Tess Thompson's Blog, page 10

BLUE MOON FRIDAY

“Just once in a very blue moon, and I feel one coming on soon.” Lyrics from Pat Alger’s “Just Once in a Very Blue Moon.”

My kids call it hillbilly music. I call it poetry set to beautiful music. But whatever name you call it, my love of country and folk music remain steadfast, despite the years that have gone by since I listened to music on my father’s record player or the local country station, equal parts music and static. In the late eighties, I discovered an obscure country/folk singer named Nanci Griffith. Her lyrics were profound and her music beautiful. I subsequently collected all her albums and have probably seen her in concert at least half-dozen times. Her music is what I want my novels to be – authentic yet hopeful, heartbreaking yet redeeming. One of my favorites of her recordings, however, she did not write. It’s a Pat Alger song called “Just Once in a Very Blue Moon” – classic country music at its best. Pat Alger also wrote a bunch of songs for Garth Brooks and some other big stars, if you’re interested. But I digress..

My point in sharing this is that the song influenced both the title and plot of my latest novel, releasing August 8….titled, BLUE MOON, the sequel to BLUE MIDNIGHT. Did you see that coming?

It’s my eighth book, released on the 8th of August, which is my parents’ 51st wedding anniversary – another wonderful sign of good things to come if you believe in that kind of stuff, which I do.

And, in case you didn’t know, a blue moon is a full moon twice in the same month. They’re very rare, yet we’re having one tonight. To celebrate the serendipitous nature of all this, I am leaking the first chapter of BLUE MOON for public consumption.

I’m not going to lie. The book business is harder than when we first released RIVERSONG almost five years ago. When that book went out, family and friends helped us spread the word in a wave of goodwill. I believe strongly that helped make it a bestseller. Friends from high school, college and Seattle told everyone they knew, beginning a ripple that made it “the little book that could”. Today the landscape is more difficult. There are more Indy books than ever, making it almost impossible for readers to weed through the mess and find a book or writer that truly speaks to them. So, I’m asking for a favor…if you’re so inclined today, share my first chapter with your family and friends. Maybe we’ll get them hooked and they’ll want the whole book or some of my other books, which all still sell for under $5. It takes a lot of books to buy the amount of milk consumed at my house by my little girls, so the more help we get, the better.

I will not rest until I get these books on the NYT and USA Today bestseller lists. Unfortunately, so far that goal has been elusive, despite sweat and tears from my entire team. But I know this for sure – after eight books, my writing has improved. I still have a lot of stories to tell and very itchy fingers, and despite some setbacks, I will not give up on this crazy dream.

Thank you to everyone who has supported me through the years. I know who you are and I’m forever grateful.

Cheers and blessings!

And for heaven’s sake, kiss someone tonight under that giant blue moon. I know I will.

**

Our back cover that tells you a bit about the story.

 

And…here’s Chapter 1 from BLUE MOON.

 

Chapter 1

Under a close Oregon sky the color of white marble, I clicked along the sidewalks of downtown Portland in my black high-heeled boots, pulling my ultrafine merino wool jacket tight against my chest. It was cold, instead of our customary mild rain. Not a drop shed for at least twenty-four hours. No umbrellas. No mist to curl my hair up on one side and down on the other. On a typical November morning, umbrellas float in the air above their owners, almost touching but just missing, like bubbles in a champagne glass. They hide and protect us from the rain and also from one another, making us distinguishable only by the pattern, width and color of our bumbershoots.

Temperatures had dropped the day before to below freezing, icing over highways, streets and sidewalks. This might have been an indication that something dramatic was about to shift in the trajectory of my life, but I couldn’t see clearly back then. Like a racehorse with blinders, shiny and groomed, muscles primed for speed, mind focused and ready, I had no view other than what was right in front of me, striding without hesitation the five blocks from my condominium building to my office. With my figurative blinders on I paid little attention to the weather or anything around me except for the need and subsequent retrieval of my leather gloves that normally spooned happily with my business cards in the side pocket of a Kate Spade purse, both waiting for their usefulness.

