Wendy Wax's Blog

Big News!

Big news! I just finished updating 7 Days and 7 Nights, my very first Rom-Com. It has a gorgeous new cover that I’m totally in love with, and it’s now available.

Order it here!

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Best Wishes for 2022 from Me and Alfie!

The post Best Wishes for 2022 from Me and Alfie! appeared first on Wendy Wax.

If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Your Mother…Revisited.

My mother’s birthday almost always fell on Mother’s Day weekend, which always made it a double celebration. Last year, I wrote a piece about her, our relationship, and being a mother myself. With Mother’s Day this weekend, I wanted to revisit it.

“If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Your Mother”

My mother’s birthday almost always fell on Mother’s Day weekend, which made it a double celebration. We lost her almost six years ago, and although I’m a writer, I honestly don’t have the words to describe how much I miss her.

 

 

I used to have a throw pillow on my office sofa that read, “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother!” I could never look at it without either smiling or grimacing.

I spent part of my 20s talking to a therapist about my relationship with my mother. In debates over nature vs. nurture, I always went with nurture, which allowed everything that was wrong with me — and there were an awful lot of things — to be her fault.

 

 

Then I had two sons, and I discovered that mothering is way more complicated than it looked. I was forced to switch sides in the “nature vs. nurture” conversation, not just to absolve myself of the full load of responsibility I dumped on my mother, but because my sons are different from each other in so many ways, and those differences were obvious from birth.

 

 

I’ve come to believe that most of us are the mothers we are because of — or in spite of — our own mother’s mothering style. If they were hypercritical, we’re careful not to criticize. If they were disorganized, we’re fervent list-makers. If they never got up to make our breakfasts before school, we’re up at dawn squeezing fresh orange juice and scrambling eggs. Or at least popping the frozen waffles into the toaster.

As loaded with emotion as the mother-daughter relationship is, it’s not surprising how often it finds its way into women’s fiction. I’ve addressed it in many of my books, but even I wasn’t expecting the multiple mother-daughter relationships in my novel, Ten Beach Road, which has grown into a six-book series.

I no longer complain that sons don’t share their feelings as much as daughters, because now that mine are grown, I hope they don’t feel the need to talk to a counselor about their childhoods or reveal my parenting mistakes to their friends and future spouses.

I’m pretty sure they don’t remember that crocheted pillow that reads, ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother!’ I’ve got it tucked away in a back closet where my children, who are male after all, will never find it.

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The First Forty Years are the Most Difficult

My mother was afraid I’d never marry.

Her fears were legitimate. After all, I’d started dating at fifteen, was now 28, and hadn’t come close to that kind of commitment.

She and my father had been married for 42 years when we lost him to brain cancer. My older siblings had married and begun to reproduce right out of college. I had no desire to settle down or reproduce.

I was building a career. I worked for our PBS affiliate and freelanced in film and video production. My claim to fame during those years was hosting a live radio show called Desperate & Dateless even though I didn’t feel desperate and was dating. A LOT. I had no idea how couples stayed married as long as my parents had. Or even how someone decided to marry at all.

After losing my dad I began to think that thirteen years of dating might be enough; that sharing a life with someone like my parents had done, might be kind of cool.

But how would I recognize ‘the one?’ And where would I meet him?

I turned to visualization. (Hey, it was the eighties!)  I’d always been attracted to tall, blond, blue-eyed men so I started with that. Then I added Different. Interesting. Well-traveled. Sophisticated. And while I was not completely averse to marrying someone Jewish (and thereby making my mother deliriously happy) it was nowhere near the top of my list.

I recorded an audiotape describing the man I hoped to meet and listened to it daily. When ‘Mr. Right’ didn’t materialize, I stepped it up to twice a day. I worked on a feature film. The cast and crew included lots of men. None of them were ‘him.’

I became a producer/rep for a director-cameraman. Many males worked our shoots. Still nothing.

