Tag Archives: Writing

Book Review: Driving Dad Home

Having dedicated a great deal of time, energy, effort, and money–but mostly dreams and heart–to writing throughout my life, I’ve always longed for close relationships with other writers. People who would “get me” in a way that I didn’t feel “got.”

So it was with great pleasure when I learned that my dear friend Jan married a man who wrote. This was many years ago, and, like mine, John Halter’s career was varied and interesting. In my own case, I would add soul affirming, which is probably the case for John as well, but I have never asked him. Anyway, we both did something other than write to earn our livings, but we both always wrote. I worked in flower shops, and libraries, and taught school, while John was a professional sailor, riverboat pilot, and marine mechanic.

Driving Dad Home is John’s first published book, a memoir. It is published by Nodin Press, LLC out of Minneapolis, MN and is available on Amazon. Bravo, John!

John Halter’s Driving Dad Home is in part the story of John and his father, Russ, and their road trip from Arizona to Wisconsin where Russ’s family has procured a place for him in a memory care facility. That, in itself, provides more than enough to immerse the reader. A 96-year-old father who doesn’t want to leave the home where he chose to live out the remainder of his long life “hoodwinked” by his family, the dying alcoholic second wife they wish to save him from, the terror, anger, and anguish of Russ’s dementia—all told in the author’s particularly engaging style—would be plenty. But Halter gives us more.

In his attempts to placate his agitated father and make it to their destination safely, he learns that getting his dad to talk is the best remedy. As the miles unfurl, so too do Russ’s recollections about everything from his childhood on a South Dakota farm, to his years serving in the Navy in WWII, to his years as a husband and father living in Minneapolis, and to the years that followed, when John and his siblings were all grown, when their mother died, and the life their father made for himself afterward—all of which is as important to the author as it is to his dad. I don’t want to give anything away, but it was an excellent read, and I was left with a renewed appreciation and understanding of the generations before us. And I also came away believing that love is often a silent force swirling around us that we do not know and cannot recognize.

For some of us, thankfully, there comes another chance. This is a story about one of those chances.

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A Fine Suddenness, or Maybe Never

Thoughts on Writing After a Year of Sending out Queries for my WWII-Era Homefront Historical Fiction Novel Set in Lake Arrowhead, CA… and A Whole Lots of Maybes

Photo from my collection of prints of paintings by Lake Arrowhead artist and friend, Dave Wescott.

I am discouraged. It’s been a long haul, and I’m tired. I wonder if it’s too late—if I’m even a capable writer. Maybe I am a past-prime-nothing-special-mainstream kind of a writer with nothing new to offer in a world crowded with bright-fresh-creatives churning out compelling new stories that I am not equipped to write.  

Maybe, more accurately, I wouldn’t write those compelling new stories even if I could, because I truly don’t want to. But that doesn’t mean I never will. Maybe I’m going to want to! With creating, one never knows. Meanwhile, what I write these days is what I feel the magical desire to create. If I were being paid to write, or I were writing an assignment for a course I was taking, it would be different. At least a little bit different, but still really fulfilling. And I have done that successfully.

So I think that means that stubbornness is not the problem. But who among us knows well their own foibles? A self-examined life is not worth living perhaps, but I am not always sure my self-examinations are thorough or astute enough. That is one of the many reasons I need you, my friends!

Writing from my heart for no other reason than I want to create something of my own is a very different task than an assignment or a job, and that is what I’ve been at with A Fine Suddenness, and with many earlier projects. This self-appointed task has been with me for most of my life, with innumerable hours invested outside of my “real” life, most of them happily. Those hours have stretched into a lifetime of practice.

Another beautiful painting of Lake Arrowhead by my dear friend, Dave Wescott.

Pretty great setting for a novel, don’t you think?

I’ve invested a good amount of my limited income into writing as well. There have been many journals, computers, printers, reams and reams of paper, hundreds of pens (and oh how I love those pink, yellow, green, and blue highlighters!) and yes, the multitude of books I’ve purchased on writing, and the subscriptions to writing magazines. Then there’s the cost of attending various writing events—retreats, conferences, special courses, all of them fabulous and expensive.