After tugging the gloves over my manicured hands, I tucked the cards back into the side pocket. I’d need them later for a cocktail networking event where I would meet hundreds of people I didn’t know and didn’t especially want to know, dressed in various-hued business suits, all the while trying not to cringe when I said my name. Bliss Heywood. Bliss does not sound like the name of a CEO, a shark, a mover and shaker. Bliss is the name of an unfortunate soul born in the early seventies to a hippie mother and spineless father. Like Johnny Cash’s Boy Named Sue, I’ve spent most of my life fighting to prove I am no Bliss.

A gust of cold wind stung my ears and travelled up my skirt, the warmth of the hot yoga class I’d taken before work a distant memory. The streets of downtown Portland were narrow and congested. Buildings made of brick and concrete hinted at a simpler era when this river town was the home of rugged longshoremen working the swift waters of the Willamette. Statues of Portland’s own Beverly Cleary’s characters peppered the sidewalks: Henry and Ramona and Beezuz—all friends from my youth, when I spent a majority of time with my nose in a book. Today, despite the cold, sidewalks bustled with business people in suits and shiny shoes; young adults with piercings, tattoos and unwashed hair waiting for public transit; and mothers pushing strollers while wearing those horribly ugly comfortable leather shoes the women in the Pacific Northwest are so fond of.

I reached my office building and stopped at the foot of the stairs, searching for Sam and Sweetheart. They weren’t in their usual spot. My chest tightened as I scanned the street, suddenly feeling the cold. Had the weather driven them away? Where would they go? Were they hurt? But I needn’t have worried. They were tucked under a blanket just inside the space between the buildings, seeking shelter from the wind, no doubt. I walked toward them, reaching into my purse and pulling out a five-dollar bill from the inner zipper pocket where I kept my “Sam money.” At the beginning of every month I walked into my local bank and asked for enough cash for every business day of the month in five-dollar bills. Not knowing if it would be safe to give it to him all at once, I gave him only five dollars at a time, except for Friday when I gave him enough to carry him through the weekend.

Sam, bearded and dirty, dressed in layers and layers of clothes regardless of the season, lived on the streets with Sweetheart, his three-legged border collie. He carried a tin coffee can with a simple note attached to it: “Sam and Sweetheart.” I wasn’t sure where he went at night, but every morning he was at the steps of my office building with Sweetheart and his can. I wanted to ask him where he slept and how he ate and so many other questions, but it was futile. Sam was mute.

I caught his gaze and smiled before leaning over to pet Sweetheart. And that dog! She never let me down. At the first sight of me, the little black and white furry love machine always ambled onto her three legs and wagged her tail so fiercely it might have knocked over a small child. Today was no different. I scratched behind her ears, taking off one of my gloves so she could lick my fingers, before reaching into my coat pocket for a doggie treat. I had no idea what Sam did with the money I gave him—booze or food. I hoped it was food, of course, for Sweetheart and himself. He certainly never appeared intoxicated or drugged. Sweetheart, when I felt the space near her ribs, seemed perfectly fit.

I know what people would say about this small and perhaps foolish gesture of kindness. I did it to assuage my guilt because I had so much and he had so little. I understand this sentiment, but it wasn’t exactly true. I know some might say, too, that there are better ways to give back, through charity donations and foundations. I understood this to be true, of course, and having come from poverty I gave generously every year to several charities for underprivileged youth and battered women. But this was different. This was personal.

There was Sweetheart, of course. She was special. Anyone could see that. Animals, especially dogs, were much easier for me to be around than people. They seemed to understand what I needed without having to ask. It had been on my list for years to get a dog of my own, but I knew it wouldn’t be fair to them because I traveled frequently. I couldn’t bear thinking of a dog alone for half the month, or worse, stuck in a kennel.