I was tired of the tape and about to give up when I flew to New York for a conference. I took the Carey Bus in from JFK for the first time and a blond, blue eyed six-footer got on. He introduced himself, and I noticed his accent — a unique blend of South Africa where he’d been born and Israel where he grew up.

An energy banker living in Houston, John came to New York often. He’d traveled extensively. Served in the Israeli army. He had an engaging smile, a dry wit and incredible blue eyes that glinted with intelligence and humor. He was everything I’d visualized and more.

When we arrived at Grand Central, he took in the number of bags I’d brought — he had a carry on — and hailed a cab. At my cousin’s building, he carried them up for me. We exchanged business cards.

I didn’t expect to see him again, but he left a message with my office. When I returned his call, he asked me out to dinner. I went.

A long-distance relationship ensued. It was the first time in all the years I’d dated that both parties felt equally interested. To make sure we could survive real life on a daily basis, we moved in together.

At our wedding reception, my new father-in-law told us that, ‘the first forty years are the most difficult.’ Since he and my mother-in-law had already passed this benchmark, I figured he knew what he was talking about.

Over the next thirty-four years, John and I had two sons, moved cities, made it through sickness and health. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he continued to believe that I would learn to pack light. With his full enthusiasm and support, I stayed home with our children and wrote full time. When I sold my first novel, he became my biggest cheerleader and remained so.

There were times I wished I’d included ‘romantic gestures’ in my visualization exercise. That he’d bring me flowers every now and then ‘just because.’ That he’d realize how much I loved surprises and know me well enough not to default to gift cards. Each anniversary we’d laughingly check off another year closer to marital bliss.

As anyone who’s attempted it knows, it’s hard to keep things ‘fresh’ over decades, and easy to get irritated by the small things. How hard can it be to remember to put a toilet seat down? To take out the garbage? To close a home office door while on speaker phone in the condo you downsized to and are riding out a lockdown in? To wash your hands more thoroughly during a pandemic.

Shockingly, the irritation wasn’t one-sided. As a lot of us have discovered, being stuck at home for months on end can put a serious strain on a relationship.

I was revising a novel while we were trapped together in 1900 square feet. After I killed off one character’s husband, whose faults may have resembled my husband’s, I told him it was a good thing I could take out my hostility in fiction. I joked that he was ‘lucky to be alive.’

And then he got sick. One minute he was fine, the next he went to bed and slept around the clock. He had a fever and no appetite.

My husband, who could estimate a restaurant tab to the penny and remember infinitesimal details, became confused.

He didn’t have a cough or most of the other symptoms I pored over. Covid tests weren’t readily available. A trip to our doctor showed all else seemed okay. But he was exhausted, and ‘inability to wake’ was on the Covid-19 ‘serious’ list.

I hovered. Pushed food and Gatorade. Dosed him with Tylenol. But ten days after he first went to bed exhausted, he hadn’t improved. I didn’t want to take him to the hospital. The news was filled with stories of Covid patients who never saw their families again.

There are times when I wish I hadn’t. He walked in on his own.  I sat in the car for three hours before they let me know he had Covid and they’d be keeping him for a couple nights.

Then the real nightmare began. For the first 48 hours he was able to answer his cell phone. Then he couldn’t. He got agitated and ripped the IVs out of his arm. Then he couldn’t get out of bed. Couldn’t open his eyes or fully wake. I had no way to communicate with him.

I learned when, after shift change, to call the nurses’ station to beg for information. When a doctor called, I scribbled notes hoping that capturing their words would somehow help. But I have reams of paper covered with my scrawls about oxygen levels, hemoglobin counts, and kidney function, that didn’t help at all.

They gave him Remdesivir and Dexamethasone. He improved slightly, and I told myself he was getting all the best treatments.  I dealt with my own mild case of Covid-19 in isolation in our condo while I continued to beg for information.

