Cynthia Harrison's Blog, page 54

Day #2 Holiday Diet

I think I did pretty well yesterday considering I hosted a dinner party. The main dish was Beef Burgundy, so I didn’t partake of that. Just some noodles I served on the side. And salad. And 2 or 3 glasses of wine. Possibly four. I did well on  the appetizers too, only having one mini-quiche and 1 salmon dip cracker. Didn’t care for the dip. That always helps.

But the Ritz crackers Al insists on serving with the dip were pretty good, so I had 4 or 5 of those. Maybe 8. No more than 10. Had leftover pizza for lunch. OK calories not great there but I really dislike throwing away food. Al might have eaten it, but he didn’t get a chance.

Cereal with banana for breakfast. And lots of coffee with fat free vanilla creamer. I think there’s lots of sugar in that. Should read labels more. Oh and then I had a mid-day snack of chips and salsa. Tortilla chips. Whole wheat tortilla chips. Healthy.

I know before I can get serious about this I need to count calories. What bugs me about that is I can only eat 1200 a day to lose a pound a week. A friend of mine eats about 2,000 calories a day and is not overweight. That’s almost double my food! So then the slippery slope of how unfair life is begins. Maybe everyone gets to eat 2000 calories a day. Maybe I am the only person in the world (besides my dad, also a perpetual dieter) who can only have half of what everyone else is chowing on.

Life is not fair! My friend does exercise daily. Not yoga, sigh. Walking and weight lifting. Hello Treadmill you sadist you.

 

Expecting a Miracle

The other day I picked up my special journal, the one I paid $30 for at Papyrus in January 2013. I don’t usually spend that much cash on special journals. They’re kind of a pain to write in; I prefer spiral topped lined notebooks with strong backs. But I was compelled to buy the journal and decided I’d only record special events in it.

I read it the other day and was amazed at all the changes I’ve gone through in 2013 and how random and careless my entries seemed. One factor stood out: I had tried to lose weight, and bemoaned almost every entry that it wasn’t happening. But when I added up all the pounds, I saw that I had lost 15 pounds and kept it off…until Thanksgiving. Now my jeans are tight again and I need to reign myself back in. I rather liked being medium instead of large.

Of course it’s complete folly to go on a diet during the holidays. I am terrible at depriving myself. If there is chocolate, I will eat it. If there is wine, I will drink it. If there are potato chips, well, that’s my preferred trifecta of gluttony. The way I lost the weight was to not have any of these things in my house. Well, I always have wine, but I left it corked. And I took to eating two squares of dark chocolate most days. The taste is so intense I had no urge to binge. As for the chips, I just said no. (Whereas right now I write the word “chips” and want to devour a bag.)

I have been reading books about the brain and impulse control. I know that I need to train myself to say no to certain trigger foods and all will be well with the weight and health. The longer I train myself to say no, the more I succeed. It’s that simple. However…

Yesterday, my complete list of food included every bad thing plus pizza. Not a vegetable passed my lips. Well, the mushrooms on the pizza. But I am determined to do better, no matter how hopeless or inconvenient it seems. Christmas is a time for miracles and I’m asking for one now.

Scenes From Gypsy

10.5

“Sibyl?” I whispered, leaning into her abundant red head of corkscrew curls. The cat, who by now was pacing the bed close to Sibyl’s head, added her meows. Sibyl didn’t answer. The room reeked of something cloyingly sweet. Probably the empty fifth of Southern Comfort on the floor. What did she do, I wondered, channel Janis Joplin? Before I could think my actions through, I grabbed one of her arms and pushed up the loose sleeve of her tunic.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Fair question, but she scared the hell out of me. “Checking for needle marks. Or a pulse.”

“Well, as you see, I’m totally alive,” she reached for an open pack of Marlboro Menthols on the nightstand and lit one. She crinkled her eyes and squinted at me.

“Do I know you?”

