family archiver

It’s official. I’m the Archiver of the family. You know, that person who insists on family photos and preserving stories and digitalizing film and uncovering deep, dark secrets. That’s me. I’m not as aggressive as most, and to be honest, scrapbooking has zero appeal, but still. I’m the one who cares about where I came from. And about keeping that history alive.

It all started last year, when I decided to give my parents and siblings DVD copies of our Family Video. The video was on some ancient c. 1982 VHS tape, and time and use had taken its toll. As our family continued to grow and spread out over the midwest (I have a sister and brother in Minneapolis, a brother in Detroit, and parents in the Chicagoland), I started to panic. Who would preserve the memories?! Who would protect them from being lost or damaged?!

The easy solution was “me!” and so for Christmas last year, I had our super old VHS transferred to DVD. And somewhere in the process I even let the scrapbooking bug bite me, and I got crafty with the cases. 

But archiving is a slippery slope.

Sometime mid-year, I began to think long and hard about my heritage. My dad’s side includes some German lineage, but the Scandinavian ties were always the strongest. My dad and Nana and aunts and uncles would talk about eating lutefisk and blood klub (or something of the sort), while we feasted on Swedish pancakes and pickled herring. They’d talk about my great-grandfather Karl Johnson (originally Johansson, according to Ancestry.com), who came over from Sweden and married a Minnesota Swede named Hulda.

The more I thought, the more I wanted to learn. And so I found myself on Ancestry.com, researching all I could late into the night for days on end until I came across a family tree that linked my family all the way back to 1744 Sweden.

1744! Just a few hundred more years, and I’d be able to prove that Thor was my next door neighbor or something like that.

And so it continues. I’m slowly taking on the role of photo-keeper and digitizer, document hoarder and memory saver. Eventually, I imagine I’ll grow a long, white beard and smoke a pipe while my children’s children’s children seek me out for answers to questions such as:

“Why am I so tight-lipped?”

“Where do I get my blue eyes?”

“Who do I look like most?”

“Why can I be so emotionless?”

“Where do I get my knack for building things?”

“Has our family always driven so fast?”

And so this is my future. The future of an Archiver. Maybe one day I’ll take a trip and visit that small Swedish settlement in which my ancestor was born in 1744. I suppose that’s one benefit to this task.

That, and it gives people with no hometown a sense of belonging.

hometownless

For the longest time, the “hometown” field on my Facebook profile was blank. I had absolutely nothing to put in it. Because I am hometownless.

Growing up, we moved every 1.5 to 2 years. So much so that by the time I was in my sophomore year of high school, we were moving into what was at least our 11^th residency.

Four of those residencies were in the Chicagoland area.

Three were within Peoria, Illinois (yes, mom, I’m counting the time we lived in a barn).

One was in Minnesota.

One was in Iowa.

The rest were in Illinois.

(Thank goodness my parents never followed through on their desire for us to travel the country in an RV, otherwise I’d have an even bigger conundrum).

So when I was first creating my Facebook profile sometime back in college and it came time to enter a hometown, I panicked. What should I put? Where was I from? I didn’t know, so I left it blank.

Living in Fort Wayne, Indiana for the past 9 years (yikes), this hasn’t really been an issue. People ask where I’m from and I just say Illinois. Their silly minds immediately think I’m from Chicago, which is fine by me. I mean I did spend the majority of my childhood in the suburbs and to be honest, I like them thinking that I’m a big city girl. But for the few who press me further, I end up blurting something like “Everywhere! I’m from the entire state of Illinois.”

And then I feel foolish.

So to remedy this problem, my mom encouraged me to just pick somewhere. Pick a town that I feel most connected to...one of which I have the most memories, or one that I think of fondly...and have that be my hometown. So that’s what I did. I picked Des Plaines, Illinois and slapped it up on my Facebook page with pride. And no one called me out. No one questioned its validity. No one even noticed. Win-win if you ask me.

But then the other day Tad asked me the very morbid question of if I were to die, where should he bury me?

