Cynthia Harrison's Blog, page 38

Reborn on the Bayou

It feels like home on the Florida bayou where my dad lives these days. I consider never leaving and the temptation is strong. My family has a long history in the south. My great-grandmother, known in the family as “Mama Q” was born in Georgia and lived much of her life in Leesburg, close to Orlando, before there was such a thing as Walt Disney World. She was almost 100 when she passed.

When her daughter, my grandmother, rejoined Mama Q back in their southern world, it was a blow to me, still a young girl who loved my grandmother more than any other single person in the world, probably because she loved me that much, too. She was a large woman, big-boned and tall, with endless energy and an abundance of affection freely given. She bore eight children. My dad was the oldest, as I was his oldest child.

Born and raised in Michigan, I had no idea people like Mama Q, my grandmother, even my dad (who is kindness personified) were alive in the world. Maybe it’s a southern thing, that loving kindness. You’re born with it, or you’re not.  My father’s family are demonstrative, they bestow hugs liberally. They are warm people and have inherited genes from a warm climate.

My mother’s family of reserved easterners loved me, of course, but their love was dignified and quiet, and I came to understand and appreciate that kind of affection, too, in time. It might not have the fierce physicality of my Grandma Hines’s hugs and kisses and smiling eyes, but as Grandma Hines passed early from this world, my mother’s mother became the woman I most connected to, the person who made me feel safe and beloved. It was through her example that I learned to fit my love to Detroit proportions. Most of the time, I succeed.

As a young girl, when I was not visiting Grandma Hines and Mama Q, we wrote letters, the kind with ink and paper. I still see in my minds’ eye the loping handwriting of Grandma Hines and her rendering of days spent picking oranges and grapefruit straight from the orchards, passing the time with Mama Q and her brother Charles Henry, helping Aunt Linda keep an eye on the little ones. My Aunt Linda had a glorious adventure of a life, running away to join the circus, marrying and divorcing the dashing Richard, then contentedly settling down in the place where family roots grew deep.

I have always wanted that. I searched for it my entire life, tried hard to fashion a sweet southern family in the chilly, reserved north.

Grandma died too young, maybe younger than I am today. I was a teenager and remember almost breaking my brain trying to think of a way to keep her here on earth, with me. Of course, she died anyway, and is buried in Michigan, her adopted home, the place where she raised her many children in a rambling farmhouse in Allen Park. It is no surprise really that in midlife my dad reclaimed a patch of Florida to call his own.

Although my mother tried, she never could acclimate to the Floridian heat. Mom’s family, as far back in the States as we can tell, came from Buffalo, New York. Mom has a snow belt constitution; she loves the snow and cold weather, something Dad and I don’t really understand.

My parents did the dance of two homes in two states, with Dad traveling December 26 to Florida and coming up to Michigan some months later…and later…and then hardly at all after Mom tried to move down with him for good. That didn’t last. She could not tough out the Florida summers and she’s back in her beloved downriver, which is what we call the towns south of the city. Meanwhile, here I am, stuck in Detroit, trying to stay warm, trying to make an annual February visit to Florida last an entire endless Michigan winter.

I’m writing from Florida now, where so many of my friends have migrated and where my dad continues to flourish. Every year I want to stay. Every year I realize that home, despite the places in the world that loudly call my name: California, Seattle, Sedona, Oregon, England, Greece, Delos, Athens, Egypt, Florida…home is wherever my heart needs to be, and right now, the central location of both heart and home is icy, glittery, Detroit.

Tomorrow, after two weeks of sumptuous sunshine and sandy beaches, I will pack up my bags and return to my place north of the city that may have a bad rep but is more like a big affectionate cat than a fierce tiger or lion. My home here in the far north reminds me of an igloo, the house surrounded by a few feet of hard-packed snow, though it’s mere weeks until spring.