Twice they talked as if he might be stable enough medically to come home even though he never really woke up. Then he was in the ICU on a ventilator. They called at all hours to get permissions. Permission to give him blood. To insert ‘filter baskets’ to protect him from the blood clots that had formed. To do a CT scan. MRI. EEG. EKG. Endoscopy. I understood that every procedure carried risk, or they wouldn’t have asked.

I hate that he battled this horrible disease alone. That I couldn’t sit beside him. Hold his hand. Advocate in person. That as he was moved from floor to floor and in and out of the ICU, I had to learn how to glean from a voice on the phone, who might be empathetic enough to help me at least have eyes on him via FaceTime or hold a phone to his ear.

Sometimes when he heard my voice his limbs jerked. Twice his mouth moved, and I thought I heard ‘I love you’ and ‘I want to go home.’ But mostly I talked, telling him over and over that we loved him, that his friends were asking about him. That he needed to open his eyes and get stronger so that he could come home. Couldn’t he please just open his eyes so that I’d know he could hear me?

The briefest glimpse of the blue eyes I’d fallen in love with was cause for celebration. I told whoever was in his room how beautiful those eyes were, how we’d met by accident on the Carey Bus, how great a sense of humor he had.

This man who had once ‘filled’ any space he occupied with the force of his personality had disappeared. I couldn’t coax him out. There was no flash of wit. No dry observation. Not a single complaint.

I confirmed that I had antibodies and begged to visit him, but the hospital didn’t have a ‘protocol’ for this. Then I begged to give him those antibodies as ‘convalecent serum’ but there was no protocol for that either.

Although prayer does not come easily to me, I did my version of it constantly. In the end, my husband did not get wheeled out of the hospital amid applause from the heroic medical staff who’d saved him. Our sons and I were only allowed in the hospital when it became clear that he was dying. Only then, wearing masks and shields and paper caps and rubber gloves, did we get to hold his hand, tell him that we loved him, share family stories.

But we told them to a man whose body was a husk of what it had been just a month before. Who never roused or responded and who, in all but physical form, was already gone.

John and I were just shy of our 35th anniversary when he died. Only five more years to go before we hit the less difficult time my father-in-law had promised.

Now, our 1900 square feet is way too large and much too quiet. I long to hear his voice again, the soft blur of his accent. I wouldn’t even complain about his snoring if only we could have more time to irritate each other through the rest of this pandemic.

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Join Me and Besties Karen White and Susan Crandall for a Virtual Galentine’s Day Event!

It’s a rare treat to get to do an event — live or virtual–with my longtime critique partners and close friends Karen White and Susan Crandall so I’m really looking forward to our  Galentine’s Day event on, well, Galentine’s Day! Hope you’ll join us for the fun and conversation.

Click here to register for this FREE event!

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Special Holiday Offer!

Order A TEN BEACH ROAD CHRISTMAS, or any of my other books, direct from Bookmiser by December 1st and have it signed and personalized, gift wrapped, and shipped in time for the holidays. Plus, you and the person you’ve gifted will be invited to a Special Zoom Event with me in January.

Please note: This offer is exclusive to sales made via Bookmiser.

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Just in Time for Mother’s Day…TEN BEACH ROAD E-book Sale

For all you mothers out there — okay, that didn’t come out quite the way I meant it —

The e-book of Ten Beach Road is now only $2.99. If you haven’t read it yet, now’s the time.

If you’ve read and enjoyed it (thanks to everyone who’s left online reviews or emailed me to share their love for Maddie, Avery, Nikki and crew!), now’s the perfect time to “gift” a copy to your mother, daughter, sister or best friend.

Read more about Ten Beach Road

Order Ten Beach Road

News for Ten Beach Road Fans

If you’ve read all the Ten Beach Road novels, and especially if you’ve written to ask — YES — there will be another book in the series! In fact, I’ll be starting it soon.

The post Just in Time for Mother’s Day…TEN BEACH ROAD E-book Sale appeared first on Wendy Wax.