And I said Illinois (though I realize I should have said “wherever YOU want us to be buried, love of my life”).

And he said where in Illinois?

And I said I don’t know. Just somewhere by Chicago.

And he said like your grandma’s place or a place where you grew up or...?

And I thought and thought and threw out half-hearted suggestion after half-hearted suggestion before saying oh goodness, I don’t care. Just pick a place. Any place in Illinois and it’ll be fine.

And now instead of worrying about what my hometown is, I’m worrying about what my deathtown should be.

Not a good trade.

Why I'm About to Put Ed Hardy on My Arm

I went through a very long and angsty phase in which I wanted to be a rockstar.

Now, I know what you're thinking...who doesn't? But I'm a good singer who is also good with words and has a knack of putting those words to music that makes people smile and clap and ask for more. So this dream of mine, though near-difficult to achieve, was never totally off the mark.

But there's one component to the rockstar thing that I could never quite get right and it's the very thing that doomed my career before it even started: Image.

I'm what you call a late-bloomer. One of those freaks who actually benefits from age. And while I'd like to say that I always had a handle on who I was and how I wanted to express myself, I triple dog dare you to drag up some pictures from my college days. I guarantee they're filled with grandma sweaters, hoodies, band tees and studded belts that I would buckle on the side...so that they didn't scratch my guitar.

So now I'm a bit more put-together. A bit more mature. And when I shop, I go to Express instead of Salvo and H&M in place of Goodwill.

But every now and then that deep-seated desire to be a rockstar will rear its ugly head and I'll find myself thinking about choppy haircuts and black nail polish and in times like those, I have a few items that I turn to:

A gray shirt with a black and red graphic print. When I wear this, I feel like Joan Jett.
Black boots that I wear outside of black skinny jeans. When I wear this, I feel edgy.
Eyeliner. When I wear this, I feel emo.

I tell you this, because the other night at Meijer, I bought a pack of 30 Ed Hardy temporary tattoos. My inner rockstar has been knocking at my door for awhile now. Demanding to come in. And he wants more from me than a Coheed & Cambria ringtone or a Kings of Leon/Florence + the Machine playlist.

My Dark Passenger wants a sleeve. A tattoo sleeve of 30, colorful depictions of skulls and flames and flowers.

And that's exactly what he'll get.

Solving the Problems of the Universe

ME: Why don't we just make water ourselves?
TAD: Like with Hydrogen and Oxygen?
ME: Yeah.
TAD: Well you have to make sure that they fit together correctly.
ME: Yeah, they'd have to look like little Mickey Mouses.
TAD *blink, blink*: Is that what you think of when you think of water molecules? Mickey Mouse?
ME: Yeah. That's like the only thing I remember from chemistry class.

15 Things I Learned at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

 The band.

So you know when someone young does something that's a little inspiring and hopeful and then they suddenly die a tragic, horrible death and then word of that thing that they did spreads like crazy until the whole world sees them as some iconic image of Love or Peace or Equality or whatever it was that they did that was so inspiring?

Well I realized that I was setting myself up to die one of those tragic, horrific deaths and become the poster child for Following Your Dreams or Quitting Your Job or who knows what.

So let's talk about something else, shall we? Because I have no intention of dying, thank you very much (although the idea of becoming an icon is tempting).

This past weekend, Tad and I drove to Ohio to see our friends, Zach and Stephanie. And for funsies, we visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Stephanie is a serious AC/DC fan (which we all find hilarious).
Tad loves Metallica (which I find hilarious).
Zach likes pretty much anything (although he has a huge weakness for ska).
And I...I'm one of those people who likes to think that I know a lot about old bands and artists, when in reality my knowledge doesn't go much past Wikipedia and the backs of my Ladies from the 80s Barbie Doll boxes.