The MFA in Creative Writing I earned in 2009 was a big investment that took me years to pay off. I do not regret it.  Graduate school was an amazing experience. I loved every moment of being part of a group of writers immersed completely in our projects, all of us in over our heads, happily drowning in words, study, reflection, discussion, research, and ideas, all filled with the satisfying knowledge that no one among us questioned the importance of what we were doing. It often feels as though the rest of the world could care less about poets, screenwriters, non-fiction writers, and novelists, but it didn’t feel that way when we were in school together.

Cheers to all of my creative friends–and all creatives everywhere!

Few parents would encourage their children to enter into any of these fields. I’ve had friends who must have temporarily forgotten what my degrees are in, because they openly laugh at their children’s desires to study any of the humanities while in conversation with me. “Imagine,” they say. “What a waste of tuition.” It’s clear what they mean. Those fields don’t make any money.

I understand that money is necessary, and my life would have been easier if I had more, but I also know my soul would have shriveled had I worked in any field that didn’t allow me to at least exist in close proximity to the world of literature and learning and language that teaching and library work gave me.

It was never about money.

Writing has been my passion for a very long time. And I believe it has been worthwhile, even at this moment, seeing how things stand. I have never developed a writing platform. I don’t have much of a following on my blog (which is admittedly not something I have any technical skill in setting up or growing). Despite regularly studying the publishing field, sending out personalized queries to agents who work with my genre, and working, working, working on improving the queries, the summaries, the comp list, my bio… all the while making my manuscript the best it can possibly be, I haven’t secured an agent.

Maybe I should stop trying. Maybe I should write, but just stop trying to find an agent, or a small publishing house that might consider publishing my work. After all, it’s not about the money. I’ve never expected that.

What is money?

Photo courtesy of Pexels Free Images

Holding a beautifully bound copy of my own work, that’s definitely at least part of what I want, since I so value books, but I understand the process of writing and the joy of finding readers who might enjoy reading what I’ve written are what would move me most.

Maybe I should seriously consider self-publishing, even though I do not want to. Maybe it’s the only way, and maybe it wouldn’t humiliate me in a Willy Loman Death of a Salesman kind of way.

That’s a whole lot of maybes…

What do you think?

I’d love to hear from you!

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What I’m Reading: The Midnight Library by Matt Haig

Hello, Readers! I just finished The Midnight Library and wanted to linger over it a while longer. One way to preserve and examine a recent experience is to write about it. Another way would be to get together with my friends at the Austin Ladies Book Club, but it’s been a busy summer and we are on hiatus. Here then, is my short take on Matt Haig’s “whimsical” novel (as The Washington Post aptly calls it).

It’s an intriguing little book, chockful of tiny little chapters, each one the piece of a puzzle containing alternate lives for our damaged, yet clever and likable heroine, Nora Seed. It’s midnight, and as Nora’s consciousness flickers between life and death, a wise and kind librarian directs Nora to endless books of possibilities—the myriad different paths her choices may have led her, and may lead her still.

This is a puzzle many of us have played in our minds, and often, as in The Midnight Library, we move these pieces around in the wee hours of the night.

Imagine if I had…      What if I hadn’t…      If only I could go back and change…

Regrets.           Lost opportunities.                 

Shame.

Like Nora Seed, I’ve had plenty of these, and being the imperfect human I am, I continue to accrue new ones regularly. It can be a heavy load. The nights can be very dark.

Sometimes, a book can help. Some night soon when I drift off to sleep, perhaps I will find myself in a magic library like Nora’s. After all, I often have vivid dreams where things I experience in my waking hours revisit me in interesting and revealing ways (sometimes horrifying ways, too, but this isn’t that kind of book, thank goodness). So it could happen. Maybe tonight.

The Midnight Library is an obvious win-win for me, the lady lucky enough to run the local library and the lady who finds reading and writing endlessly captivating. It is wonderful for all the right reasons. Fun, and funny, too. Sweet, sad, insightful, and smart—it’s a little volume that may just lighten your heart.

If you read it, let me know what you think!