And Sam? Well, the truth is, he reminded me of my late father. Mostly it was his eyes, faded blue and unfocused like he wasn’t sure whether he knew you for a second or two, until several rapid blinks brought recognition.

I leaned over and dropped the money in his can. He put his hand over his heart; the corners of his mouth twitched. This was his way of expressing gratitude. I understood.

I met his eyes, watery today from the cold, and red-rimmed. Sad, defeated. They conjured the father that I knew mostly from photographs, as he’d died when I was nine years old. Blythe says he was kind but overwhelmed, that even his ordinary life proved too much for him. She’d recently told me she wondered if his car accident was really an accident. When she brought it up, I waved away the question and made an excuse to get off the phone. I prefer dogs and mute homeless men to hard questions from the sister I adore.

“Sam, I’m worried about the weather. It’s supposed to get even colder. Do you have a warm place to sleep tonight?”

He nodded and pulled Sweetheart closer, as if to say, “The mutt will keep me warm.”

“Okay, well, stay safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Again, the hand over his heart.

 

***

 

After I left Sam and Sweetheart, I walked up the stairs to the lobby of my office building, thinking how fast my two years in Portland had passed. Throughout my career I’d lived in ten cities across the country. Because of its aesthetic and historical charms, Portland was one of my favorites, even though I sometimes felt conspicuously different than the general population. I’m a snob when it comes to fashion. I admit it. The number of granola types in Portland is enough to wake Coco Chanel from the dead. I blame the lack of vitamin D rather than a general disregard for beauty. How else do you explain the number of misguided souls who think Birkenstocks are an appropriate footwear for, well, anyone? Is there a more unattractive sandal? No! Followed shortly thereafter by those plastic “hiking” sandals, which have the added bonus of stinking like a boys’ locker room after a football game. And the fleece vests that come in all colors and seemingly for all seasons for both men and women? I shudder just thinking of them.

Although the people of every city are as varied as the religious beliefs in America, it has surprised me that it’s possible to buy a condo in any metropolitan area identical to the one from which you just moved. Despite my vow each time to try something different, I always ended up with the same white-walled, sparse condo with high ceilings and large windows that overlooked the city. During the first few mornings after moving, just for a moment, I didn’t know in which city I was waking. But it didn’t matter, because the closet that looked just like the last closet in the last city I lived in still held my designer shoes and dresses. There is comfort in the familiar.

I always arranged my furniture, which consisted of a couch and bed and a couple of tables, in the same configuration, telling myself that this time I would hire a decorator. But I never quite got around to it. Down the street, a salon and spa gave me the identical haircut and color to the one before: honey with straw-colored highlights, sleek, long bob. Nordstrom, strangely, no matter the city, was always just two, maybe four blocks over from my condo. When I walked into a new job every other year or so and started to categorize those who would remain and those who would be sent away, and that which would become streamlined and that which could be abandoned, I always felt at ease. Work was my spouse, my family, my purpose.

As I stepped into the elevator to go up to my offices on the twelfth floor, I felt good, almost giddy. I’d successfully taken CreateBiz public three days ago, and I anticipated a warm reception from my board, replete with accolades for the high valuation of the company that had subsequently made the stock worth almost twenty dollars a share on our first day out on the public market. While most games for girls are centered on fashion or beauty, our product created virtual businesses. For the most part, I think games are a ridiculous waste of time given how many wonderful books there are in the world, but being the entrepreneur and capitalist that I am, I was enamored with our product. It was fun, thought-provoking, creative and educational all at once. On my first day on the job I told my new staff it was the smart girls’ answer to virtual gaming, a phrase which our marketing executive immediately seized upon and implemented into a full-fledged campaign that yielded huge numbers within its first month on the market. We were a sensation, the most sought-after product of last year’s Christmas season, and similar sales were predicted for the upcoming holiday season.