So here are 15 things I learned at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame:

1. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame can be summarized by two performers and one movement: Elvis, The Beatles and punk rock
2. If you're in a punk rock band in the 70s or 80s, it's preferable that you hate God, hate the government, feel misunderstood, and choose a really cliche stage name. If you do all of these things, you will get a massive display at the R&R HoF and a video in which you're promoting anarchy and a limited use of the English language.
3. If I was in a punk rock band, my stage name would be Cat Call.
4. Jimi Hendrix had a lot of stage outfits.
5. Kurt Cobain really did die. I saw his birth certificate. Take that conspiracists! (Whether Courtney Love killed him or not is still up for debate).
6. Mick Jagger is a small, small man.
7. Apparently, rock and roll ceased to exist after the 1980s. At least that's what the Hall of Fame's lack of any bands from the 90s tells me (Nirvana aside).
8. Since when are Simon and Garfunkel considered Rock and Roll? And if they made it, where's Peter, Paul and Mary?
9. Lady Gaga's meat dress really was made out of meat.
10. It's cool to play a right handed guitar backwards when you're left handed. Wished I would have known this. I wouldn't have been so embarrassed while playing my right-handed Yamaha.
11. It's a good thing I had a hair appointment the week BEFORE visiting the R&R HoF. Because if it was scheduled after, I'm pretty sure I'd come out of there with a Debbie Harry hairstyle.
12. Faith Hill does not belong in the Women Who Rock exhibit. (What's she doing there?!)
13. I saw enough sequined tops and outfits that from now on when people give me a hard time about mine, I'll just say "All the rock stars are doing it." (You think I'm joking about having sequined clothing? Think again.)
14. If you die young, you have a better chance of getting a really good display in the R&R HoF.
15. The items from female artists are 99% of the time way more awesome and well-kept than the items of male artists. So, if you're thinking of making a trip to the R&R HoF, go now and catch the Women Who Rock exhibit while you can.

And now it's time to play Rock Band until my arms fall off.

Amanda Luedeke is Back From the Dead - post 2

Note: If you missed post 1, here it is.

Sometime in April, (or was it May?), I scaled back on the hours I put into my day job. I'd reached a point where I'd hit a wall when it came to growing the agenting job. My day job just took too much out of my day. So, after a bit of angst and frustration and worry and tears and fretting, I talked to my day job people.

And the result was Wednesdays off.

Sure, it affected my pay. And later I found out that I would miss out on bonuses and get fewer vacation days (yeah, the vacation days I used to work at conferences), but it was what I needed to do to keep moving forward. Because like with anything in life, the things that mean the most, rarely come easy.

So there I was...with suddenly all kinds of time. Or at least it felt that way. I remember telling my agenting boss, Chip, that it felt as though I could breathe. Like a load was lifted. And for the first time in quite awhile I was able to sleep at night without a zillion things running through my head...things that I'd forgotten to do, conversations I'd failed to follow up on, deadlines that has snuck up on me in the dead of stillness (don't you hate when that happens?).

All of that stopped. My mind cleared. And I felt in control.

So what did I do? I decided to write a novel.

It's funny how when you're comfortably busy and not that over-extended and only a tad behind things that you can't bear the thought of adding something else to your list. But when you're super busy and freaking out and overworked, those are the times that you're most productive. They're the times that the addition of 9 free hours to your day suddenly translates into enough time to crank out a novel.

And so that's what I did. I cranked it out. I'd never written a complete novel before. I'd always started and then stopped, moving on to a better idea or convincing myself that the current one was bad. I had no discipline. No internal motivation.

But to be frank, now that I was working with authors, I was feeling to be a bit of a fake. No, writing a novel is not a prerequisite to being an agent. But it helps.

I needed to be able to sympathize with my authors. To be able to understand what they're going through when they're doubting their middles or frustrated at the fact that their protagonists are always crying (this happens). I need to say "hey, I've been there, and here's what you need to do..."

So I started writing. And that writing bug that I'd always wished would bite me, took such a chunk out of my usually-resistant self that I started writing and I never stopped. I'd crank out thousands of words in a night. THOUSANDS OF WORDS. I'd do 10 or 15000 in 7 days. Sometimes in 5 days. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.