“I’m Laurel Berman. We worked together at Vale Enterprises a year or so ago. You got me fired.”

Sibyl blew smoke, checking me out through hooded eyes. “Oh, yeah. So, what are you doing here? Seeking revenge?”

“No, I came to ask you something about Vince. Then I was worried when you didn’t answer your door.”

She pushed her hair from her face and glanced at the clock. It was twenty after five in the afternoon. “Vince can kiss my ass,” she said.

“I’m glad you feel that way. My sister was raped last night. The police believe the attack is another round of reprisals against Roms. This time, instead of burning people out of their homes, they’ve raped a girl.”

She dragged on her cigarette and assessed my features. “You gypsy?” I’ve got dark hair, but hazel eyes. My skin looks tan even in winter. Lots of people in West Port look like me.

“Whoever raped my sister thought she was,” I said, avoiding the question. “And I know Vince owned most of those houses in Little Bohemia, that he planned to fund the Mayville project with the money he collected from the fire insurance, so don’t try to deny it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another. “But I don’t know anything about any rape. And I haven’t talked to Vince since he left town.”

She attempted to get up and then fell back into bed. “So, what, you’re Nancy Drew now?”

We went into her kitchen, and Sibyl put a kettle on the stove. Then she fed the cat. I wondered if she’d been sleeping all day. I looked at my watch. It was inching toward six.“Going somewhere?” She put her hand on her hip, and shot me a look. “And here we were just getting reacquainted.”

“Yeah, I have a thing,” I said, thinking about Nate. First I’d take off his hat…God, I had to drag my mind back to the business at hand. “It was Terrence Vale.”

She startled, whether at the tea kettle’s whistle or my words. She turned off the kettle but didn’t reach in the cupboard for a cup. Instead she sat on a kitchen chair and dropped her head into her hands, raking her fingers through her thick curls, tugging her neck up so that she faced me again.

“Back in the day, I was convinced you were spying on Vince,” she said. “Now you’re accusing his son, so I guess I’m half right. Back then I would have protected them with my life. I was an idiot.” She pulled a cup out of the dishwasher, gesturing if I wanted one. I shook my head no. “He just left. Me. The company, everything except Doris, his wife. One day we were together and the next he was gone, the company closed up tight, doors locked. No warning. No explanation. No severance pay.”

I looked around her tidy little bungalow. If she was a drunk, she sure kept her house clean. She’d had the wall between her living room and kitchen removed, so the sweet cozy home probably built in the 50s seemed more spacious. There were candles on the rough hewn coffee table, lots of fat pillows on the comfy looking sofa, Gothic inspired crosses and paintings on the walls that somehow worked with the contemporary stuff. It made me want to go home and decorate. “Looks like you did okay financially,” I said, admiring a vase of still fresh tulips artfully arranged in a cut crystal bowl in the center of the kitchen table.

“Yeah, I guess,” she said.

I admired her because of the way she took care of herself financially, but I felt sorry for her because she was clearly in less than prime physical shape. Still, I wished I had her business sense, her way with cash. Forget saving for retirement or taking my business to the next level. It was so hard, but I wanted to be a woman who could totally take care of herself. I was pretty sure by now that no man was going to sweep into my life, marry me, and pay half the bills.

“Where are you working now?”  I asked.

Since she looked like she’d been sleeping all day, and it was a Wednesday, I was betting the answer was nowhere.

“Here and there,” she said. “Sort of between things now. Why? What are you doing?”

I didn’t answer her first question, didn’t want to tell her how much I admired, and envied, her lifestyle. Well, minus the Southern Comfort.

“I have my own PR business,” I said, which always sounds better than the reality.

“You hiring?” There was just a hint of begging in her question. I felt sorry for her.

I shook my head. “I can barely pay my own salary,” I found myself admitting, to my regret. She doesn’t need to know my business.

“But that’s so cool—you’ve got your own business. You’re your own boss. No slimy cheating liar telling you what to do, taking his percent of your commissions.” She seemed sincere.

