Tyler Colins's Blog, page 23

Declutter The Home, Declutter The Mind

Experiencing writer’s block?  Work block?  Life block?  Give thought to doing some decluttering.  It can prove quite therapeutic.  It frees/organizes physical spaces while soothing stress and clearing the mind.

When I’m at a loss as to what to post, I focus on something else, something simple, distracting, but absorbing.  For some, it’s cooking.  For others, like me, it’s getting the home in [some sort of] order.

Besides taking you away from the task of posting, consider the benefits of decluttering.  You’ll have:    less to clean/dust and manage down the road    less stress, because there’s nothing more stressful [and annoying] than seeing all the things that need cleaning and/or decluttering    more time (because you won’t have to do as much or work as hard the next time around)    a sense of accomplishment (if not relief).

Now, you’re undoubtedly thinking of all the rooms that will require the removal of unneeded/unnecessary “things” and groaning and moaning at the thought.  Don’t.  One thing at a time, at a day.

List all the decluttering/reorganizing you want to do . . . and dedicate one or two hours a day—or week, whatever works for you—and do it!  I’ve been binge-decluttering for a week now, one room and area at a time.  I know my limits—like when I start frothing at the mouth or swearing once too often.  When I’ve reached either stage, it’s time to walk away and chill.

While you’re decluttering/reorganizing, look at what you’ve accumulated over time.  Ask yourself, honestly, the following questions. Do I really need to keep this?  Does it serve a purpose?  Or is it just a dust-collector?   

Check off your completed tasks at the end of the aft/day/eve.  Even one checkmark is something to be proud of.  You did it!  You really did it.

And you know another little plus about decluttering?  It’s “unintentional” exercise, something I don’t believe I get enough of.  With the shelf-scrubbing, moving [of items], bending and crouching, I do believe I’m getting a fairly decent workout.  And that’s very good. 

Now, will decluttering/reorganizing/cleaning remove the writer’s block?  Maybe yes, maybe no.  I find, when I’m distracted and/or focused on something else, a post idea often pops into my head . . . like posting about decluttering! 

Hmmmmmm.  Maybe the next post should be about dusting techniques. 

The Good, The Bad & The Humdrum

If, as a blogger/writer, you’re scheduled to post certain days, but you’ve no real (edifying/entertaining) content, should you publish?

It’s a conundrum, to be sure.  My commitment is never missed: Wednesdays and Saturdays always feature a post.  The topics are related to the theme of my blog: writing, blogging, editing, and the Triple Threat Investigation Agency series.  Now and then, I’ll add something “motivational”—how to remain positive, staying focused, finding time to blog/write, and so forth.  I rarely stray from the theme . . . unless giving a personal update. 

Some days and even weeks, the brain fog is thicker than the peasoupers found in Ripper’s Whitechapel haunts (let’s see how well the recently ordered Prevagen really works).  Still, I’ll post on those two days.  After all, I’ve committed!

But those posts aren’t always good (i.e., I’m not that pleased with them).  They can prove humdrum, even bad (though I’d prefer to think those are few and far between).

So, to post or not to on those days when the ol’ gray matter isn’t cooperating?  When one’s well—for the interim—has run dry?  Does one toss something onto the blog for the sake of respecting the commitment (and hope for the best)?

. . . It’s a conundrum, to be sure.

Never Look Back, You’re Not Going That Way

The actual saying, by leading transcendentalist, Henry David Thoreau, is actually: never look back unless you are planning to go that way.

I prefer the above (title) version, found on illustrator Emily Elise’s poster (thank you, Sophie).  I’ve always been a firm believer in never looking back.  A bit of bad luck, that, recollecting.  It doesn’t really have much benefit, unless you’re at a family gathering and reflecting on amusing or meaningful moments.  Otherwise, looking back—particularly at those times you wish you could kick yourself in the butt about—can prove depressing or discouraging.  What happened  can’t be undone.  End of story.  Hopefully, you’ve gained knowledge and insight from actions taken, lessons realized, and mistakes made.  Accept them.  Embrace them.

Effectively now, I’m all about moving forward.  Many years have flowed past [escaped] me and I could easily weep over that.  But I won’t.  It’s water under the bridge—those lessons [finally and most assuredly] realized.