What I have to do, what keeps me going through the cold, the ice, the snow on the daffodils every single spring, is remember how my southern grandmother, until she was able to return forever to her beloved Florida, kept her sunny sweetness and abiding love through many a Michigan winter. The memory warms me still.

Tagged: family, florida, Michigan, Winter

Sleuthfest!

Final day of conference, and I won’t be taking part in any of the “fun” today. It’s been great, really, I’ve chaired a conference, much smaller than this shindig, and the work these folks put into this thing is amazing. Truly. They had unforeseen misadventures, but carried on with aplomb. The worst had to be when their Big Name Author was a no-show for his keynote. Never mind, they grabbed James Hall to pinch hit and he did a great job. Never heard of the guy before but he made everyone in that room forget there was another whats-his-name they were disappointed not to see.

This brought home a lesson I’ve taken from other conferences: if you’re doing a big talk, like a keynote for the entire group, make it funny. I knew this from teaching, although this audience, on the whole, has a bigger attention span than your average college freshman. So Hall was funny and intelligent and I bet he sold a lot of books. Not to mention his generously leaping into the gap created by James Patterson, whose name had been plastered in large letters on everything from the conference.

At the time, we weren’t offered an explanation of why Patternson didn’t make it, and since I skipped the cocktail party later, (another problem for conference organizers–cocktail smooze with agents and editors was supposed to be poolside, but it rained and so had to be moved inside) I didn’t get the scoop. Bet my buddy Jan knows. She’s going into the “Pitch Tank” today where we have the opportunity to pitch to all agents and editors–also whoever else is pitching. Then we sit down, nobody says anything, and we wait for the end, when, if an agent or editor is interested in you, they will come over. No thanks! I can still query every one of these folks, I’ve talked to them at lunch, sat in on their panels, and had an editor appointment that yielded a half dozen names of very good agents. I know most of them by reputation.

I asked for an agent appointment, but got a very nice editor from Henry Holt, Michael Signorelli. That took the pressure off immediately as I knew Henry Holt is not the right publisher for my book, and they don’t acquire directly from authors but through literary agents. So I just reeled off my three sentence pitch and had a conversation. Michael said St. Martin would be ideal for me–and he gave me a name of an editor there. And that’s the gist of everything I gleaned here: go for New York. No longer are small press or indie authors scorned, in fact they are being courted. If you have good sales figures, all the better.

One of the questions I asked Michael was if I have a publisher, should I still seek an agent, and he said absolutely. I know I need an agent. It’s one of the reasons I came here. I’m not great at the business end of writing, and an agent can be an advocate for me there. Another speaker said if you’re not great at promoting your work, hire a publicist. He said they are expensive but worth it. I got names. Because like anybody there are good publicists and bad ones. I’m seriously considering hiring a publicist, something that wasn’t on my radar before I came down here.

I suppose Jan is in the pitch tank now; it’s about that time. Me? I’m packing up and heading over to the other side of the state. But this conference, out of the dozens I’ve been to through the years, was really worth it. I decided that yes, I’m going to switch to mystery: psychological thrillers to be exact. And I’ve got a stack of research books to help me craft my next book while I search for an agent and wait for the verdict on that first mystery, sitting on my editor’s desk.

Tagged: mystery writing, sleuthfest, writing conference

Down With Love

Not really. It’s just…I’ve spent my writing career trying to hone my romance skills. I’ve had a lot of help from editors along the way. I know how to do it, It’s just…I don’t want to do it. Or, when I’m using the part of my mind that makes stories, it’s using me, and it’s taking me off course into unchartered water. My mind likes to play. It likes to explore. It likes to try new things. It likes a mess of character named Lily.

I’ve started my third book with Lily as a character and this time she gets top billing. In fact, I don’t think I’ll use any other point of view but hers. After a book with four POVs, this is a challenge and also exciting. Although it’s too soon to tell if some other person might just insert themselves into the story and demand a voice. I’m pretty sure Lily will not have a romantic interest, although that is also too soon to tell.