“There’s no trick to it,” I said. “Figure out what you’re good at and then ask people to pay you for doing it.”

“Ha!” she said slamming down the dregs of her tea like it was a shot of tequila. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is,” I said. “All this–” I gestured around her rooms, “this is what’s hard. I really need to get out of my apartment. Buy a house. Start investing in a 401K.”

We looked at each other and everything around us went blank as mutual recognition hit. I could almost hear the click. We weren’t that different, not really. We were like two halves of one really together, completely whole, woman.

“I’ve still got fifty grand in savings,” she said. “If I bought myself into a partnership with you, you’d have money for a house.”

Or at least a down payment, I thought, totally tempted by her offer.

“It sounds good, but I don’t see what’s in it for you.” I checked my watch. Nate would be over in thirty minutes. I needed to go. She was clearly a corporate baby, had no idea how much I had to hustle to find clients. I stood up and hooked my purse over my shoulder, but Sibyl wasn’t finished.

“I have contacts in the business community from San Francisco to Seattle, and I still have my Rolodex. And my files. I’d be a major asset.” Her voice got more confident as she talked. I had to work hard to find a hole in her argument. And the files. Maybe Nate could use them in his quest to put Vale in prison.

“Why not just run your own business?” I asked. “Why do you need me?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

I didn’t say anything, so she went on. “I wouldn’t know where to start! I’ve been trying, believe me. I need direction, something to grab onto. I need, like, a sober coach. Someone to get upset if I’m not at work on time. We could try it, and if things don’t work out, say in three months, we go our separate ways. You with your house and 401K and me with a major clue about setting up shop on my own.”

At Vale, I’d seen Sibyl score lucrative contracts and top-paying clients. It could work. Or, given enough time, I’m sure I’d see why it was a very bad plan. “I have a thing,” I said, glancing at my watch again. “Let me sleep on this.”

“Okay,” she said, shrugging. She stood up and I figured she was going to see me to the door, but instead she opened the fridge and pulled out a half-full bottle of wine. I let myself out.

11

Nate was on time, which I was happy about because I am a freak about never being late for anything. In my head, this was already a relationship, and he’d just made an A+ for timing on my mental checklist. Just looking at him I got a subtle glowy feeling.

Nate seemed pleased to be here, too, shrugging out of his jacket, casually tossing his hat on the armchair. “I got a hit from the CD you gave me today.”

“A hit?”

“That’s how my thing works. An image hits my brain and sort of burns into it.”

Check off another item on the list. Does not hide important information. “So what did you see?” I sat on the far end of the sofa and he put himself right next to me on the center cushion. I liked it. His smile widened and I realized he was reading me. I started to think about what an idiot I was, but then I stopped thinking that and concentrated on closing the random stupid-thought center of my brain down. He could only read me if I let him.

“Can you always read thoughts? Like everything I think?”

I needed to know because I was not sure I could be around somebody who knew everything. Especially if the someone was a guy who I found—I stopped myself in time again.

He shook his head. “Only the ones that are really vibrant, and even not always then.”

I looked at him. I kept thinking about what Ryan had said, that I should look for a new person to show up. Nate had been the first new person to show up after Ryan said that. Maybe we were supposed to hook up, but psychically, not physically.

He nodded. “I read your thoughts better than I’ve ever read any body else,” he admitted.

“And when you’re not wearing your hat, I have a pretty good bead on you. But I don’t know what you found in the CD.”

He shook out his shoulders, like he was mentally trying to break our connection and get back into himself. That was fine with me. Inside my head was private space.

“I saw this filing cabinet. It was made out of wood, and it looked old, like maybe from the last century. The list I told you about? He put it in the top drawer, stuck in the back. The very last sheet of paper in the last file.”

“I know that cabinet. It used to be in Vince’s office. He had a whole antique library set, desk, bookshelves, old globe with a stand, and the file cabinet. It was worth huge bucks.” I wondered what happened to that stuff. Of course, if I succeeded in going back in time, it wouldn’t matter where the cabinet was now.