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Catherine Baab-Muguira on Getting Published with the Help of Edgar Allan Poe

I hope you enjoy this fun and helpful article for Poe lovers, Writers, and most especially Writers who Love Poe! The author’s newsletters can be found on the Substack email newsletter platform: “Poe Can Save Your Life, Darkly inspired self-help for writers and other creators.” She is the also the author of the book, Poe for Your Problems: Uncommon Advice from History’s Least Likely Self-Help Guru.

Click this link:

https://poecansaveyourlife.substack.com/p/how-to-get-a-book-deal-when-youre

This is just a moody shot from a trip to Lake Itaska, Minnesota from a few years back, but I think it has a nice Poe vibe!

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Annabelle Lee: Editor, Writer, Usurper (and so much more)

Last month I gave my office a fresh coat of paint. It’s a small room with a pretty window, a desk, an electric fireplace, and during writing hours, a cat. Sounds nice, right?

My Blue Office

Having “A Room of Ones Own” is a joy for a writer. I enjoy writing in different settings, too, such as in pubs, coffee shops, airports, or gardens, but these days, the bulk of my writing takes place in my little blue office.

Enter Annabelle, our newest family member. She came to us this past October. You can see an earlier post about her miraculous appearance here:

Since then, we’ve been in training.

One of her quirks is that she does not like to drink from the bowl in the kitchen that Jack and London (our long-haired brother cats) use. Since she was a newcomer, some might say interloper, in the beginning we understood her wariness to drink alongside two much larger male cats who had been living with us for years, and so it was understandable that we accommodate her desire. Which is: we are to give her fresh water from the bathroom faucet, and only the bathroom faucet, on an on-demand basis. She does not like stale water, not even if it’s only been a couple of hours. She will stand or sit next to the sink, silent, yet powerful, until one of us goes in to wash and refill her little faux crystal goblet. I believe it’s some kind of extra sensory mind control. Somehow, we just know.

Additionally, she sleeps until 9 or 10 am and doesn’t care to be disturbed with bed-making attempts. So what if it we think of it as our bed? We’re welcome to continue to sleep in it; she’s not stopping us. We just need to understand that she is not a morning cat. Later, when she’s up, she’s happy to join in on the fun of bedmaking, hopping about and attacking the sheet, burrowing under the comforter, playing hide and seek. I would never call her a poor sport. And to be fair, London is just as often the sleepyhead that I can’t bear to disturb.

London

Then there is the insistence Annabelle accompany us on our daily walks. I mentioned this in the Early Annabelle post, so if you read that, you can skip down a few paragraphs.

Since we live in a sparsely inhabited town, there is very little danger to the local cats. Dogs are seldom allowed to roam freely here, but we have a goodly number of local mule deer and cats who come and go as they please. Needless to say, because of the deer, we don’t have any backyard gardens, but that is a story for another day. As it turns out, mule deer and cats get along well. There are no coyotes or badgers or mountain lions in town, no cat predators, so, other than the one road that goes through the town, it’s a pretty safe cat and deer haven.

We had never allowed our cats outside until we moved here. They were often perched on the windowsills gazing out, but they never actually went out. They never even attempted to get out until the neighborhood cats started coming around and sitting on the outside of our windowsills gazing in. It wasn’t long after that Jack and London rebelled.

Jack and Buck

London ready to leap

They wailed, “Sparky’s mom lets him play outside! You’re so mean!” or “Fluffball says you guys are stupid, and her mom thinks so, too.”

You know, the usual.

It was inevitable that the struggle would continue until they escaped. When it comes to me and pets, I accepted a long time ago that I was not the boss. So, there came a day when I had my hands full coming in and they were ready and waiting. Before I could stop them, they shot out the door.

Annabelle The Great

This means that if they like, they can follow us on our daily walks. They have their own door. Jack and London don’t go beyond the yard, but Annabelle Lee, well, she enjoys a nice walk with her humans, so she often tags along. This makes me nervous and curtails many a walk. I’ve taken to sneaking out during her catnaps.

I know. I know.

The last thing is her increasing interest in sleeping in my writing chair, and in attempting to add content to my stories. I’ve given her a basket to sleep in, but she prefers my chair. So I brought in another chair. Problem half solved. But, if I get up and leave the room without closing down the laptop, she gets up and types a bit, and then returns to her nap before I return. I have proof of this!

