I was seven (?) and wrote my first two picture books. After showing them to my mom, she said, “You could be a writer.” Now, Mom tells me I can be anything (as most moms do), but this was different. I knew she meant it, and I knew I really could.

Others have come throughout the years. One when I was fifteen and wrote a very silly two-page story (that included an elephant stampede) that I’m still convinced is some of my best work. Another, when I filled out a Pepperdine application at 11:30 at night–this is equivalent to 3 am for most other people.

And another, when I read the Boston Jane book series. I’ve blogged about Boston Jane before, but this weekend, the series came back into my life in a very wonderful way.

I got to meet the author of Boston Jane, Jennifer L. Holm, at the LA Times Festival of Books. (Don’t worry. I’m sure to blog about this festival at least three more times because it was amazing.)

I was able to get my trilogy signed and meet Ms. Holm and her brother, Matt. (They write super cute graphic novels together.)

And I don’t think my interaction with her could have gone much worse.

Jennifer: “Hello!”

Me: “Hi.” (I handed her Boston Jane.) “This book series made me want to be a writer.”

Jennifer: “Aww. You’re going to make me cry.”

Me: “Me too.” (I proceeded to cry.) “I’m sorry I don’t have the original covers.”

Jennifer: “That’s okay. I like these ones better.”

(I laughed for a beat too long.)

Me: “May I have a picture?”

Jennifer: “Sure.”

(We took a picture.)

Me: “Thank you. Thank you. Have a good day! Thank you.”

I ran away.

I don’t often crash and burn in interactions, but when I do, tears are usually involved. I don’t want to say I scared Jennifer Holm, but I definitely didn’t give off a very “mentally stable” vibe. I mean, we exchanged many smiles, but I couldn’t remember how to form words. (Also, my hair was doing weird things.)

It was bad. I was running away thinking about how I didn’t say anything I wanted to, except that first line, and then I remembered I forgot my phone with the volunteer who took our picture and had to go back and get it. Perfect.

I did a fast-paced walk in the other direction. Then, I decided to look at my signed copies because that would make me feel better, and in the second book (my favorite one), she put a note (that I hadn’t seen her write through my tears). And I looked at that note and thought, “That’s true. I don’t know when or how or any of the specifics, but I believe that’s true.”

And there it was. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that I had an awkward interaction with one of my favorite authors. It didn’t matter that I am more than a little unsure of where I’ll be when school lets out. It matters that I will be a writer, and I know it.

She’s A Better Hilary

April 8, 2014 ~ hilly miller ~ 1 Comment

I’m a pretty confident person. I don’t think I’m cocky; however, I started a blog, so I have to be feeling okay about myself. We can talk about blogging and narcissism another time though.

Right now I want to talk about when my self-confidence is shaken. Fun!

Usually, it takes a lot. Growing up with two big brothers (I won’t loop my sister completely into this), I developed a decently thick skin. I won’t shatter from being called a name or a bad hair day (unless it’s a bad haircut). (Bad haircuts are just the worst.)

Sometimes, though, all it takes to wreck me is a person who is me but a better me. Let me explain.

One of my friends in college, let’s call her Darla, ran into another student named Darla. Now, my friend is pretty darn great, but this Darla was on another level. She was über peppy, had great hair (and skin), and she had about a million friends (a lot of them were mutual friends with my Darla). When the two Darlas met, my friend was overwhelmed meeting this insanely vibrant person. We left, and she had a mini breakdown, during which she said, “She’s a better Darla than I am.”

And thus, a concept is born.

It’s hard when you meet someone who’s like you, but doing it better.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to sing karaoke. (Jill and I did a poorly-received version of “Zombie” by The Cranberries. After which, I said, “Some people just don’t get rock-n-roll.”) I decided to dress up for the night, which is unusual. I had on heels, my pixie was styled, and I put on lipstick dun dun dun. I actually wore lipstick! (I don’t do that. Ever.)

I was feeling good about myself, but that kind of “delicate good” because it’s all so new. You know the one.

We met up with friends at Cafe Habana (our go-to for karaoke), and a young woman was visiting. This woman was everything I am, but she was better at it. She had a freshly cut pixie (which makes all the difference), a brighter red lip, better accessories, better teeth, and was super, mega sweet. I was searching for something I could own, trying for jokes (because that’s what I do), and she one-upped me on the joke front making everyone laugh. The night was over right then. I could go home. There was already a me, and she was doing it better.