“What am I thinking right now?” Nate asked.

I looked at him, right into his eyes. I didn’t see a thing. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t read people easily, except in Paradise Fields.”

“I was blanking you.”

“Pardon?”

“The same thing you did with me. Shutting down the thought process. There’s another way to do it, without turning off your thinking entirely. Like when you need to think, but you don’t want the perp to see it in your face.”

“Shielding?”

“Good. You got the word I was thinking. I put it out there for you.”

He saw my tarot cards in the silk bag and picked them up. “It’s like the silk that protects your cards, you wrap your mind in a scarf. Kind of.”

We practiced mind-reading a little bit. It was sort of fun. I learned that he was interested in traveling to Paradise Fields, but he was hesitant. He didn’t really like to rely on his special skills, but preferred plain old detective work. And nobody on the force, or anywhere else in his life, knew about the mind-reading and the image hits. We were learning to trust each other.

“Were you ever afraid? In Paradise Fields?”

“Not really. I think because at first I thought I was dreaming. For a long time I just thought I was having bad dreams about kids dying, so that was strange. And I’ve heard about recurring dreams, so that was what I thought Ryan was, just a rerun. So by the time he told me that I wasn’t dreaming, I was comfortable there. I knew I’d always end up back home, feeling rested, right where I’d left myself.” I stopped a beat. “I know that sounds weird. My body stays put. But I’m gone.”

“I wonder what the incident was—what first caused you to go into Paradise Fields?”

“I don’t know. It was a long time ago.” I thought about how nice it was not to have that knowledge all to myself anymore.

“Okay, let’s try a longer session. “Do you remember your first time there?”

I nodded and opened my mind to Nate. I’d come to Ryan in a dark room, decorated for a little boy with a baseball mitt on the dresser and sports pennants on the walls. He was in a wooden twin bed, in striped pajamas, and the terrible pain emanated from his head. It almost made me faint. I sat next to him and took his hand. He whimpered when he saw me, and my head began to throb. ‘You aren’t alive yet,’ he said. And then, ‘It hurts.’ ‘I know,’ I answered, drawing his suffering into my own body, hardly realizing what I was doing. ‘I’m dying,’ he said. I knew it was true, and death seemed a mercy. I had no idea what had happened to this child, but none of that mattered. ‘I’m glad you came,’ he said, before he left his physical self, transitioned to a better place, and I awoke, back in my bed.

“Did you ever ask him about the ‘you’re not born yet’ part?” Nate wasn’t speaking out loud. This was fun. I wasn’t sad about Ryan anymore because I knew he was at peace.

“No. He doesn’t talk a lot. I’m comforted by his presence and then he leads me to whatever transitioning child I’m meant to comfort next.”

We decided to make a ritual around ending our session. I lit a candle and put it between us. At the same time, we blew it out. Even though our mouths were not touching, it almost felt like a kiss.

 

For scenes 1-10 click here

Cover art by the talented folks at www.aepbookcovers.com

Gypsy

At Ryan’s final words, I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. Four a.m. I felt as rested as if I’d had a full night’s sleep.

I shuffled into the kitchen, turning on the laptop at my dining room table on the way to the coffee pot. As I brewed coffee, I thought about ways I could improve my mobility in Paradise Fields, but I had no idea how to purify both body and mind. Lucky for me, I could Google.

**

 A cup of coffee at my elbow and a stack of information on purification techniques printed out for later study, I opened the dentist’s document I’d been working on. His four-color brochure offered free exams to any Romany burned out of their homes in the fires last year.

West Port, Washington, has a huge gypsy population. They’ve been here since World War II, persecuted ever since. Dr. Bright Smiles was doing a nice thing. I worked on getting the images clear and the text just right until my little sister woke up for school.