As I jot my way through the first draft on a sort of working vacation, Lily’s solving a murder she stumbles on in the course of her private investigations into the affairs of married people. Spouses who suspect their other half of cheating hire her to get it on film. She does it because she’s building her business and right now that’s the work she’s being offered.

She doesn’t have time for love. And that makes me feel a bit unmoored. I’ve had a love story in every book I’ve written. This is the tenth, at least the published tenth. Or I hope it will be. I’m not sure I can cut it as a mystery writer with no love story stuck in there. One reason is because in my real life, love is huge. I don’t know how people get along without it. Of course I don’t know how to solve a murder either, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to figure it out.

There’s something about raising the bar of what I can do on the page that excites me. I did that, now can I do this? I’ve actually got a lot of plans that involve my writing life. One is the part about going out into the world and signing books at events around town. I don’t do much of that, but I’m going to start. The other is finding a new agent. Maybe. Then there’s Sleuthfest, the big mystery conference in Miami, where I’m heading today.

Learning new things has always turned me on. Plotting the perfect murder. Diagramming a mystery worth the read. Letting Lily be who she is, a young woman intent on finding herself before she even thinks about finding love. And then there’s the whole thing about presenting myself and my work to the public in ways I have not tried before. But that’s an entirely different set of skills. I’m not into teaching workshops. I just retired from teaching and need to give that a rest. But I can hold events that are a little bit different, outside the normal way of things.

This is where my Mac classes come in. The geniuses at Apple have promised to help me learn to make movie trailers. That will be my signature signing event. Showing the trailers, chatting informally about writing. Letting people ask questions. People love to ask questions and I like a dialogue.

I’ve got a steady old love in my life, and he’s great. But what really excites me these days is learning new tricks. Love, well, that’s just old hat.

Tagged: mystery, promotion, romance

Rules of Travel

First, there must be music. Roseanne Cash on the iPod! That’s her in the photo above and also today’s title is hers. I read an article on plagiarism in Vanity Fair this month that scared the crap out of me so I am giving credit for every damn thing I say these days. There’s another rule for you: always give attribution. Even if you’re only using three words and a photo. Even if it’s a chord progression or a melody, respect, and sometimes royalties, must be paid. Just ask Tom Petty! Also on iPod.

Travel companions optional, but if you bring someone along, make sure they have a healthy sense of humor. This world of ours is truly a theater of the absurd. Be prepared to get lost in Brussels and stoned in Amsterdam. Take coins for the toilet at European train stations. Yes, it’s pay to pee! Also, don’t assume the London double-decker you hop on at your hotel will circle back. It won’t. You’ll end up in Peckham. In France, or anywhere for that matter, do not leave your passport with your travel companion in a long ticket line at the airport while you hunt down a loo. When you return there will be no line, no companion, and no passport. You are stuck in Paris forever. So sad!

Road Trips Mean More Shoes!

Carry cash and credit. In my case, all the above really happened and all turned out fine in the end, in every instance, including the one where we tried to pay for dinner with a credit card in a charming outdoor cafe we found while wandering the winding streets of Amsterdam. We had no idea where we were, dusk was coming on, and the cafe was closing in thirty minutes. Our waiter waved away our concerns despite a hefty bill that included much wine, a few appetizers and a lovely meal. I’m sure dessert was involved as well. “You’ll be back,” he said. And somehow we found our hotel, grabbed some cash, and got back just as he was sweeping up. The steel grill was halfway down and the chairs were all upended on the tables. Broom in hand, he beamed as if he’d been certain we’d return.

Plan carefully but remain flexible. So many unexpected things happen on vacation, no matter best laid plans. A flood in a tent in Pennsylvania where we (the kids were still small, thus “the camping years.”) watched the lightening illuminate the tent and the time the tent zipper broke and thousands of mosquitos invaded our sleeping space or when one of the boys broke out in chicken pox the first night on the way to Graceland. We packed up and headed home each of those times, but got all the way to Memphis the next year. And when the kids were grown and gone, Al and I went back and did Beale Street right. We were passing through and it happened to be his birthday that night. Flexible=fun.