The founder, Ralph Butters, was a young, male version of a crazy cat lady, designing genius games in the basement of his house with six cats at his feet. He sported a receding hairline and a greasy ponytail—yes, it is possible to have both. A nervous twitch made his right hand jerk about like Mick Jagger holding a microphone on the last night of the last tour of his life. All of which rendered him completely unable to interact in the real world. I secretly wondered if he created games as a way to cope with his loneliness.

Regardless of the reasons for Ralph’s creation, his strangeness made it necessary to hire me. My goal, as it had been many times throughout my career, was to make it profitable and take it public. I did that, in two years, which no one thought we could do, including my board of directors. As was usually the case, we had an impressive board from the high-tech community to whom I was accountable. The board had not only invested substantial amounts of money into CreateBiz, it also advised me on certain aspects of the business. However, Ralph was still in charge, as he owned a majority of the shares, so ultimately I answered to him. So far that hadn’t been an issue. The one and only time I’d met him, he sweated so profusely—I assume from nerves—that he hadn’t ventured into the offices again. He left me alone for the most part, deferring to my experience and business acumen. For my part, I had the utmost respect for his mind and creativity, knowing he was certainly a genius, whilst I was merely good at business. There’s a difference, and I’m humble enough to know it. Having worked with many creative geniuses over the years, I’ve noticed that the smarter they are, the less likely they are to be comfortable with people. On a certain level, I understood this frailty, as I also found human, emotional connection difficult. I presented a persona of well-dressed, polished businesswoman, charmed rooms full of people with ease, made networking connections that led to deals and steered large groups of employees in a common direction. But that was only on the surface. No one was allowed inside weakness. I made a conscious choice to remain uninvolved with anyone in any emotional capacity, with the lone exception of my sister. This quality was a blessing as an executive. I could make decisions from a place of logic rather than emotion. But in my personal life? Perhaps I was more like Ralph than I cared to admit, minus the cats.

After stepping off the elevator, I stood for a moment just inside the glass doors of our office. It was abuzz with productivity, with excitement, with people doing good work. Was there anything better? I’m sure there was, for people lucky enough to have families and lives outside of work. Here, I felt useful and grounded. It smelled of coffee, new carpet, various perfumes and colognes, burned popcorn from one of the absentminded software developers. The sounds of various printers, the buzz from the overhead lights, phones ringing, the receptionist putting calls through were a type of music to me.

I sighed happily as I waved a greeting to our receptionist and headed to my office. I had five minutes before my first meeting and wanted to check with Charlotte about the schedule for the rest of the day. Charlotte, my reliable assistant, had been with me since I started two years ago. A single woman in her thirties with an English degree and a dream of getting her mystery novels published, Charlotte made a living by working a day job for me. As was the case with all good assistants, I couldn’t function without her. She sat at her desk, already typing at her computer, and looked up with a wan smile. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her usually perfect makeup had been either rubbed or cried off. Had she been out all night? It was not like her to be out late partying, but she might have been celebrating the Initial Public Offering. I had made sure she received a handsome stock grant to reward her for all her hard work, hoping that someday she would make enough on the stock that she could devote herself to writing full-time.

“Late night celebrating?” I asked, teasing. “I hope it was with a boy.”

I expected her to laugh and confess all, as she sometimes told me tales of her online dating escapades, but instead her eyes filled with tears. She rose from her chair, murmuring a tearful apology, and ran toward the restroom. What could be wrong? Charlotte was solid, unflappable. Was there trouble with a boyfriend? I didn’t think she had one, but she had mentioned she’d been on a string of first dates she met online. That’s it, I thought, she must have gone out with a jerk from one of those sites. All online dating sites should have the tagline “Guaranteed to Make Grown Girls Cry.”

I glanced at my calendar that Charlotte had up on her screen. All it said was “conference room,” with no mention of whom I would be meeting with. Charlotte hadn’t returned, so I decided to head there anyway. I was surprised to find the head of the board, Eli Winn, and our HR Director, Rachel Fallow, sitting at the end of the long, oval table. I stepped inside. “Hey, guys. Are you expecting me?”