When I heard the shower, I got up from the dining room chair, stretched, and popped bread into the toaster. Enzo, Ann’s boyfriend, came in before she finished  her make up.

“Hey Laurel,” he said, reaching for the coffee pot and the mug I’d set out for him. School busses didn’t stop downtown, so loyal Enzo picked up Ann every day and drove her to class. He was always on time and she was always late.

“Morning,” Ann said, grabbing a slice of toast and slathering it with butter and jam. ”I have that library project after school. I’ll be home late,” Ann told me, handing the gooey toast to Enzo, who rolled his eyes at her rigid study habits, but accepted the offered breakfast.

Ann ate her dry toast standing on one leg, like a yoga pose.

“Call me for a ride,” I reminded her. Downtown is vital and safe during daylight hours, but after dark, it gets dicey.

Ann promised to call as Enzo grabbed her loaded backpack, pretended to fall under its weight, and reached for her hand as they headed out the door.

**

 A little after noon, I finished the dental brochure, started the print run, wrote a press release, and faxed it to the West Port Times. I love working at home in my robe and slippers, but when the door bell buzzed, I was glad I’d thrown on jeans and a sweater and run a comb through my hair. I checked the security camera. A nice looking guy, maybe a year or two older than me, sporting a battered hat and leather jacket, looked directly into the screen. Gypsy, I thought.

I remembered Ryan’s last words to me. Here was a new person. I would pay attention. I nudged the intercom. “Can I help you?”

“Risa told me to see you. This is Star PR, right?” He flashed my card.

Risa’s my mother. She’s always sending me potential clients she hopes will sweep me off my feet. This one was the first who looked like he could do it. My apartment was my office; I buzzed him in.

“Hi,” I said, looking for a gold tooth in his smile.

“Nate Haywood,” he said, offering his hand with the smile. There was no discernible gold tooth; his hand felt strong and capable. I didn’t want to let go. I was a little surprised at my strong reaction, but tamped it down and gently released his hand.

“I’m Laurel,” I said, motioning him into the tidy living room. Too bad the chaotic adjoining dining room burst with paper, electronics and toast crumbs. My housekeeping is far from the domestic goddess expectations of most Rom men. At least that’s what I’d heard. But maybe Nate was different. He took his hat off and put it on the coffee table. We sat facing each other, which is when I noticed the gun in the shoulder holster.

“I’m a cop.” He flashed a badge that said he was in fact a detective.

“A Gypsy cop.” I wasn’t trying to be rude, just surprised that backward West Port would be so progressive.

“The token Rom,” he said easily.

“So why did Risa send you?”

He glanced at my breasts and back up to my eyes so quickly I wasn’t sure he’d really done it. Normally this would annoy me, but I realized I was not wearing a bra. My bad. I swore his face darkened to an even deeper shade of olive as he made a valiant effort to look me in the eye while he spoke. “She thought you’d be perfect to help me with a project I’m putting together,” he said.

In my business, someone says the word “help” and I hear “free of charge.” Especially when Mama’s involved. She thinks I live to do favors for her friends.

“You know about the fires,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Everyone in West Port knew about the fires my former boss Vince Vale had supposedly set in Little Bohemia, our town’s Romany enclave. Vale owned most of the homes and rented them cheap. Then he burned them all down, killing an elderly man and two children. I’d been at those deaths via Paradise Fields, a fact I didn’t share. Nobody knew about the Fields but me. Well, nobody alive.

“I want you to help them get their homes back,” he said. His eyes were lit from within like twin candles. He cared too much. Lethal for a cop, I imagined, but it made me like him. I also liked how he tried but couldn’t quite keep his emotions hidden under his hat. I saw him reach for it, then decide not to.

“Do you mean rebuild?” The homes were still just burnt out shells. “How?”

“You write a campaign for them. Be their spokesperson to the various local agencies. Contact important people. Get donations. Vale still owns the property. If I can bust him for the fires, the property goes to the state, which then gives it back to the Rom community as reparation.”