The empty basket

Annabelle the usurper

She meddled while I was in the kitchen and then feigned sleep when I returned! Evidently I misspelled klutz, and she wanted to insert more description.

Am I the only writer dealing with this? Please tell me that I’m not alone, and happy writing!

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Looking for Comps

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

     Hello, Readers! I’m putting together my summer reading list, and getting my historical fiction manuscript ready for submission. One part of this process is to read recent books (published within the last few years) that are in some way comparable to mine, so that I can better describe my own manuscript to potential agents, publishers, and booksellers.

     Have you read any recently published fiction set during the 1930s or 1940s? Have you read a novel about a war widow, or a strong woman struggling and coming to grips with some other loss? If so, I’d love to hear about it. My manuscript is set in Lake Arrowhead, California, and the place is integral to the plot, so I’m also interested in any fiction that transports the reader to a specific city, town, or region.

     If any titles come to mind, I’d greatly appreciate your sharing them here. I welcome any and all suggestions. Many thanks!

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Filed under Advice, Books, HIstorical Fiction, Lake Arrowhead, Literary Fiction, Publishing, Women's Fiction, World War II, Writing, Writing Advice

A Christmas Card Kind of View

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I owe it all to Rachel. I’ve written about this before, the way she made her kids believe in magic—the way that, for a time when we were very young, she glowed with humor and energy and wonder and beauty in everything she did, and the way that all came together at Christmas time. As I sit writing this, a few days before Christmas 2016, my 60th Christmas, it’s natural to look back upon other Christmases: childhood Christmases, falling-in-love Christmases, new-parent Christmases, teenage Christmases, grandparent Christmases, lonely Christmases…Christmases filled with family and friends—all of them precious in some way.

This year Mike and I will be in California and then Arizona visiting our kids and grandkids. We are so excited to be going together this Christmas, though our visits will be shorter than we’d like! (I have plans in the works for springtime…)

Every Christmas, since my first in 1956, when I was a six-month-old infant with a beautiful and entrancing mother—yes, Rachel, not to mention a kind and loving father, and a brother who loved me so much he called me “his present”—every December since, whether happy and relatively carefree, or saddened as I was while enduring hard times and loss, has left a lasting impact on my view of life. A Christmas card kind of view, Rachel Style.

The card is part Norman Rockwell, all homey and twinkly and smelling like home-baked Swedish spritz and candied oranges, but there’s a liberal dose of boozy smoke haze wafting over the rooftops and a neon tavern light or two blinking on and off in the distance just like Rudolf’s shiny nose.    christmas-decor-2013-017

The house on Sheridan Road had a fireplace the length of the entire living room. One memorable Christmas Eve, Billy and I were sitting on the rug in front of the fire, drinking cocoa and talking excitedly about Santa already being on his way to Wisconsin from the North Pole.

“That sucker is going get a big surprise when he drops down the chimney into that fire,” Mom said, taking a long sip of egg nog.

“Don’t scare the kids, Rachel.” Dad’s voice was always mild, and he assured us that the fire, which was blazing in a newly menacing way, would be out long before Santa and the reindeer arrived. Dad was an excellent camper and he knew how to put a fire out.img_1149

We knew Mom was just making “a funny” about Santa. Mom loved Santa. We knew that. After all, she’d taken us to Dickleman’s Toy Store to meet him, spent hours helping us prepare his favorite cookies, and, other than this one slip, she spoke of him in glowing terms, as if he were probably almost as magic as she was.

“He knows everything, and he loves you both more than anything in the world,” Mom had said, which pretty much made Santa her chubby, white-bearded twin or something, because that description fit her like my Barbie’s velvet gloves fit her tiny stiff hands, easy to put on, easy to take off. Magic.

Of course, Billy explained, Mom didn’t really want Santa to burn up in our fireplace. Still, it was unsettling. Later, she tucked us both in bed, nuzzled us, told us stories about Santa’s big night, and about the times she’d glimpsed him in the past. She’d once caught him bringing Rudolf right in on her clean carpet, she said, and another time Santa was rolling around on the floor playing with our dog, Duchess.

“Duchess loves Santa.” She patted Duchess, who was on the bed with us. “Don’t you, girl?”