“Yes, come on in. Close the door, please,” said Rachel.

Eli nodded his head in greeting as I shut the door and took a seat.

“What’s going on? Do we have trouble with an employee?”

Rachel wouldn’t look at me. Something wasn’t right. The hair on my arms stood up. Then it occurred to me: I was about to be fired. I’d been on the other side of this table with Rachel enough times to know what was about to happen. My heart started to pound. Scalp tingling. Damp palms.

Before they had the chance to say the words I knew were coming, I asked, “Why?”

Eli shook his head, almost shamefully. “Ralph wants to run things without your influence. He thinks you degrade his authority.”

Rachel put a hand on his arm. He wasn’t supposed to say anything revealing and truthful, and he’d already said too much. She spoke next, her voice devoid of any inflection. “Ralph believes he’s the right leader to take the company forward. He wants to be more of a public presence both here at the office and with our consumers.”

“He’ll have to answer to shareholders and the board now. It’s not just him in his basement. Does he realize that, Eli?”

Eli’s usual olive complexion had a green tinge this morning. An image of the Grinch flashed through my mind. The bags under his eyes indicated he hadn’t slept much. Strangely, I felt compassion for him, despite the fact that he was in the process of firing me. This was business, where at any given moment a decision could be made that obliterated any future success. He knew getting rid of me was a mistake, but there was nothing he could do. As if he knew my thoughts, Eli nodded. “He owns a majority of the stock, Bliss. He can still call the shots. And the board supports the decision.”

That stung. “Right. I understand.” No reason to act emotional. If Ralph wanted me out, there was nothing I could do. Never let them see you sweat, I told myself, borrowing the marketing phrase from the eighties deodorant commercial—my mantra through many stressful situations. I was cool on the outside while inside my stomach felt like I’d just taken a large and unexpected dip on a roller coaster. I’ve always hated roller coasters.

“We have a package for you,” said Rachel. “It’s generous, in exchange for your signature of release.”

“Yeah, right. I know the drill.”

She hadn’t lied. The terms were generous. I kept all my stock, which if things continued to go well, could be worth millions, and a year’s salary plus benefits. But it wasn’t the money. It hadn’t been about the money for at least three companies now. I’d set out to have enough money in savings and stocks by age fifty that I could retire if I wanted to. I’d made that goal by thirty-five, the result of equal parts living frugally and choosing several companies that did well on the public market. I always took stock over salary, and it had paid off several times. I was rich. Rich enough for me, anyway. But this hurt, regardless. Ejected without warning from something I felt I had built with eighty-hour workweeks for the last two years, not to mention the employees I’d had a hand in hiring and mentoring. As was the case with all my positions, this wasn’t just a job for me. This was my life.

“You have seven days to decide,” said Rachel.

I gave her what I hoped was a withering stare. “I’m quite aware of how this works.” I flipped to the last page, where I was to agree they’d done nothing wrong and that I wouldn’t turn around and sue them. I signed and slid it back across the table. “Well, now I know why Charlotte was crying.”

“You’ll be missed by the staff,” said Eli.

“We’ll pack up your things and have them sent to you via messenger,” said Rachel.

The old “you can’t even pack up your own things because you’re a threat to the company” routine. What did they think? That I’d be foolish enough to harm my reputation by sending some kind of angry message out to the employees? Suddenly I was surprised they didn’t have security waiting to walk me to my car. “My laptop is in my office.” I slid my work phone across the table. “You’ll want this too, I suppose.” At least I’d been meticulous about keeping my personal business on my personal phone. Not that I had much personal business. Actually I had no personal business, except for emails from Blythe and my nieces. Blythe and the girls. What was I going to tell them? Aunt Bliss has been canned, given the old sack, fired. I stumbled toward the elevator, a ringing in my ears.

 

 

 

BLUE MOON – COMING AUGUST 8TH

The second in my BLUE MOUNTAIN COLLECTION, BLUE MOON is coming August 8th, 2015. It’s available for Pre-order now!