“Even if the state does that, you have no proof.”

“I’ll get it,” he said. And this time he put his hat on as he stood. “Just think about it, okay?”

I nodded. He was leaving. I felt ridiculously bereft.

“Want to grab a bite tonight? Talk more about it?”

M heart drummed fast. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“Pick you up at seven?”

“Sure,” I said, nonchalantly crossing my arms over my brazen bralessness.

**

For first scene click here.

Cover art by the talented folks at www.aepbookcovers.com

How I Got to #1 on Kindle

Book blogger and author Melissa Snark gave me her space to share with you how I used my free Kindle days to market my novel, Blue Heaven, to the top of the charts. What a ride! And thanks Melissa for letting me share what I learned on your site.

Please Mister Postman

I’ve been waiting patiently. Almost missed my BFN’s (best friend neighbor) birthday surprise. But, just in the nick of time, Mr. Postman came through. I live in a tiny town and everyone except me knows him by name. I think it’s Ron.

Love my dirt road even though Al refuses to wash my car anymore because I can’t help but drive down it. All the bright scarlet maple leaves have blown away after a windy storm, but’s it’s still so pretty.

I can’t get used to the fact that this is my town. And that these are my books. Every dream I’ve ever had and a few I never even considered has come my way. Well, there’s just one more thing. (There always is.) I want to finish and publish the book I’m working on now. It will happen. Just like everything else did, in its own good time.   

After the books came, I quickly signed and wrapped a copy of Blue Heaven for BFN Jan. Her birthday was yesterday. We were both in the middle of cooking dinner, but I turned everything off for a sec and ran across the back yard to hand it to her. She took it and felt it and said “Is this your new book?” Jan has been reading my books since they were just manuscripts on typing paper. In fact, she read a few that were so bad I recycled them instead of trying to mend and publish. So of course I gift her my print books, even though she really needs a Kindle! In answer to Jan’s question, I said “You’ll have to open it and find out,” and then flew back across the yard to my own kitchen.

Another thing happened the same day the books came. I got an email from a fellow DWW member who invited any of us interested to take part in a book fair. So, I had bought these books pictured above as gifts for family and friends and now I am taking them to a book fair. Better get a new order in soon. And those of you who won my 11th Blog Birthday package, I will get the books out to you Monday. Better send my mom one, too. After I find the page with the consummation scene and warn her not to read it:)

This Just In

News hot off the press: Cynthia Harrison, a virtually unknown author from someplace between NY & LA, has somehow managed to get a third novel published. In actual print form. It’s only on Amazon for now, but will be released worldwide later this month. Meanwhile, author is said to be recuperating from shock with chocolate and a gossip mag. http://amzn.to/1b07eb5

 

How to be a Better Writer

For Jamie: What I learned when I dipped into the excellently delicious Outliers.

Malcolm Gladwell is such an engaging writer and his subject here–extraordinary people who are markedly different, more successful, way smarter–is fascinating. Gladwell investigates the variety of circumstances that separate the super-successful from average folk like me. Along the way, he piles on the cool facts. For example, I learned that to become a world-class expert in just about any field a person needs to put in ten years of really really hard work. They need to work three times as hard as the average person.

Another way to calculate those ten years is in hours. About 10,000 hours will yield “mastery associated with anything” including writing. Which got me thinking. How many hours have I put into writing over the years? From about age 23, when I wrote my first novel, to 33, I didn’t rack up a whole lot of hours writing. I had two babies and a house to keep. Then I had a divorce to get through and a remarriage to negotiate. I also started college. I figure those 10 years yielded probably 500 hours of writing. Pretty simple to see why I was not a success at my dream career.

From 33 to 43, I did a little better. My kids were older, my marriage was settling down into a stable union, and I wrote a lot for college. After I started teaching, I also wrote a novella every summer. I’d say those ten years likely yielded 1000 hours. Still way below the “New York is calling with a contract offer” limit.