That’s all it took to shatter my self-confidence for about twenty minutes (felt off and on over a two-hour period).

Of course, I took to dancing to make the night fun again.

But I couldn’t let go of this woman and how she was a better version of who I am.

Then, we said goodbye, and the better me said, “Oh my goodness.” Yes, she even said that. Had she said, “My stars,” I would have packed my bags immediately.

She said she was watching me dance and trying to copy my moves because they were so hilarious.

And there it was.

Lots of people are worried about someone else being the better version of themselves, but WE DON’T HAVE TO BE.

I guess I just want to say that only you can be the best version of you because there’s only one.

Dr. Suess says it better, “Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

I’m so glad you’re you, and I hope you are too.

There’s room enough for two pixie cuts in every group. There’s room enough for bold skirts and jokesters and Darla’s and red lips and good teeth and harem pants. There’s always room for harem pants and ridiculous pictures.

Photo Credit: Jillian Denning

living in malibu can be super cool

March 11, 2014 ~ hilly miller ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes it hits me that I live in Malibu, CA.

It’s sad to say that over the past 20 months living in Malibu–I can’t believe it’s been that long–that some really extraordinary moments have become almost routine.

The other night I was watching City of Angels (because it’s always a good idea to watch a Nicolas Cage movie, right?). In the movie, the angels all gather at the ocean to watch the sunset, and when that scene came up I sort of casually thought, “I live five minutes away from that beach. If they turned the camera, I’d see my neighborhood.”

Then I stopped, and shook my head at myself.

I live next to that beach? The one that’s right there on screen? What?!

How cool is that?!

I was momentarily overwhelmed with how neat living in Malibu is, and this is not a rarity. Moments like this happen all the time, and it’s up to me to recognize them and geek-out a bit. To not let them become routine! Because if I don’t get excited what am I even doing here?

Here are this week’s moments when Malibu struck me as a super cool place to live…

When this was a small blurb on the front page of The Malibu Times.

When I spent the day here.

When I sent this text message.

I totally walked back to where he was and stared until he looked at me and smiled, and then I was angry I didn’t have makeup on because THIS IS NOT HOW I WANTED US TO MEET.

When I saw dolphins on my drive home, and then took a very bad picture of them.

The point is that Malibu life can be surreal and freaking cool sometimes, and I think it’s completely necessary to recognize that.

But I also want to say that it’s necessary to recognize how magical moments (that don’t include an Orlando Bloom sighting because that’s on it’s own level) happen every day no matter where you live. Indiana is just as magical as California!

I hope you’re all acknowledging the super cool moments in your life because they are there, waiting for you to look!

still alive

March 6, 2014 ~ hilly miller ~ Leave a comment

I’m still alive!

Ha ha ha ha stayin alive, stayin alive!

The Bee Gees! I can do a pretty good Barry Gibb impression, by the way.

Did you know that Stayin Alive has the perfect tempo for CPR compressions? The more you know… brought to you by lifeguard training.

Yes, I was a lifeguard once. I got the most amazing tan lines you can imagine, and I was able to show them off at my brother’s wedding. Don’t worry, those pictures will just be framed and on display for the rest of my life. No big deal.

Wedding Guest: “Hilary, is that a white t-shirt under your dress?”

Me: “No.” **Silent tears**

I feel like we got off-topic. Back to the beginning.

I’m still alive!

I’m sorry I’ve neglected this blog. Although, I’m sure no one too disappointed (except for my mom).

I’ve been having some adventures since I last posted.

I flew to Denver to see my Norwegian Rachel. I was able to tell her, “You haven’t seen Frozen?! It’s the film of your people!” Worth the trip just for that conversation, I think.

But mostly I’ve been snuggling my dog and trying to not be sick, which is hard when you are sick.

I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist putting a picture of Ms. Estelle Getty in here. Proud Dog Mom. (Is that a bumper sticker? Someone keep it far away from me if it is. Far, far away.)

Anywho, I wish you a very happy rest of your week, and I hope that you, too, get a “Let The Good Times Cinnamon Roll” photo op for Mardi Gras. Although, I suggest you don’t lean over or be sick in said photo op because it will make you look eight inches shorter and twenty IQ points lesser (but that won’t stop you from liking the picture!).

growing out a pixie cut is the worst

February 17, 2014February 17, 2014 ~ hilly miller ~ 4 Comments

I know you’re all dying for an update on my hair.