Optional New Bathing Suit. Cover up at my age: Essential!

Make reservations but also make room. I’m a planner, Al not so much. What I’ve learned to do is keep some time free in any trip for spontaneous detours. This came in handy when we landed in the U.K. only to be told that there had been an outbreak of foot and mouth and the countryside wander we’d planned would not be happening. It was London or nothing. No Shakespeare’s birthplace. No Stonehenge. So we took the Chunnel to Paris, which was not part of our original plan at all, but turned out to be my favorite part.  Of course now we must go back to England, but that’s fine. There’s much more of Europe to see, and now that most places have the Euro, I won’t confuse Belgian francs with French ones and upset my cab driver.

I once bought all new cosmetics as I’d accidentally forgotten mine at home. Not this time! I mean, I bought some new make- up, but only because I needed a good shampoo for the new hair color. Blonde!  

Relax. I say this as a short person who has enough leg room in her economy airplane seat. I say this as someone who has road tripped through Topanga Canyon and motored the curves of Molholland Drive. Also the road to Hana. These types of journeys take nerves of steel. Or emergency vodka, but only if you are not the driver! My nerves are never good in automobiles at high elevations or in airplanes experiencing turbulence. On the plane, ask for an extra mini-bottle from the drinks cart and save it for turbulence because when you really need the emergency vodka, they’re not serving.

I hope to post here a few times in the next few weeks, while vacationing (and meeting an agent!) in “Michigan South” as we call Florida. Yes, my mate and I are following those sunbirds to sandy beaches. Mixing it up, we will be staying on both coasts this time. We’ll watch the sun rise over the Atlantic and see gorgeous sunsets on the Gulf of Mexico.

One final piece of advice: if you’re a traveler (not everybody is) and you’re contemplating a companion, make that person someone who also likes to get out of town. It will keep things interesting. Amusing, even.

Bon Voyage my Snowy State

Tagged: adventure, humor, travel

Airplanes & Midnight Trains

My first airplane flight happened due to an emergency. I was hitchhiking for what was supposed to be a short visit home to Detroit from Key West and a drunk guy picked up me and my friend. We didn’t know he was drunk. We were 19, it was raining, we were cold and tired and she’d made me leave most of our money with our roommate for rent, so we were also almost broke. Guy slammed into a slope on the freeway, crashed and rolled the truck, at night. We flew and tumbled maybe three times, over the side of the incline. There were no seat belts in those days so I landed outside the broken window, somewhere on that hill. So did my friend. The guy driving was not so lucky. While we were without a scratch and merely scared shitless, he was pinned under the truck. Alive but moaning in pain.

People stopped. Lots of people. Someone had a chain. They hooked it to their car and got our drunk driver out from under before the ambulance arrived. We were taken to a hospital, but as we were clearly unhurt, let go into the Miami night. Except we had no money for a hotel, we were shattered, and as we sat in a cafe eating eggs, I said “I’ll call my mom.”

We seemed out of other options, and Mom arranged everything: got my Florida aunt to pick us up and drive us to the airport (I never willingly hitchhiked again) where Mom had tickets waiting for us on a red eye out of Miami. I’m going back to Miami next week and I expect it will have changed as much as Key West when I revisited it a few years back. But in 1974, my airplane seat was roomy and there were maybe a dozen other passengers. It was dark on that night flight, the lights low, a row of tiny pinpoints to guide me down the aisle, in case I needed to use the bathroom. The stewardess was very kind. She gave me my first ever packet of smoked almonds. They were exotically delicious. She gave me a Coke and headphones.