I’m over at “Snoqualmie Living” today!

I’m guest writing for my lovely friend and fellow Snoqualmie resident, Danna McCall, today. She’s a local legend around here, keeping us informed on everything related to our little town. I’ll be writing for her twice a month from now on and I couldn’t be more excited. This one is about the last day of school. Excitement or dread? You tell me.

Here’s the LINK. Have fun.

Guest Post – Dana Tanaro Britt

Today I welcome Dana Tanaro Britt. She’s just released her first novel, “Shades of Blue”, and I’m so happy and excited for her. She agreed to write something for us today that might give us a little inspiration for our ordinary lives. Enjoy.

**

Thank you, Tess, for letting me spend a few moments in your space today—I appreciate you & your readers for having me here.

Everywhere we turn there are folks telling us how to manage our increasingly shrinking time, how to get more done faster & better…go, go, go! By the same token, there are the same amount of folks telling us how to slow down, how to enjoy life at a slower pace. I don’t know about you, but the cacophony of voices offering ‘advice’ is enough to make me cover my ears and rock.

I’m here today to tell you the secret to life, the secret to happy moments and peaceful days…ready? Got pen & paper or phone notes handy to write this down? Here goes…

The secret to life is This Moment. Not fast, not slow, just This One.

That’s right *nods* That’s all there is to it. Obviously, I learned this from that guru that lives at the top of the highest peak–which I climbed so I could ask him for us all. *laughs* In all seriousness, how much different, how much calmer, more peaceful, more relaxing would any given day be if This Moment is where we put our focus.

If, while cooking supper with the kids, you’re smelling the deliciousness, you’re truly hearing their tales, putting aside the worries of the day for This Moment. While busting your butt on the elliptical, you’re feeling those muscles burn, how your heart is pounding, thinking about what good you’re doing for your body—you fought the pull of the couch and made it to the machine!

If you find yourself rolling your eyes as you read this, finding me guilty of oversimplification, that’s just fine. All I ask is that you take This Moment and focus on the sensory parts, one by one. Focus on what you’re seeing, touching, smelling, hearing. As you focused on those senses, did you feel your neck muscles relax just a fraction? Your breathing get just a little deeper, easier? Oversimplified ain’t so bad now, is it?

My new book, Shades of Blue, is set on a far-flung island. The location alone brings my characters a measure of peace and breathing space. Not just because it’s an island—too bad we can’t all have one—but because their senses are louder than the cacophony of outside voices.

My wish for you is that you do just that, let your senses take over and take each moment as it comes—quiet the voices that say hurry or slow down, just truly focus on the moment you’re in, the task at hand, the people, the scenery, whatever is right there in This Moment. Then? Do the same with the next moment.

**

SHADES OF BLUE

By Dana Tanaro Britt

“I can promise you one thing will stay the same—me.”

She wants to get lost in her memories.

He wants her to find her way home.

Heart-broken and reeling with grief, Charlie flees to a far-flung tropical island in search of a safe haven where she can let her treasured memories consume her. Hiding away from the world, she battles nightmares and fresh tragedy while trying to make sense of her new reality.

Living his island dream, firefighter-turned-fisherman Gabe Montgomery is determined to be Charlie’s port in her storm of pain and loss. Blindsided by life-changing revelations from his own past followed by the possibility of terrifying personal loss, Gabe realizes that sometimes letting go is as much a part of love as holding on.

When Charlie and Gabe acknowledge their powerful connection and cling to one another for comfort and hope, both face a frightening dilemma: surrender to the past, or face the challenges before them.

Will the memories and mistakes of the past consume them or can Charlie and Gabe hold fast to each other and the hope that will bring them to promising future together?

 

ABOUT DANA TANARO BRITT

Once upon a time, a sassy Kentucky girl fell in love with a handsome Hoosier boy. What followed is a still-unfolding story filled with laughter, children…and pizza–yes, pizza.