Duchess wagged her tail and stretched. Billy and I drifted off to sleep. In the morning, there were presents under the tree and Santa’s cookies were gone.

Mom and Dad looked happy.christmas-decor-2013-013

Magic.

Billy caught the magic too, and no one else I’ve ever known has come so close to capturing Rachel’s spirit, style, grace, or humor.

“He’s a lot like me,” Mom often said, and she was absolutely right.

Billy didn’t just love people, he became their most loving and loyal supporter—celebrating with them and letting them take what they would, whether his love, money, home, possessions, or heart. For many years, on the day he cut down his Christmas tree, Billy jumped (I’m quite sure, naked), into a freezing stream in the High Sierras of Northern California. That night, wearing warm jammies and cozy socks, with the tree lit and decorated, and the fireplace burning, he would pile up loads of pillows and sleep underneath his tree. It was part of his magic, I guess.

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So many memories. There are a lot more, but it’s getting late. Anyway, I know you have your own Christmas memories, your own pictures of the people who shaped your view of this truly magical time of year.

May you be at peace, in your heart and in your life. May you recognize the true gifts and hold them dear. And may you be blessed with abundant and unconditional love.

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Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year to All!

 

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Filed under Christmas, Holiday, Holidays, Memories, Mom, Santa, Uncategorized

“Reading with Ghosts” Some thoughts on a post by Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess: “Sometimes tattered and worn = loved” August 9, 2016

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Like Jenny, I love used books, books that have a history of relationship with other readers that I can see and hold in my hands. The cover doesn’t need to be in great shape. There should be a name written in long hand somewhere within the first pages. Notes written in the margins. Words, phrases, paragraphs underlined. Exclamation marks, hearts, question marks in the margins. Old shopping lists stuck between the pages. Dedications to lovers, children, grandchildren, friends on the title page. This book reminds me of how very much I love being your mom.

Despite my librarian grandmother, my own library training and teacher training, and my years working in libraries and public schools, I’ve always been much more of a book sharer than a book protector. This doesn’t mean I condone random doodling, especially not of the tasteless variety, or nasty vulgarisms of any sort in any book (and I’ve seen plenty of those, believe me). And I am not advocating writing in any book that you do not own—please, respect all library books, and school texts! But I do appreciate a pithy comment that pertains to the content. I love knowing that I am sharing the experience of reading a particular piece with someone who found something striking enough to comment on right then and there, in the moment.Paris, 2013 154

Jenny Lawson says, “…reading those found books is like reading with ghosts, ones who eagerly point out their favorite passages or share their thoughts or questions in the margins.”

Books that I can remember writing in that are sitting around my house right now include:

Jane Eyre, A Prayer for Owen Meany, The Catcher in the Rye (probably my first!), The Diary of Anne Frank, Man’s Search for Meaning, Teacher Man, Rebecca, Atonement, Prodigal Summer, The Glass Castle, Learning to Walk in the Dark, and lots of poems—“The Raven” comes to mind along with some of Shakespeare’s sonnets. And memorably, the teacher edition of a literature anthology I used in my classroom for many years (not sure if this qualifies as defacing a public school text, but it did raise a few eyebrows during department meetings).

Funny story there. I was told, “That’s not your book! You can’t write in that!” back in 1998 by a wonderful teacher I respected and admired. Even so, I continued to write in the book. I planned on outlasting the book adoption cycle, and I wanted to remember what worked, what went flat, what insights, funny or touching, or what “light bulb” moments were expressed by my kids. When I retired in 2014 a young English teacher retrieved the same teacher anthology from the school library that I had written notes in for years. There hadn’t been a new book adoption in all of those years because the budget was just too tight for the district to purchase a new anthology. This new teacher wrote me a letter. “What a treasure!” she said. “Thank you for writing all of that down.”