And I worked and I worked and I worked.
And soon, in order to write, I had to give things up. I started saying no when Tad asked me if I wanted to hang out with him and our neighbor friends. I said no when he asked if I wanted to watch tv. I said no to movies. No to game nights. No, no, no, over and over and over. I could even hear them having fun sometimes...just down the hall and in the other apartment. And still, I said no.

And in five months, I had a book. 75,000 words. 140 pages. Single spaced. Block paragraphs.

I would never have been able to do that if I hadn't already been stretched thin. Already pushing my limits. And I certainly wouldn't have been able to do it if I'd said "yes" to all those offers of fun and good times. Because at some point, you have to determine what's really important and then you go for it. And for a time, it's going to suck.

But in the end, you have the first draft of your first novel, and it feels a whole lot better than watching 100 movies and playing a zillion rounds of Uno.

Amanda Luedeke is Back From the Dead - post 1

Note: I'm going to do a series of posts to kind of wrap up the past few years. A new chapter has begun in my life, and I just feel as though I need to take a minute and reflect on everything that has happened...things that I either couldn't or didn't feel comfortable talking about here, I can now share freely. So I apologize in advance if the posts feel a bit preachy or judgy. I just need to be able to take some time and sort through my thoughts. To catalog where I am at this moment in life. And I also need to catch everyone up. Because the good thing with all of this (one of the many good things) is that Swedish Pankakes is back!


It's been awhile.

Of course the obvious reason for my absence would be lack of interest. I mean how many people at any given time start a blog and then lose interest? Probably nearly everyone. But for me, it wasn't a lack of interest or a lack of content.

It was a lack of time.

Ugh, I hate myself for pulling the time card. Aren't we ALL too busy? Don't we ALL make choices each and every day in terms of how our time will be spent? And don't we all make time for what's really important?

So maybe instead of saying I didn't have the time, I should say that some things were going on that made this blog less of a priority. Way less of a priority.

Last summer, I became a literary agent with MacGregor Literary. Now this was one of the biggest blessings of my life, because I've seen the business...I know how rare it is that someone gets such an opportunity while they're still in their 20s. And I also know how even more rare it is that this should happen to someone who came from outside the publishing world. Someone who happened to be in the right place (for me, it was a Barnes & Noble) at the right time (during an author signing) and make the right impression (still not entirely sure how this part happened).

And so it started. After a year or so working as an assistant, I became an agent. The only problem, was that publishing money is slow money. You can work on a project for a year before you see so much as a dime in return. So, because Tad was unemployed, I had to keep my day job.

For the past year, my life looked something like this:

Work the day job: 8 - 5:30 pm
Go for a run/workout: 5:30 - 7:00 pm
Make and eat dinner: 7 - 8:00 pm
Work as an agent: 8pm - ???

Weekends involved a good dose of work.
Holidays, too.
Vacation time went to attending conferences.
And as for personal time?

As the summer of 2011 approached, things with agenting got more demanding. I had 5 clients. And then I had 10. 15. 20. I rearranged things with my day job to allow myself Wednesdays off and still that wasn't enough. I quit working out, dropped out of all my church commitments, abandoned this blog, and stopped hanging out with friends.

Was it fun? No.
Was it easy? Nope.
Was it worth it? ...

The world is full of people who say they want to do or be something. Of people who have dreams that they're waiting to realize. Goals that they're sitting on. Hopes and visions that they keep locked up in their head, waiting for someone else to do the dirty work or make that job offer or start up that business or finish that novel for them.

But the world is also full of people who take their dreams and goals and ambitions and do something with them. Self-starters, they're called. Entrepreneurs. Visionaries. And in some cases, workaholics.

This whole process has moved me from the first category, to the second. I was a thinker...a dreamer, and now I'm a doer. An achiever. I have a deeper understanding of what I'm capable of and the role that I play in this life that God has given.

And at this moment, the sky is the limit.



Friday was my last day working the day job. And tomorrow is my first day as a full time agent.

So was it worth it? You tell me.