When Dana Britt is not writing stories of hope, home and happily ever after, she can be found porch sitting with a book in hand. Her idea of a perfect day is a road trip that includes sunshine, taking pictures and spending time with her own Hero and two young adult children. Dana often shares bits about it all online at DanaBritt.com–she’d love for you to stop by!

http://danabritt.com/

https://www.facebook.com/dtbritt1

https://twitter.com/Dana_Britt

 

**

Excerpt from “Shades of Blue”.

Shades of Blue Excerpt

How he’d known it was her, Gabe couldn’t say for sure, but he was certain. Her curly hair—What were those colors? cinnamon? chestnut?—fell across her face, a blue scarf having fallen askew in the breeze. Gabe waited, suddenly afraid he’d freaked her out— but, after all, it was she who’d ventured out in public, wasn’t it? Charlie gestured to the other chair, still not looking at him.

He pulled the chair out and sat, reaching out with one finger to toy with the whimsical sea glass in the shapes of shells bracelet adorning her wrist.

“Hello, Gabe,” the familiar husky voice spoke softly, her gaze yet on the sea as if she were still gathering her courage to look at him.

“Hello, Charlie,” he replied just as softly, looking at her, waiting. He let go of her bracelet, his hand resting on the table between them.

Tentatively, she put her hand in his and used the other one to lift her shades, pushing back her hair and finally looking at him, her eyes a dark sapphire blue. Her fingers gripped his tightly, surprisingly strong.

He smiled, watching her worry the edge of her bottom lip with her teeth—a mannerism that somehow seemed to suit her.

She took a slow, deep breath and started to speak, but stopped, her lip quivering slightly before she caught it in her teeth again.

Gabe looked down at their linked fingers rather than stare at her as she battled for composure. “It’s gonna be okay.” He repeated what he’d said to her many times in the dark, looking back at her face to see her tremulous smile, her eyes back out to the sea.

 

 

Guest Post – Lisa M. Gott

Once in awhile I meet another author I feel an emotional connection to, regardless that we have yet to meet in person. Author Lisa Gott is like this for me. I’d followed her for years in the Indy book world before we actually started interacting via Facebook and became real friends. She is sweet, funny and talented. She’s also extremely generous to other authors. The support she’s given me since the release of DUET FOR THREE HANDS has moved me to tears on more than one occasion. I think of her as a walking heart – the biggest heart you can imagine.

I was thrilled when the story of her romance with her now husband Buddy Gott unfolded before my eyes. So I asked her to write about how she found love after heartbreak, knowing it would inspire me to remain hopeful and I was not disappointed. For all of you with broken hearts, I hope it will inspire you as much as it did me.

I know you’ll join me in congratulating her on the release of “A THIRTY SOMETHING GIRL”.

***

Our hearts are broken numerous times over the course of our lives. Sometimes by lovers, sometimes by friends, sometimes by our families. Each time, we stoop down and pick up the shattered pieces and try to make ourselves whole again. But with each fall, the remnants of our once flawless existence become more and more jagged. And we never do fit back together quite like we did before. The pain. It changes us forever.

At some point, we grow tired of putting that puzzle back together. We contemplate taking all those beautifully weathered pieces and tucking them away. Because if they are locked up, they can’t fall and break again.

I remember reaching that point. I opened the box hidden deep inside my soul, and took my heart and everything sweet, loving, and beautiful within me and dumped it inside. Locked it up. Threw away the key. Because there was no way I could pick those pieces up again. No way I could survive putting “me” back together. I was tired of being hurt.

And I “lived” that way for several years. I thought I was happy. I woke up each day and lived my life the way I wanted to. I was free to be the person I was. It was liberating. No one could hurt me, because no one could touch me.