A reader after my own heart. A teacher after my own heart. I hope she never forgets to write in the margins.Paris, 2013 108

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Filed under Books, Commentary, HIstorical Fiction, Humor, Jenny Lawson's Blog, Literary Fiction, Teacher, Used Books, Writing, Writing Advice

Random Sammys

Sammy was a truck driver stuck in my husband’s place of work, a truck fixing place—what’s that called anyway—a really big garage I guess. Anyway, it was Christmas Eve and Sammy was supposed to be home with his wife and children in Georgia, but instead he was stranded in Wisconsin in a cold garage. He was leaning against the service counter with his head down when I arrived to pick up my husband from work. I’d brought our two dogs into the shop as a special Christmas treat for everyone. Merry Christmas, Guys! Time to get home and celebrate. Atticus, the schnauzer, promptly lifted his leg on one of Sammy’s tires, unleashing a steamy stream of urine that left an impressive puddle. It was kind of fitting really because Sammy’s truck wasn’t going anywhere for some time. I guess it was super broken. It had let him down, and on the most important night of the year. Atticus must have sensed that.

 

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Atticus likes to hide in bed, too!

I’d been feeling pretty blue, but had been trying to hide it in public for quite a while by then. I found it difficult to get out of bed in the morning and impossible to stay away from that same bed with its heating pad and two willing dog companions as each gray day unfolded. I mean, it was Christmas and I was going to be with none of my kids or grandkids, not for months. Granted, I had just gone to visit them the month before, but I already deeply missed them and I’d never been away from the little ones, who really aren’t that little anymore, on Christmas. And I was living in a state I loved but that was 2,000 miles away from the state where I’d built a life for thirty-eight years.

I was missing all kinds of things and people I had loved and many that I had taken for granted. I still planned on making a big Christmas dinner, but it would only be a dinner for three: my husband, his father, and me. And it had rained for weeks in a state that should have been a winter wonderland by then. My roof leaked. The yard was a mud hole. The holding tank had filled up just that very morning, setting off an alarm almost as offensive as the smell in the mud hole yard, and nobody likes to call Pat’s Crap Pumping Service on Christmas Eve. My solar Christmas lights obviously wouldn’t turn on because there’d been no sun forever. My pink fudge didn’t set. I wasn’t writing. What was there to get up for?

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I took this picture at the Kenosha Museum, but it represents my dilemma quite well I think.

 

 

And then came Sammy, and Sammy wanted to get home for Christmas. He hadn’t been able to rent a car with his out-of-state driver’s license. My husband suggested the airport. Could he get a flight? We would drive him. Sammy didn’t know if he could get a flight, but it was his best chance. Soon, Sammy, my husband, Atticus, our other dog, Diesel, and myself were all crowded into my little blue Beetle headed for the airport. It was about a half hour drive going in the opposite direction from the mud hole, making the round trip to pick up my husband something like two hours.

I’m a nervous driver when it comes to driving on freeways or anywhere near a city, but I found myself relaxing as Sammy told his story. He had left Africa at twelve-years-old, alone. He was the only member of his family who was able to emigrate. He lived in a small town in Utah and attended high school there. He loves America. He said that “the father Bush was the president when I came, so I liked him. He let me come to America. I couldn’t understand when Clinton suddenly got the job. How can someone replace the president?”

He said the president in his former country had been in power for twenty-five years and there was nothing anyone could do to change it. His family was afraid when Sammy would visit because Sammy had learned about free speech and they thought he’d get killed for speaking out about how bad things were there. He said, too, that Americans are the nicest, most helpful people in the world. He said that in other countries people won’t even give you directions, much less a ride to the airport. I think Sammy is a little partial to America and that there are lots of nice people everywhere, but it was still nice to hear.

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I love stamps, and writing, and letters…

He teared up when I asked him if his children believed in Santa. I cried, too. My husband was in the back seat with the two dogs, but the car is so small that his face was only a few inches behind us. I glanced back at him and his eyes were bright blue with tears. Suddenly, it was starting to feel like Christmas.

Sammy got a flight and Mike and I headed home. By this time we too hungry to go home and cook the special dinner we’d planned just for the two of us so we began searching for an open restaurant. We stopped at two places that had their lights on and doors open, but they were having private parties and weren’t serving the public. It was Christmas Eve, sorry. So we did the unthinkable and drove through a MacDonald’s. We got cheeseburgers for the dogs, too.

When we arrived home, we waded through the mud and entered the front door. We both remarked on how cozy the little cottage looked. We each poured a glass of wine, his red and mine white, and Mike checked his phone. There was a message from Sammy.