“If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Your Mother”

My mother’s birthday almost always fell on Mother’s Day weekend, which made it a double celebration. We lost her almost six years ago, and although I’m a writer, I honestly don’t have the words to describe how much I miss her.

 

 

I used to have a throw pillow on my office sofa that read, “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother!” I could never look at it without either smiling or grimacing.

I spent part of my 20s talking to a therapist about my relationship with my mother. In debates over nature vs. nurture, I always went with nurture, which allowed everything that was wrong with me — and there were an awful lot of things — to be her fault.

 

 

Then I had two sons, and I discovered that mothering is way more complicated than it looked. I was forced to switch sides in the “nature vs. nurture” conversation, not just to absolve myself of the full load of responsibility I dumped on my mother, but because my sons are different from each other in so many ways, and those differences were obvious from birth.

 

 

I’ve come to believe that most of us are the mothers we are because of — or in spite of — our own mother’s mothering style. If they were hypercritical, we’re careful not to criticize. If they were disorganized, we’re fervent list-makers. If they never got up to make our breakfasts before school, we’re up at dawn squeezing fresh orange juice and scrambling eggs. Or at least popping the frozen waffles into the toaster.

As loaded with emotion as the mother-daughter relationship is, it’s not surprising how often it finds its way into women’s fiction. I’ve addressed it in many of my books, but even I wasn’t expecting the multiple mother-daughter relationships in my novel, Ten Beach Road, which has grown into a six-book series.

I no longer complain that sons don’t share their feelings as much as daughters, because now that mine are grown, I hope they don’t feel the need to talk to a counselor about their childhoods or reveal my parenting mistakes to their friends and future spouses.

I’m pretty sure they don’t remember that crocheted pillow that reads, ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother!’ I’ve got it tucked away in a back closet where my children, who are male after all, will never find it.

The post “If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Your Mother” appeared first on Wendy Wax.

I’m Writing a New Novel: Want to Help with Research?

 

I’m hard at work on a new standalone novel called THE BREAK-UP BOOK CLUB about an eclectic group of readers that meet in the carriage house of a historic Atlanta home.

Although I’ve spoken to a lot of book clubs over the years, I hadn’t belonged to one for some time. As part of my research, I joined a local book club and am thoroughly enjoying it. It’s forced me to read books I might never have chosen (or finished!) and it’s fascinating to hear what others think. Plus having someone lead the discussion keeps the book-related conversation going much longer than usual no matter how much wine is consumed.

The book club in my story has been nameless for seventeen years and is now looking for a name. I’m looking for book club names for my characters to consider — the more unusual the better! Share you book club name with me (link to contact page/form?) with your book club name and if my characters choose it — or even consider it on the page — you and your book group will receive advance reading copies.

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Downton Abbey Made Me Do It

If you’re like me, you’re counting the days until the Downton Abbey movie opens here in the States on Friday, September 20th. I read this week that movie pre-sales on Fandango have broken records, and are exceeding those for Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again! In fact, groups of women are buying tickets to see the movie together. If you’re wondering what the fuss is about, here’s the movie trailer.

 

 

I completely understand the fever attached to this film. After all, I’ve enjoyed lots of TV shows in my time, but I never wrote a novel because of a television series, until “Downton Abbey” made me do it.

One minute I was binge-watching season one (which I had somehow missed). The next I was imagining four very different characters and what might happen if they were brought together by Julian Fellowes’ marvelous creation.

The result was While We Were Watching Downton Abbey, which was published in the U.S. by Penguin Random House  and in the UK by Orion Publishing.

 

 

I’ve been told it’s the first novel written about the fans of “Downton Abbey,” or possibly any show. I didn’t set out to do this — I was just trying to share my love for the series — but I’m glad I did. Because let’s face it, Downton fans rock!  : )

You can read an excerpt here and read some praise that the book received when it first came out here.

The digital version is now just $1.99 until Sunday, September 8th!

Order it here.

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