Don’t let things that “might have been” discourage you.  It’s a no-win situation.  Things happen for a reason.  Maybe we can’t see that at the time . . . maybe we can’t see that for months or years to come.  But everything and everyone in our lives serve purposes; they define us.

Pull up those [strong] shoulders and never look back.  You really aren’t going that way.  You have a unknown [exciting] future to welcome, agreeable/challenging/fun deeds to do, intriguing places to see, and interesting individuals to meet.

Take pride in who you are . . . and who you’re becoming.  Sure, you erred; we all did and do.  But that’s life.  You want to smack yourself in the head about something?  Do it.  Then move on and . . . yes! . . . never look back because you’re not going that way.

It All Happened . . .

. . . too many years ago to count.

I was thinking—yes, I still manage to do that these days, but barely—that I’d post about the Triple Threat Investigation Agency series.  You’ve heard/read enough about the five books, but not how it all got started—or the rollercoaster ride of publisher and agent queries, and [many] rewrites.

The Connecticut Corpse Caper was meant to be a standalone—inspired by those B&W mysteries and movies with haunted houses that I loved as a kid.  Couldn’t get enough of them.

I figured out the basic plot (multiple murders with missing corpses), location and setting (antebellum mansion with lots of hidden corridors and rooms, of course) and that there had to be a resident ghost.  The rest—décor, dialogue, events—fell into place.

Characters I also determine (flesh out) as I go along re descriptions, likes and dislikes, habits, and history, but I do have an idea what they are professionally and age-wise beforehand.  Do I decide who the murderer is from the get-go?  Not usually—not until pretty much the end.

The first “edition” done, I began sending it off.  Got rejections from publishers and agents.  No reason, just the usual not-accepting rhetoric (it would have been nice to receive a teeny-weeny bit of input).

Eventually, when I was about to give up, an agent signed me up.  Within a month, she’d found an interested publisher.  Woo-hoo!  Well, when I found out who it was, I naturally went researching.  Not a good one—bad rep.  You couldn’t even access the site.  I won’t go into the details, but I told the agent I’d heard unfavorable things about the publisher, which evidently put her in a bad mood.  She told me no one else had liked my manuscript, that the dialogue sounded the same for everyone, etc.  More researching.  It seems said agent pretty much only used that one publisher.  Not sure if she’s still doing that now.  Don’t really care.  Fortunately, she was professional enough to let me out of the contract, and for that I’m [still] grateful.

And her criticism was appreciated (even if not delivered in a particularly pleasant manner).  I reread the manuscript with different eyes—and if she wasn’t right.  I’d made my  characters all sound the same!  Another rewrite . . . and another . . . and character manipulation.  I refocused.  Put on my editor’s cap (it had blown away during a heavy gust).  Gave my characters distinctive ways of communicating: phrases, expressions, curse words, gestures.

Proofing and editing one’s work is vital, but getting input from other sources (preferably not friends and family members, who can be rather subjective) is so necessary to make a story happen—for it to come alive.

I so enjoyed revising and completing Caper—and JJ, Rey, and Linda loved playing amateur sleuths so much, they wanted to go professional—that it had to serve as a springboard for a series.

Something positive truly does always emerge from the negative.  It may not seem readily evident at the time but, down that ever-winding road called Life, it [eventually] becomes apparent.

While I may more oft than not take advice/input with a grain of salt (writer’s ego and whatnot), I will also ultimately (a few days/weeks later) give that advice/input more serious reflection.  I don’t like to give up, as I’m sure, you don’t either.  Sometimes, however, we do need to give over . . . even if only a wee bit.

A Reboot . . . A Boot in the Butt

Every now and again, we all need to reboot . . . to receive a self-inflicted (required) boot in the butt to get back on track.  But, before that can happen, we also need to recharge.  And there’s nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with pulling back a bit, nothing wrong with taking a break.

Sometimes, there’s just [way] too much on our plates—which can, on occasion, take on the proportions of [overflowing] super-store sized carts.  And navigating those babies isn’t the easiest.