Last summer I trimmed my pixie for the “last” time. It was the last cut before the great grow out, the final feast before the epic quest. I braced myself for the days of graceless hair ahead, but I had no idea of the trials that would befall me in winter. No idea at all.

In my defense, I trimmed the mullet along the way. I knew that much from pinterest, but not even mullet trimming can prepare you for the ear-length-bob-now-I-look-like-a-Bob months. That’s right. Months. The hairs (all of them) beg to be pulled back into a half-updo, yet cannot reach the clip. The agony!

What they said–no idea who “they” are–is true: growing out a pixie cut is one of the worst experiences in the world. Growing out a pixie cut should warrant some sort of major award. Off the top of my head, I’m thinking automatic stellar hair-days forever or a year’s supply of Propel water. (Am I the only one still drinking those things?)

Growing out a pixie cut requires a six-month hiatus from mirrors.

Growing out a pixie is like carrying the One Ring across Middle Earth to be destroyed in Mordor. I took on this impossible mission and began the trek.

But then February came, and like Frodo, I failed. I got to the edge of the Cracks of Doom, but couldn’t complete my task.

In other words, I got my hair cut on Saturday.

I even had a stylist (Sauron? Gollum?) that said, “I wouldn’t keep your natural color. It’s kind of dead mouse brown,” and then she washed my hair. “What I’m putting on your hair is called shampoo. You should try it sometime.”

I’m not kidding. But I think she was?

Then I stepped out of the salon (Mount Doom) with cut hair. Short hair. Looks-like-I-never-beared-THE-ONE-RING hair.

Oh, well. The good thing about short hair (one of the many) is the reminder that it’s just hair.

Maybe next time I decide to grow it out I’ll keep that in mind. For now, I’ll just enjoy making it stick up in weird ways.

Never Been Dated

February 14, 2014December 24, 2017 ~ hilly miller ~ 1 Comment

We’ve got bigger problems than kissing, folks.

I’m going to try to be very honest about this subject. You’ve been warned.

I’m not sure I get dating.

Let me put it this way. The closest thing I have had to a date was my prom. I went with a boy from my math class who was three years older. Need I even continue?

We went in a group, and I paid for my own meal at Panera Bread. You read that correctly. I went to Panera Bread in a prom dress and paid for my own soup in a bread bowl. Ah, to be sixteen! Ah, to be familiar with the sound of crinoline sliding into a vinyl booth!

This whole prom saga ended with me telling my “date” that yes, I liked him as a friend, but no, I didn’t like him as anything more and nothing would ever change my mind. Ever. In a million years. And that I was sorry that I could never love him. Ever. In a million years. He said he understood.

Then he gave me a song he wrote about how much he loved me.

Since then I’ve had a few minor crushes. The largest being on Hayden Christensen circa Episode II. (I told you I was going to be blatantly honest.)

And so, I’ve never really been on a date. I am Josie Grossie from Never Been Kissed. I even say, “culottes.”

These are the facts, but I want to know why. Why have I never really been on a date?

Here are ten hypotheses I’ve come up with so far. Let me know if you have further insights.

1. I don’t flirt. Well, I don’t flirt well. I mean, I don’t flirt in the way most girls do. I probably flirt the way some gross boys do. Any time I think a guy is attractive I try to do some sort of impressive (awkward) physical move, like jumping off of something really tall.

If I hold back from such impressive (awkward) moves, I usually do something like pull my pants up past my waist and pretend to use a monocle or make fart noises with my mouth or just immediately start walking away from the guy.

Why haven’t I been on dates again?

2. I’m marriage material, and boys my age aren’t ready for that. (Please ask my Italian Rachel for confirmation that I repeated this phrase throughout the entirety of high school. Josie Grossie, people. Josie Grossie.)

The problem here is that there are people my age who are married, so this excuse can no longer hold up.

3. I don’t see the point of dating.

I’m not trying to condemn anyone for dating here. I just don’t really see the point. A free meal? We already saw how the Panera thing worked out.

Getting to know someone just sounds exhausting.

4. An actual line on my bucket lists (all versions) says, “Make it to 30 without having been married.” That’s right, folks. I’m holding out until my golden years.