I listened to “Midnight Train to Georgia” and the lush voice of Gladys Knight evoked a sort of guideline I never realized I would blindly follow for too many years. Gladys sang “I’d rather live in his world, than live without him in mine.” The sentiment filled my soul. Made me feel safe, like that midnight plane and that kind stewardess. I don’t believe in it anymore, but for a long time, that’s the way I lived my life. I lived in HIS world, whoever HE happened to be.

I didn’t get very far from home living in HIS world until my babies grew up and moved far away. Then I started traveling more often on midnight planes. They’ve changed too, since that first flight in 1974, but then that’s not really news. Absolutely everything changes, including my mind. It took a few exotic vacations with my third husband before my old wanderlust reasserted itself. He took me to Hawaii, Europe, even a second trip to Key West. We went where he wanted to go. Until I started to not be afraid of hills or drunk drivers or car crashes or venturing too far from home. All alone, I travelled to New York, to Dallas, to Los Angeles, to Seattle.

I enjoy solo travel, almost prefer it. But if Al wants to come along, and he has wanted to meet both grandchildren when they were new, so that’s two trips out west with me (one slated for this May) and there were more, before the lure of grandchildren. We like road trips too, so a few times we flew into L.A. drove up the PCH and flew home from Seattle. Not sure I would have made so many trips out west had my sons not been out there. I miss them, but I’m also happy for them. Hadn’t I tried to escape Detroit myself once for a sweeter climate?

Recently I asked myself the question: what will I regret on my deathbed? I won’t regret all those travels to see my father in Florida, or my kids in their various locations away from here through the years. I won’t regret that they got out and I stayed. (I don’t plan to stay forever. Winter feels more brutal every year.) What I will regret is not seeing Delos, a tiny uninhabited untoursity Greek island. I want to go many places but next year, I am packing my bags for Greece.

My husband may or may not come with me. When I first brought it up he was all for it. We were at a delicate time in our relationship and I think he would have agreed to anything. Just like he was all for the two week road trip we’re taking next week to Miami and then the Gulf coast. Whether he came with me or not didn’t enter into my plans when made them last summer. I said “I’m going. You want to come?” And he said yes. But the other day he was making noises about Greece that sounded like he might back out of that trip. He tried to entice me with Seattle on the way to Alaska. But I just got back from Seattle a week ago. We’re going to California in May. And the grandkids are visiting us here this summer.

Greece, that’s my choice. It’s all for me. Must be that the fate of the wanderer is to follow where her heart leads. I’m not sure why I signed up for that conference in Miami next week and I don’t know why I need to go to Delos. I just know my heart is leading me to a tiny uninhabited island where atop a mountain sits an ancient ruin to the the moon goddess Cynthia. Maybe there I will be able to put that long ago hillside crash out of my head, the one that led me to always follow a man’s plans, to too often live in his world instead of one I made for myself.

Six Signs Your Manuscript is Complete

There comes a time in every writers’ life when she has to decide to let go of the book she’ s been writing. It can be ten years or two months, depending on the writer, but for me the entire process of concept to submission takes a year or two.

Sign #1 You’ve been steadily working on the book for a year or more.

The book I currently want with every fiber of my being to let go started in the summer of 2013. Eighteen months ago. It’s a novella, less than 45K, and it should not have taken that long, but life intervened. And sometimes life gets more real than others. More intense, more distracting. But I gotta say, what with all the drama, on and off the page, I have a strong feeling that not only do I want to let this book go, I need to do so in order to move on with my writing AND my real life.

Sign #2 Time to let it go.

So there I was, in the middle of my second Blue Lake novel, thinking I had found my third. Or rather it had dropped from the sky into my head. I tucked the idea away and let it brew. This is part of the process for me. I’ve published seven novels and a few patterns have emerged. One pattern I no longer fight is that I will get the idea for my next book about halfway through the one I am currently working on. Everybody knows the second half of the book goes more quickly that the first half, so bingo, time to move.

Sign #3 You have a new idea.