If a vacation is affordable and doable, taking a week or two to unwind might prove ideal.  Out of sight, out of mind . . . out of home, out of reach.  Other ways, simple ways?  Take a nap.  Take a walk, a run.  Do something different—visit a new part of town, see a sight you’ve never seen, take the transit if you’ve never taken it or let it take you somewhere you’ve never been, have coffee/tea in a shop you’ve never been to.  Have lunch/dinner with a friend.  Call someone you’ve not spoken with in a long time.  Do something “fun” (something silly perhaps).  Sit down and journal.  List all the good things in your life . . . itemize all that you’ve accomplished this week.

The list could go on [and on].  What works for me?  Walking through the cemetery, feeding the squirrels and chipmunks.  De-cluttering.  Noting what I want to achieve during the day or week.  Recording what I’d like to undertake over the next few months (which may change, but that’s okay).

The gals from the Triple Threat Investigation Agency wanted to share the top three actions/activities that help them to recharge, which is great (often, it’s like pulling teeth to get them to commit to anything outside the business).

JJ:

taking Button for a long (long!) walkgoing to a new café/restaurant, sitting by the window, watching the world go by while I enjoy something I might not usually eatsailing on one of the tourist-tailored catamarans or sailboats and letting the wind blow through my hair and marveling at how calm/choppy the sapphire waters are . . . and grinning with awe when I sight sea life.

Rey:

hitting a sale (I hit them when I’m stressed or happy too, but who doesn’t love a great sale!?)finding an audition (to try out or simply to watch)calling or meeting with friends.

Linda:

jogging or running or lifting weightssurfing on the North Shoretrying new recipes or “concocting” my own.

Give it some thought.  What would work for you?  What might give you that [needed] zap of energy?  Then, turn that thought into an action . . . and give yourself that boot in the butt.

Long-Term Care, Long Time Coming

A twofold title.

One: my mom is finally in a long-term-care facility.

Two: it takes many decades before anyone enters a long-term care facility.

Fortunately, for my mother, she entered LTC not a moment too soon, given her dementia had increased considerably in the last month while her mobility had decreased to nil in the same time frame.  Fortunately, she’s in one of the best homes around.  It’s hotel-lovely inside and has everything: a chapel, dining rooms, sizable rooms and large windows, classes, just to name a few.  Fortunately, the staff is excellent (caring and considerate, and patient).

Unfortunately, few residents seem cognizant enough to recognize their environment and/or cannot partake of the activities/events and amenities.  Unfortunately, my mother’s ability to recognize and process what is around her is presently sporadic.  Unfortunately, she is confused and despondent; she calls to say no one goes to see her, my daily visits forgotten.

I suppose there are blessings in being unaware (cognitively impaired) for those that are.  For those that are on the other side, offering solace and companionship, it’s saddening.

But life does go on, one way or another, and we can only go with the flow, as swift or slow as it may prove.

We may have been an oil-and-vinegar pair, Mom, but I love you nonetheless.  God bless.

The Guilt Train Ain’t No Gravy Train

Perhaps not a great title, but it has a certain alliterative appeal.  It’s certainly better than The Guilt Train Keeps Chugging or The Ever-Rolling Guilt Train.

Guilt.  It’s not a pleasant thing.  It’s heavy, stressing . . . debilitating.  Sometimes it’s warranted, other times not.  In my case, it’s saddening and dispiriting, to be sure.

My mother has been offered a bed and will officially enter a LTC facility Monday morning.  Does she know?  No.  Why?  Given she believes long-term-care facilities are strictly for “crazy people”, and knowing how she reacts to certain things, I felt it wasn’t in her (or my) best interest to be advised that this is happening.

Guilt trip #1:  putting her in a home.

Guilt trip #2:  not telling her about said home.

Guilt trip #3:  being an ungrateful daughter who has allowed her mother to work her fingers to the bone (this she’s been telling me re me/we saying her she has to remain in the hospital a “wee while longer”).

Guilt trip #4:  not being able to provide the care that she now requires and dealing appropriately with the increasing dementia (don’t good daughters [continue to] do everything, regardless of the cost to their own health?).

Guilt trip #5:  not having been an amazing child throughout the years.

On another note, the hospital staff are amazing.  They’d agreed (given the “unique” situation) to keep her there until she is transferred to the facility.  Patient and understanding, supportive and helpful only begin to describe the awesome team.