I like being alone. I see people my age who are married who are so happy, but I’m just not ready for that yet. And since I’m not ready for marriage, I won’t date (see point #3).

5. I look like a troll, but not in a way that would appeal to LARPers.

This could be accurate, but my mom doesn’t think so. (Thank you, Mom.)

6. I’m too beautiful for men to even approach me. I’m like that smouldering celebrity who says men are too intimidated by her to ask her out.

Considering the number of unibrow jokes I have endured over the years, this is just absolutely false.

7. I could be asexual. I don’t really have that many crushes. Maybe I’ll join a nunnery.

But wait…

**cue shirtless picture of Aaron Taylor Johnson that I could not, in good conscience, actually post**

Wrong. Not asexual. No nunneries.

8. Two weeks ago, when the drive-thru boy (child?) asked for my number, I said, “Uhhhh no.” Then he said I made him feel like a creepy drive-thru man, and I said, “Yeah.” Then he gave me his number on my receipt.

Not sure what this has to do with why I haven’t been on a date, but it’s a pretty funny true story, right? It’s also recent evidence that I am not without a bit of womanly charm (at least if you look at me through my driver’s side window).

I guess it also made me feel a little bit good.

But still, no dates.

9. I believe in true love.

This could be a fundamental dating hiccup, actually. Believing this means I usually go ahead and pick my wedgie in front of the cute guy in the supermarket. “He’s cute, but eh, he’s not ‘the one.'” Resume tasteful picking.

(“The one” is away, turning down a modeling career to backpack across Europe. Obviously.)

10. God has really protected me.

I think this is absolutely true. I have MANY friends with broken hearts, and it looks… rough. I also have a wincy bit of a miniscule tendency to go whole-hog crazy over things that I like, and I don’t need to be throwing that affection from person to person all willy-nilly.

I suppose if the right boy came along, I wouldn’t purposefully show him the door, but I’m also not inviting him in, ya know?

Bonus #11: I’ve never asked anyone out. It feels very necessary to state the obvious here.

CONCLUSION: I just don’t get this dating thing or why I don’t fit into it. Oh, well. Maybe I need to shout: “I’M NOT JOSIE GROSSIE ANYMORE!” or maybe I just need to work on my flirting game (i.e. look for taller things to jump off) or maybe the world needs to know that non-daters aren’t entirely off their rockers.

Off Their Rockers.

Betty White.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

encouragement

February 1, 2014February 1, 2014 ~ hilly miller ~ 3 Comments

When I was fifteen I played spring “club” soccer. I was by far the worst player on the team, and since this wasn’t a school sport, I pretty much sat on the bench for the whole game, every game.

After a few games, my fate became clear, and I couldn’t just sit on the bench any more. I was sick of telling the coach I was ready to go in whenever he needed; I was sick his eye rolling after I told him this multiple times per game. I wanted to be a part of the team.

So I began participating. No, I didn’t run out on the field, but good idea.

I cheered. I encouraged.

No, I didn’t suddenly become the screaming Mom in the stands who always brought apples and orange slices for our snack even through we explicitly said we would take fruit roll-ups and chocolate chip granola bars and nothing else.

I just took over the screaming part for her. I yelled a lot: “Good job! Way to run! You are trying so hard, and you’re only getting better!”

I even invented a name for the team’s mojo. Each time we were doing really well I shouted, “Reign of Fire!” It became a bit of a favorite around the field complex. (Did it have something to do with 2002 classic? More than probably so.)

This new cheering changed the team and my place on it. We became more positive. The girls didn’t sulk so much after missed shots. It’s hard to be mad when someone yells, “You took the shot! You’re so brave!”

The players started to like me. I was more than just the bench warmer. I was the bench caretaker. That’s right. I still didn’t ever get to play. (Although, I did get my coach back at the end of the season, in a game of “butts up.” I was the only player to hit him square on the rear. Take that!)

But I learned something from that Spring on the bench (and every other season I was placed firmly on that aluminum seat). I didn’t learn how to play soccer, but it was far more important. In fact, it was huge. It was encouragement.

Encouragement builds us up. It’s positive. It gives us confidence and warm fuzzies. It makes the day better. It makes life better, and we need more of it around.

That’s why I’d like to give encouragement to you.