Some people think I’m lucky. They’re always asking me “how do you get your ideas?” Seriously folks, ideas are everywhere. It’s all about what a writer does with her idea. My idea was not original. I knew that. But what I also know is that the writer’s job is to take a common theme and make it her own. That’s a huge part of the work of writing. It might be everything. But for me, it’s fun work. It’s a pleasure to try new things, to say yes.

Sign #4 You have made an idea your own.

Another thing I have learned about this book release process is that you can’t rush it. It’s stubborn. It will have its own way. Stephen King gives this revision advice: once you’ve finished your first draft, read it straight through without marking up the mistakes. I’ve never been able to follow Steve’s advice, not exactly, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. And that’s how I revise. I keep reading draft after draft until I don’t feel compelled to pick up my pen and fix it anymore.

It’s different for every writer, but for me, the first draft is the most fun. It goes quickly. I’m never at a loss for what to write. That’s because I follow the first draft process I learned from Jennifer Crusie many years ago: don’t look down. Just write whatever and get the story to the end. Don’t judge yourself, don’t revise, don’t do anything but pile up pages. So, I can do that. I’m not worried about it. I write with glee and great pleasure.

I also write in longhand, the sweetest part of the process for me. Sara Lewis taught me to allow myself this decadent indulgence. I cannot do without the longhand dreamy draft now, which means I have to type the pages out later. And in that typing, the pages will get their first revision. (Another treasured Sara tidbit.) Then I read the last days’  pages and revise again because I have a critique group and I really don’t want them to see the first draft. So, after critique group offers suggestions, I am on my third revision, fourth draft.

Sign #5 You have outside feedback that encourages you to continue.

I try to read the next draft after critique straight through but I can’t, so I fix it and put it away for a week or two. Then I try to read the sixth draft straight through but I can’t, so I fix it and hope it’s done. Stories can go stale on a writer if you groom them too much. Here’s how I know when to stop revising: I have a draft I can almost read through, with just one more day’s work.

That happened yesterday.  I read draft five almost straight through. I have a handful of changes to make. A dozen or so pages and the fixes are all minor. The read wasn’t as good as I’d hoped (they never are) nor as bad as I’d feared. This book turned into something different than a simple reunion romance, so I’m trying to let that freshness be, not fuss with it too much. It’s a little scary to let go, but I have a process for that, too.

Sign #6 You have edited, revised, and repeated the process until you are satisfied.

Now let go. But, how? What if you’re wrong to be smugly satisfied? What if the book is not ready, or it’s awful, you’ve over-reached, your talent isn’t up to it, you’ve blown it big time?

David Hawkins advocates a process of releasing that goes like this: Embrace all positive feelings and surrender all negativity. Look at the thing, feel the feeling, and if it’s not serving you, acknowledge that, and Let It Go. Most of not wanting to relinquish this  manuscript is based on fear, a negative.

I feel good when I think about letting this manuscript go. Also, I live in Michigan where we currently have a couple feet of snow on the ground and temps well below zero. Which brings me to the second best reason I want to relinquish this book for now. In a week or so I’m off to sunnier climes for a bit or rest and relaxation. Before I leave, I want that manuscript off my desk and in my editor’s hands. Also, best reason of all: that next book is knocking. Loud.

Tagged: David Hawkins, Jennifer Crusie, sara lewis, Stephen King

For Love

As the big day for romance approaches I am filled with love. It has been said that we are only able to fully love when we acknowledge that the world is a terrible place. It is. And yet…we have chemistry on our side. Oxytocin, the so-called cuddle chemical (L. Phillips) fills me as I write this from my firelit room in freezing Michigan, far away from the sunny little one who caused this physical reaction.

This is Owen. No matter the distance, my love for him persists.

I’m a fortunate person. All my life I have had one goal: to be a good wife and mother. And while I have not always met my own expectations, in fact, have often failed, I am grateful to have lived to see both my children grown and beloved and happy. Recently, I have also found my own hard-won happiness. For the first time in my life, I am putting myself first. I love my family. Visiting my son, his wife, and my grandson makes that love feel very immediate. So I have many reasons to feel fortunate, although they all come down to one thing: love.