So the first 20 years of my writing life, even though I loved writing and was passionate about wanting to be a writer, I had only accumulated 1500 hours of writing time. Not enough to be called a master by any stretch. In retrospect, I realize that I was just too busy living my family life and figuring out how to be a good teacher.

Then something wonderful happened. I found a window of time, five years exactly, when I was able to write every day for three hours a day. By this time my kids were out of college and on their own. My husband has always been low maintenance. We were in a good financial position, and I felt so ready. With Al’s blessing, I took a break from teaching and totally devoted myself to writing. I wrote several novels during this time, started my blog, reviewed on average 10 books a month for Romantic Times. I treated writing like a real job and many, many days I clocked well over three hours at my computer. I’m averaging it out, because I know some days I only worked an hour or two. That five year period gave me 5500 writing hours.

Believe me, I saw my ability jump. I could actually tell that I was getting better. A lot better. Still, at 7,000 writing hours clocked, I wasn’t anywhere near the 10,000 hours I needed to become an “expert.” And a few years ago, the economy started to shift, and I went back to work. But an amazing thing happened when I returned to teaching. I kept up my three hours a day output. It was a habit I loved, and I made time for it. Again, some days I’d work eight hours straight and others I’d work one or two, but on average I added another 4500 hours, to put me at 11500 hours, well over the 10,000 mark.

When I figured this out last night I was so amazed I immediately subtracted two weeks vacation for nine years. Still at 10,000 hours. Of course, this doesn’t mean I’ll get a great publishing contract or a promotion at Publishers Weekly. It doesn’t even mean anybody will want to read my blog. It just means I put in the time it takes to master my craft. Sure, it took me thirty years instead of ten, but every single hour has been a total pleasure.

*Reprinted from a 2008 blog post. Betcha I’ve got another several thousand words under my belt by now. Also a publisher!

A Room of My Own

As if I had not borrowed enough from Virginia Woolf, now the title of this blog and the title of this post are both hers. Wish I had a husband like Mr. Woolf, who opened his own small press to publish his wife’s books. But anyway, I have a different husband, as previous post indicates. And yet he did take time yesterday to put together my new desk. The desk to the left is 35 years old, not a great desk anymore for many boring reasons.

I use my desk all the time. I check papers at my desk. I enter grades into my little book. I write novels and blog posts and tweets at my desk. It is an important part of my writing room, maybe the most important, although I really love my bookshelves. Also my credenza. I know it looks like an antique hope chest, and at one time it was. Now it holds files.

Al has not started a small press in my honor (I did that myself) but yesterday he put together my new writing table. It is not called a desk and does not much resemble one. It will still function perfectly, as the old desk file drawer had been broken for several years.

Writers need a room where they can chat on Facebook while pretending to ponder profound themes for their novel-in-progress. Virginian Woolf, bless her heart, said every woman should have a sum of money and a room of her own, writer or not. She wrote the famous essay in reaction to not being allowed into the library at Oxford.

I really went to work on my room, cleaning my books, hauling up another bookshelf from the basement, rearranging pictures. taking the old desk, piece by piece from the room. I will spare you the image of my foyer now. Let’s just say it’s a big mess. I’m leaving it like that as proof for  hardworking Al (Yes! He is at the plant, putting in overtime, even on Sunday!) that I too worked hard today. So while the room right next to it is a disaster zone, my writing room, with its new writing table, is sitting pretty.

Partners?!

My husband, the notorious Al, does not read my blog, so I feel free to complain about him here. He has FB spies, but they don’t read my blog, either. By the way, thank you for reading. Sharon. and John:) Possibly Micki. This morning when I woke up, it was pitch dark, and I was alone in my bed.

Since Al had gone in to work very early, I wasn’t too concerned until I tried to check the time on my clock and saw that the electricity was out. We had high winds through the night, so I got a candle and a match and went in search of a clock that ran on batteries. 6:30 am. I can handle that. Also, I have Starbucks’ canned double shot for work days so I was set for caffeine. My Kindle has a built in light. Sun would be up, soon. The world was darkly rosy.