I’ve set up an email for this blog: hillymillerblog@gmail.com

If you send me an email (as short as your first name or as long as your entire memoir), I’d love to send you some words of positive encouragement back. Chances are that you haven’t heard how wonderful you are nearly enough.

And you are, you know. You are wonderful and capable and individually special, and you have to email me if you want a more personalized approach to these encouragements. (I should mention that this was Jill‘s idea.)

Make today great!

snow day

January 6, 2014 ~ hilly miller ~ Leave a comment

I don’t think I’m supposed to get a snow day in grad school.

I don’t think I’m supposed to get a snow day in grad school in Malibu.

I don’t think I’m supposed to get two snow days in grad school in Malibu.

But… guess what I got?

Just so we’re clear, it’s not snowing in Malibu. In Indiana, though, in Indy it’s really snowing.

Snowing to the point of flight cancellations and power outages (none that lasted more than a minute at my house) and completely breathtaking scenery.

Snow days used to be filled with sledding and drinking hot chocolate and watching loads of movies, and guess what? They still are. Shouldn’t every day be full of those things? Some would say that they shouldn’t; no one would ever get anything done. I agree (I accomplished very little today), but I do think there’s something magical about a snow day and a cup of hot chocolate. It’s something that we should try to recreate and recognize when it comes without the flakey fanfare.

I wish you a snow day, not necessarily one 12 inches deep, but one that’s full of laughing and play and magic. That’s the kind of snow day we’re all supposed to get.

roast beef is a conversation starter

November 19, 2013January 20, 2014 ~ hilly miller ~ 2 Comments

Today I had to make a very, very difficult decision. Think Divergent: “One choice can transform you.”

What was the decision? Turkey or roast beef. Let me explain.

This December- Oh, gosh. December is too close to say “this.” Start again.

Next month, I’m going to a writer’s conference. It’s in Big Sur. It will be full of rainy, gorgeous scenery, writing all-nighters, and a billion requests for queries. Right? Okay, okay. At the very least, it will be full of a nice drive to and from the conference, writing afternoons, and at least one awkward conversation with a literary agent.

This conference has brought some beautiful things into my life, the best being my writing group, First Authors Club (FAC). FAC is made up of Jill and Katie and me. Jill is a fabulous dresser and fantastic, feminist writer of teen female friendships. I tried to jam as many “f’s” into that description as possible because Jill stands for “fun.” Fun real stories, fun fictional stories, fun Farrah Fawcett hair, fun, fun, fun. Katie is a fantasy queen, but her letter is “g” for great. Great writing, great mom (to her baby, not to me – that would be weird), great friend, great conservative mind, great, great, great.

Playtime with these ladies, aka story notes time, is the highlight of my week.

Back to decisions. The conference has made small decisions (like what to do with my hair) take on a large weight. Today, it got more than a little ridiculous. We were emailed asking what kind of meat we would like on our sandwiches at the retreat. My first inclination was turkey. I mean, turkey is the safe choice. Turkey is “doctor,” if you pick a husband by occupation.

But there’s a side of you that wants to pick “rock star” for your spouse’s job, right? The rock star of deli meats? Roast beef. All of the sudden, you think it’s so much more interesting to pick roast beef, the unusual, off-beat choice. Here’s the danger: your rock star husband could be a big party dude who leaves you all alone with the screaming twins; in deli meat terms: it’s limp and fatty. Now the fate of my future career seemed to rest on this one decision. Everyone will pick turkey. Turkey is the obvious choice. Roast beef, though, roast beef is a conversation starter.

Scenario #1: “Oh, is that roast beef?” an agent will ask. “I love roast beef. I thought I was the only one here. What’s your manuscript about? I want to represent you, you fellow beefer!”

Scenario #2: “That’s roast beef!” someone will shout. “All the best writers who aren’t vegetarians choose roast beef. I shall read your book, now.”

Scenario #3: “Oh, you’re eating roast beef,” another one will say. “That’s so interesting. I find you so interesting because of your deli meat choice. Let’s talk.”

So there was the choice. Turkey or roast beef? The doctor or rock star? Lab coat or leather jacket?

It was at this point that I realized I had been riding the crazy train for a few minutes, maybe for a few years. I got off at the next stop and emailed my choice.

Turkey. Plain, safe turkey. Although, if we’re talking husbands, I’d go for a pediatrician who plays for a terrible garage band on Sunday afternoons. What is that in deli meat?

Hilly Miller

make today great

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