A friend gave me the picture frame above. Family is Everything. Is that true? Certainly I’ve lived my life as if it were. But what about friendship? I really love my friends. And I feel such compassion for all the lonely people without family or a beloved or a best friend. Because their circumstances leave them without close connections, are they nothing? Do they deserve nothing? I think they deserve everything. Love is everything and everyone deserves it. Unless they, you know, rape and pillage and so forth. Those people, I don’t know. They probably never got enough love. Or they were born defective, without empathy, which is the definition of a psychopath.

I don’t really like to talk about my family and psychopaths in the same post. It’s an unfortunate and uncomfortable truth: the world can be such a sad, bad place but also full of joy and wonder.

This weekend we have official permission to dwell on love. I measure life a success if you have happiness and love. The two seem to me to be twins, mirroring each other, shining like glitter on fresh snow. But ah, there’s the catch: snow is cold and icy and so too is a life without love, or a life that is lived loving someone who will never return your feelings.

Unrequited love is much on my mind as we come to Cupid’s special day. I think of all the sad lovers, the unhappy lovers, the unrequited lovers in the world. For so many people, this weekend is going to be full of tears. I have been in that place. Is there anyone who has not?

If you came to this page because you’re alone on a day when it hurts more than usual, I can tell you again: love yourself first. Love can transform itself. You can love someone without them returning that love and it is still good to feel that love inside yourself. Turn it around and give it to yourself. It feels a little weird at first but it works, I swear it does.

You can be alone with a box of chocolates and love yourself, not by eating the box empty, but by feeling that love you have for another as a good thing. Let it expand and fall back upon your own self. Love is why we are here: to love ourselves well and to love others. Feel love, send love, speak love. Even if you are sad and alone and have the flu. I in fact have the flu at this moment and perhaps that is why this post seems a little effusive. The DayQuil made me do it!

Love yourself well. Take rest and allow your heart to heal if it is broken or bruised or heavy.

Like attracts like and if you let love reside without prejudice, it will return to you. You will be loved. Love is not what you think it is. It is not always hearts and flowers and that sweet rush of pure junkie joy that comes from the new. We get addicted to the high of new love like we get addicted to chocolate and grandchildren. After my time with Owen, I wanted someone to make me a perfume that smelled like him: milk and baby lotion and that special Owen-ness.

Sometimes love can be quiet and strong and giving. Give love freely even when it flies right out the window, right past the heart you aim it at. Love anyway. If you are broken, let love heal your heart. And if you have the flu, take two NyQuil and call me in the morning.

♥

Tagged: happiness, loneliness, love, unrequited love

The Writing Room is Dark

Finished the book and am taking a blog break to visit my sweet grandson and his parents. And Laura Zera:) Be back soonish. Maybe snow will melt by then.

Tagged: babies, breaks, vacation

Rose Colored Glasses

Heather Von St. James and I have both been accused of wearing rose-colored glasses. We are both optimists; others might call us fools. I think being fools might have saved our lives.

Ten years ago, I got an unexpected and distressing diagnosis: Barrett’s Esophagus, a pre-cancer condition caused by stomach acid eating away the lining of the esophagus. It is irreversible. Once you’ve got it, you can’t get rid of it. You can only slow the process of the cancer by diet and medication. I saw my doctor yearly for checks how the cells were behaving. Barrett’s is not an automatic death sentence, but I’d already had a friend die of cancer that originated in her esophagus, and I was scared. I didn’t dwell on it, though. I put on my rose-colored glasses, cleaned up my diet, and took my meds.

I usually only let myself dwell on the condition just before and after my yearly check up. If I told anyone about it, I got all twisted up in the telling, because there were other complications that made things worse, so I pretty much kept quiet about it, and kept those rose-colored glasses on. Three years in, I came out of the operating room and my doctor said “It’s gone.” I wasn’t sure I heard him right because I’m put under general anesthesia for the procedure, and when I come out of it, I’m stoned and miss a lot of information. My husband, Al, is always with me, so I looked at him. He was smiling.