My first priority this morning was to write, and I did that in candlelight at my battered old desk, feeling a little like someone from an earlier era. Light began to peek weakly from the dark clouds, and those clouds shot my idea to watch the sun rise. Al and I put in several calls back and forth with the no power situation. He had plans to go to the gym after working 12 hours, but said if the power was still out, he’d adjust his schedule.

Back up to yesterday. I left work knowing I had a full week to immerse myself in writing, even if the old desk and the new chair did not get along. On the way home, I stopped for groceries and found one of those Sauder desks you have to assemble yourself. It was exactly what I had been looking for since I bought the new chair that does not fit under the desk. So anyway. Al came home and didn’t want to hear about the desk. He didn’t want to hear about the problem in the laundry room or how the mirror in the closet did not allow me to see my feet.

Women understand this, how your shoes look with your outfit is of major importance. He’d hung the mirror too high for me, but it was just right for him, which meant it was just right period. Last night, it felt like he was pushing me away with both hands saying leave me the fuck alone. He muttered about having to go to bed early, needing time to himself, and so forth. Here’s what I’m thinking: what about ME?

Is it not important that I get one minute of his time to ask about a house thing, or to just talk about how our days went? Sure it would be a bonus if he put together my new desk. It would take him ten minutes. Maybe twenty. He’s very handy when he wants to be. He can fix anything. Between his cut biceps and his mechanical smarts, you would think I’d be thrilled with this guy. And I would be if he had to beat somebody up for me or at least lifted stuff around the house. Or do things that I can’t, which is almost everything except for cook, clean, shop, write, and teach. That’s pretty much my repertoire, although I do make a mean martini.

So last night, due to this mood of holding me at a distance, I didn’t dare ask for such a favor as him actually building my new desk. I was lucky he didn’t take his dinner (a nutritious, yummy, healthy meal that I shopped for and cooked, thank you) down in the basement.

So today I had to deal with no power and no clue how to turn on the generator. I was fine with that. And we were chatting back and forth, that was good. Communication is always good. I was feeling pretty good after four hours of writing and the power suddenly coming back on earlier than expected. I thought I might take a shot at putting my new little desk, very basic, very simple, together myself because I had already asked Al to skip the gym and come home to do it for me before our friends come over at 7 for a test run of our fire pit patio table and he said no.

I let it go. I am so used to him blocking me, saying no to me, not doing anything around the new house to help me because he is either working or watching sports. But I was okay. I am a strong, independent woman and this marriage would not have lasted 28 years if I was anything else. Al doesn’t do princesses. I don’t need to be pampered, I just wish he was around more. I worry about him working so much. I resent that damn gym almost as much as if lifting was his mistress.

I’m wanting to slow down and enjoy life more. He’s still in the fast lane. I took the desk pieces out of the box. The heavy box that yesterday I had put into my shopping cart, transferred to the trunk of my car, and brought into the house. All by myself! It was heavy! Does he care? No. I got a bit concerned as the pieces piled up and I saw that there were something like 68 screws. I duly got a hammer, a Phillips, and a flat screwdriver out of my toolbox. Yes, I have my own toolbox. My dad made it for me after my divorce. If my dad was here, he’d build my desk!

I sat to read through the directions on how to put this baby together. Feeling a bit trepidatory but also still willing to believe. After page three I gave up. I called Al to tell him that the desk was on the floor in pieces and I did not feel capable of making it whole and would he please come home at four o’clock and do it for me.

He said no. Of course he did. Because he is Al and his mistress, that bitch the gym, comes first. Of course being eternally optimistic (and thus so often disappointed) I still hope he’ll feel guilty for not giving me any quality time in ages and come home and get this project done. I have plans! I have a book to write! And I need my new desk. Also possibly a husband-for-hire.