Merry Christmas and Thank You. I’ll talk to you soon. It was a pretty good Christmas. Wishing all of you a good New Year with lots of random Sammys to bless you.

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This may be an old New Year’s hat, but it’s a Goody.

 

 

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Filed under Christmas, Depression, Gratitude, Humor, New Year's

 The Art of Living: The Art of Writing

I’ve been working on my third novel on and off for several years now. It occurred to me just now that I’m back at it after a month or so hiatus with renewed energy and even a sense of urgency. It’s not always that way. I guess if it were I’d have the initial draft completed at the very least. If someone asked me why I hadn’t written much lately, before thinking about it as I am now, I’d have said something about my new jobs, my husband’s emergency surgery, or maybe even the dog days of summer.latesummer2015 050

All of those things, and many more, affect my writing schedule, and perhaps more to the point, my creative energy level. But none of it is really time off as long as I get back to the “art” within a reasonable amount of time.

The jobs will allow me the luxury of buying writing supplies (Am I the only person horrified at the exorbitant cost of ink?) and of getting out of the cottage now and then to experience the living world and its people and cultures in the flesh.

My husband’s surgery gifted me with three weeks of total marital bonding time. It wasn’t that I was nursing him or waiting on him hand and foot as he waited for a diagnosis, underwent surgery, and then recovered, it was that we were together for three weeks straight, pretty much night and day. Like a really romantic vacation except he was in pain and on strong painkilling medications and he needed me to drive him everywhere.

I tried to write while he was in the hospital. I set up a little office in his hospital room (which was nicer than many hotel rooms we’ve stayed in—the towers at St. Luke’s in Milwaukee are fabulous!). But I didn’t write a word.

Part of St. Luke's 8th Floor Serenity Garden

Part of St. Luke’s 8th Floor Serenity Garden

Instead, I often climbed into bed with him, bringing a tray of snacks and the daily stack of funny and loving cards his many friends and family sent to wish him well. As his astute and talented young doctor told him a few days after surgery, my husband “is a beautiful man.”

Back at home I thought I’d write, but I was immersed in training for one of the new jobs, which was all done online. The online aspect temporarily morphed my beloved writing corner, desk, and laptop into a place of commerce rather than creativity. Gone were the stacks of notes and historical and creative writing books usually piled somewhat neatly at hand’s reach, replaced by technical manuals and handbooks. I found that once I finished the technical simulations and study required for the day I was more than happy to leave my little corner.

Then the dog days of summer really hit, and with them a disturbing lack of interest in anything. I am not a lover or heat, humidity, or mosquitos (I think I’ve mentioned the mosquitos before in other posts…); I seem to be biologically unadaptable to any climate where the temperature soars over 65 degrees Fahrenheit.

How Diesel cools down on Dog Days

How Diesel cools down on Dog Days

Cats never look hot.

Cats never look hot.

I simply cannot think or get excited about anything when I sweat.

I buy Off! by the case.

I wear ridiculous scanty clothing. The very thought of stuffing any part of my body into fabric of any kind makes me feel faint. My preferred dog day’s “outfit” is a brown sarong trimmed in red, green, and gold ala Bob Marley that I picked up in Kauai six years ago on an anniversary trip.

It’s not even a ladies’ sarong, for goodness sakes; the beautiful Hawaiian girl who sold it to me tried to talk me out of it. You would look so pretty in this blue one, or the pink one, she said. It would have been a perfect size for Israel IZ Kamakawiwo’ole (another beautiful man). But the fabric is so light and the large size makes it so loose. I said, I’ll take it.

There were other things that happened this past month other than my husband’s health crisis, my new work, and the heat that stalled the progress of my work in progress—things on my heart and mind that I’m keeping close. These things will eventually, somehow find expression and maybe even relief as part of my fiction.

The events of the past month, I find, didn’t really get in the way of my “art” at all. One of the wonderful things about writing is its permanence. The writer never stops writing, not really. Every experience, every sensation, adds another scene or scrap of a scene to be processed by the imagination and filtered through the writer’s soul. I’m writing again, and in that I find great peace.

IMG_0764Mahalo.

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