“Gone? But I thought…”

“I know,” the doctor said “but it’s gone.”

Wave after wave of relief washed me clean of fear. This was a miracle. But it is nothing compared to the miracle Heather has experienced. Heather had just given birth to a baby girl, Lily, when she was diagnosed with mesothelioma, which is the cancer caused by asbestoes. Heather was really young to have this type of cancer, but her dad worked construction and she liked to wear his work coat, which was covered with the dust from his job. People with mesothelioma don’t usually live very long. Heather was given 15 months. But she refused to give up hope. She had a lung removed and to lighten the situation, her sister named Heather’s surgery date “Lung Leaving’ Day.” 

The original Lung Leaving’ Day was nine years ago. Every year since then, Heather and her family celebrate her wellness by writing their fears on plates and smashing them into a fire. Because even women who wear rose-colored glasses have to take them off sometimes. We fear a return of the disease. We wonder when our luck will run out. For Heather, smashing that fear into a fire with all of her loved ones around her is the way she keeps hope for a long and healthy life alive. She says “Don’t take a death sentence as a diagnosis.” Pretty rosy words for someone who’s been through cancer hell. But she’s lived to tell the tale, lived to see Lily grow, lived to start a foundation for research into mesothelioma.

And personally, I think Heather turning this thing around to make it about helping others is pretty awesome. It might be why she’s still here. It’s why tomorrow I’m going to write my own fears on a plate and throw them into a fire. And you can bet I’ll be wearing my rose-colored glasses.

Tagged: cancer, fear, optimism, ritual

The Circle Game

Al soaked Mac in beer last night. He said it was an accident. Not sure what Freud would say. I freaked. At 25 pages from finished with “first love” manuscript and worked all day yesterday producing 40 pages ripped right from my guts.

Also, it’s Mac, so I have automatic backup but I don’t really know how or if it works. I had  not saved “first love” to my external drive. I had not even saved it to a thumb drive. I know but Mac has special things that save for you and I trusted that. Until last night.

I peeled the soaking case off Mac and dried it and tried to figure out, after two martinis, how to save to a thumb drive. I couldn’t. Neither could Al, but then he knows nothing about Mac. I was not going to bring out my external drive and my notes from the last Mac class. Not after those martinis.

Al and I were doing so good, but every day it’s like “we’re good/we’re not” over and over. Round and round and round in the circle game. I never should have left him alone with Mac. I never should have left Mac unprotected on the table with a beer!

Mac was my first purchase in my attempt to become a more whole person, claim a bit of independence and maturity. Al really liked me the old way, where he took care of thing like computers and I stayed in the kitchen and worked on making tofu something he might eat. Sure I wrote, but he was my go-to tech guy. I did not attempt to handle anything myself. Now I am doing it all. So, you know, I was suspicious.

Is Al jealous of Mac? Or maybe he’s in competition with “first love” which takes so much of my time away from perfecting healthy delicious meals and ironing shirt collars.

The entire revised manuscript is freshly printed out, so after a tense half hour I said “If we wake up and beer has seeped into Mac’s inner workings and my book is gone, we will take the print manuscript to a typist, buy a new Mac, and have the typist key the book into an external drive. Then the Mac geniuses will show me how to put it on my new Mac. That is the plan.”

He agreed. For some reason he looked at me like I was crazy as he said “yeah okay.”

So this is my test. Will my machine still post blogs? Will it tweet? Will it print? Will it let me finish my book before I leave for Seattle? I’m starting here. PS that Andy Warhol designed bottle of Absolute made a mean martini. But next time I’m putting Mac safely back in the writing cave BEFORE cocktail time.

Tagged: Beer, Freud, Mac, Martini