Yes, she’s been super annoyed and angry at me re her stay in the hospital.  She doesn’t understand that she cannot walk anymore, that it takes at least two people to transfer her from the bed to a chair.  The dementia is not part of the equation—and we don’t talk about that, rightly so.  Some people can handle it when told.  I’ve known some who accepted the diagnosis rather graciously and simply went with the flow, one woman even laughing when she had a fight with her daughter.  “She’ll be fuming for hours, but in two minutes, I’ll have forgotten all about it.”

During the last ten-plus days, I’ve received enough evil eyes to fell the Jolly Green Giant (always liked his beans), heard comments about my many faults.   And, undoubtedly, there’ll be many more to come.

There you have it, the guilt train does indeed keep chugging along.  I suspect it will for a long, long while.

Sorry, Mom, I’m such a disappointment and haven’t been what you wanted me to be.

The Wheels of Time . . .

. . . keep rolling.  Sometimes, for a twinkling, they stop.

As many of you know, I’ve been doing mom-care for a long, long time.  It’s been a rollercoaster ride, to be sure.  It hasn’t been easy, especially these last two-plus years, where [more] health and mental issues have developed and intensified.

Recently, the dementia kicked in, rather full tilt boogie.  It’s frightening to listen to, sad, traumatic.  Not for the person experiencing it, of course; all is fine in his/her world, and that is undoubtedly a blessing. 

Unfortunately, almost simultaneously, the osteo-arthritis decided to do a full tilt boogie as well; my mother could barely walk . . . until she could not walk at all.  Frequent falls began.

There was no option but to bring her to the hospital to see what was happening.  There, the dementia evolved into delirium, something that apparently occurs when older people are in such a setting.  Elderly patients struggle to convey information, ask a question, play with imaginary items, remove their robes, cry and/or cry out repeatedly.  For those who are visiting—family and friends—it is disconcerting and heartbreaking.

The time has arrived where my mother must now enter a long-term-care facility and that will happen once a bed is found.  It will be challenging/tough for both of us—me to see someone who enjoyed and embraced life move to a new “residence” where she’ll be primarily bed-bound, and her because she won’t be returning to a home she knows and loves. 

With time, she’ll likely forget about that . . . as she will me.  The wheels of time, for her, will simply cease rolling.  With fall, comes winter.  With life, sadly  but inevitably, comes death. 

JJ’s on the Bandwagon

My turn at the bat.  Rey and Linda posted about themselves, so I feel compelled to do the same.  But my likes and favorites would make for a snoozy post and I’d not experienced anything traumatic or poignant . . . except the death of my sister, Reena Jean.

My sister and I weren’t very close.  She was rather flighty and very unpredictable.  She was also a thrill-seeker (her recusant ex called her a wing-nut).  Still, I rather admired her; I liked the impulsiveness.  My sister had boldly if not smugly stood on (clung determinedly to) a pier by the ocean during a Category 4 hurricane.  She challenged Mother Nature to “bring it on!”.  Mother Nature granted the request by yanking Reena Jean into the raging deep . . . and had the last laugh.  It’s hard not to admire that zest for life . . . even if it cost my sister hers.

That got me reflecting on our unconventional family members.  Some people claim they’re eccentric, others say they’re quirky, and a few would profess off-the-wall and/or whacky.  You may have met Aunt Mat (The Connecticut Corpse Caper); she’d likely top the list.  The sexagenarian is truly dotty, but quite enchanting.  She’s never one to mince words and tells it like it is, which can be both refreshing and daunting.  [That she may be a secret serial killer is something we don’t speak about.]

Then there’s eyebrow-less Uncle Flex, sour-faced Great-Aunt Gertrude, toupee-crazy Uncle Charly . . . and the various aunts.  Jane Sue won a ton of money in a lottery and always has some “sweet young thing” hanging off an arm.  Ruth June is a born-again Christian who writes tame romance novels that sell fairly well; she’s also the proud owner of ten dozen crocheted blankets and fifteen dozen handcrafted doilies.  Rowena Jaye, Rey’s mother, was what they used to call a “homemaker”, though she didn’t excel in that department—lumpy mushroom-soggy rice anyone?  Sue Lou, the one with the highly shellacked hair (she still resides in the 60s), was a librarian once upon a time; these days, she spends her time at her large Maine cottage, practicing taxidermy on the fish she catches.

If I posted about them all, you’d be reading for a full day.  But I do have to mention one more person: my father.  I never knew him, not even his name.  My mother had always refused to talk about him, other than that one time (I was about nine and had asked) to explain, with a sigh and roll of the eyes, that he’d been killed climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.  I’d boasted to schoolmates that “Edmund H” Fonne was an explorer and adventurer, and his last planned exploration—before returning home to his beloved family—had been a fateful trip to Tanzania.  As a private eye, maybe I should do some serious P.I.ing and learn about him.  . . . nawwwww.  Sometimes, mysteries are best left to remain unsolved.

Despite the family leaning toward madcap and weird, I’m rather fond of [most of] them.  I wouldn’t be who I am if I’d not experienced those zany moments, attended chaotic get-togethers, or helped bail the odd one out (that’s another post).

Here’s to the ever-fanciful Fonnes!

Lindy-Loo’s Here Too

Hi there.  I thought I’d have a lightsome title because I’m going to touch upon something that’s not as frivolous as Rey’s post.  Can you spell s-h-a-l-l-o-w?  Just kidding, Rey; you’re my best friend and I love you. 

The three of us from the Triple Threat Investigation Agency have been friends for a while now, living together in a nice (still-needs-to-be-fixed) house, keeping busy with cases and volunteering, and enjoying life (its ups as well as its downs).

Recently, I got to thinking about my earlier years—like when I was in my teens and married to a jazz musician with a vice so major, it resulted in his passing.  I was young, he wasn’t.  I often thought he should have known better, should have done something—gotten help with the addiction, talked to someone, done everything and anything to be free of his “obsession”.  It cost him money, self-esteem, friends, and then his life in a fleabag motel.

Given my age—and naïveté, I suppose—and always being on the move, given the country-wide gigs, I didn’t deal with it very well.  Constant travel, sporadic sleep, late nights and countless parties contributed to a state of “perpetual un-focus”.  I felt useless, powerless, because Chiffre wouldn’t listen to my pleas to stop, to get help.  I’m not sure, at the time, I even knew where to find that help.  Or maybe I was too scared to deal with reality.

Did I know Chiffre was an addict when we got married?  No.  Okay, in truth, I suspected, but turned a blind eye.  It wasn’t like he was out of control or anything.  It wasn’t like he couldn’t function; he played a mean sax and managed to show up on time for every show . . . at least for the first few months we were married.  Then, slowly but surely, he started arriving later and later, and the pleasantly-worded “I can handle this, don’t worry, hon” changed to a heated “find someone else to pester, I got this”.  He grew more disinterested in things he used to enjoy and lost interest in the marriage; manipulation became part of the daily equation.  Still, together we stayed.

I didn’t criticize, but asked, begged, talked calmly (no matter how upset or stressed or depressed I was).  I started making excuses and lying shamelessly—for him, for me, for us.  Things were lost and broken, much like our marriage.  He was a mess, as was I.  A friend of the drummer was a social worker and he talked to me one afternoon.  He truly cared and his advice was sound and solid.  I should have pursued it, made the calls, checked in with support persons and groups, but I was, well, in denial of sorts, I guess.  I wished I done as he’d advised.  Maybe Chiffre wouldn’t have died alone, with a needle in his arm.

I’ve had therapy since then and have learned that I shouldn’t shoulder the burden or blame.  And that might make for another post one day.  Analysis can be difficult (very soul-searching) but the subsequent healing can prove a blessing.  And I won’t lie; it takes consummate commitment.

I’ve not thought of that dark period of my life too often since moving to Oahu.  I regret it, wish it had never happened . . . yet acknowledge that it helped me grow . . . and learn.  There’s always is a light at the end of that proverbial tunnel, even if, at the time it doesn’t appear that way.  I hate to sound trite, but things do happen for a reason.  It’s what we do with that “reason” that counts.  We may get dragged down, but we don’t have to stay down.  Rise to the challenge, the trial(s) and test(s).  You’re/we’re stronger than we think.