No one could touch me…

There is nothing wrong with being on your own and being happy with who you are and where your life is. But there is something very wrong with not ever giving anyone a chance, or, at the very least, believing in the possibility. What I came to realize was that I had locked up more than my heart. I had locked up hope. To feel, really feel, joy, we must open ourselves up to the possibility of pain. We appreciate the feeling of being whole, because we know how very bad it feels to be broken.

And so I unlocked the chest and let my heart free once more. I was scared. So scared. But for the first time in a very long time, I felt alive. It took a lot of hurt and a lot of pain before life thought I was ready for the most precious and beautiful of gifts – my best friend, my soul mate, my husband.

His love has redefined everything I ever thought was wonderful in this world. His love has given every horrible experience in my life a beautiful purpose. And with each passing day, those jagged edges become less and less so.

If I had kept my heart locked up. If I had chosen to give up. I would have never experienced the most wonderful feelings in the world – to love someone more than anyone else has and feel the same kind of love given right back to me.

So the next time you stoop down to pick up the shards of your broken heart, and you feel the burn of your tears slide down your face, smile at the hope that one day someone will come along and mend you in a way even you could never mend yourself.

About the Author

Lisa M. Gott is a contemporary literary fiction author. Her stories tell of the human spirit – sometimes sad, sometimes not – most can relate to them on some level or another.

When she’s not feverishly weaving words, you can find her enjoying nature, spending time with her incredible husband, and, sometimes, sipping a latte. Okay, maybe more than sometimes.

 

About the Book

A Thirty-Something Girl follows the story of Hope. At the age of 30, she finds her life in utter shambles. Everything that could go wrong has – divorce, loss of a child, financial struggles. It is the love and unfettered support of her close friends who keep her from being lost in the quicksand of utter despair. As she slowly begins to wrap her head around who she is and what it means to be happy, she meets a man, Sam. Sam is also not a stranger to hardship and finds himself at his own crossroads. Together they find comfort and peace in one another; a soft, quiet place to fall, when the rest of the world is too hard and too noisy to inhabit.

A Thirty-Something Girl is a story about the power of human resilience, the importance of friendships, and the magic of true love. It is a story that teaches us (and reminds us) that happiness is actually a very simple concept: it is a choice. A choice we must remember to make each and every day.

Available for purchase from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Courage Doesn’t Roar

My goal on this blog has always been to write authentically about my life and experiences. I have not shied away from the real stuff because my deepest wish is that my words inspire others to continue to fight another day, despite how hard life is. I’ve written about fear and doubt and that awful insatiable darkness that wants to take us under, even when it was hard to bare my soul with such vulnerability. For me, writers have a responsibility to illuminate the human experience. And to do so, one has to write the truth.

I’ve been through a lot of difficulties in my personal life since the day I wrote my first post until now. During and after my divorce, there have been some dark moments. I’ve chronicled many of them on the pages of this blog. I have also shared the beautiful parts of my life and it has given me great joy to do so. Writers write to be understood, to share our stories, to express our deepest thoughts and desires. We cannot explain exactly why it matters so much to us, except to say it keeps us alive, present, connected to our souls. It keeps us from succumbing to the darkness.

Writing this blog and having so many of you read it, has been a great privilege. For every comment you’ve sent back to me, thank you. For all of you who read without comment, I know you’re there. Thank you.

So, here’s the truth. Last week I came to the gut-wrenching decision that it was time to look for a ‘day’ job. Through dedication, grit, faith and a few tears, I’ve written eight books in five years. The four years since RIVERSONG became a bestseller have been the best of my life professionally. Being able to commit to writing full-time allowed great growth in my craft, which gives me a satisfaction second only to raising my girls to be thoughtful and compassionate people. In addition to the joy the writing itself has given me, I have met many wonderful writers and readers along the way. For this I am grateful. However, as a single mother, I cannot take care of my children if I continue writing full time. The last few years have brought much change to the book industry and I am unsure how to move forward in a way that will support my family. Unfortunately, it is almost impossible to make a living as a writer, even when books sell well, as mine have. This is the reality of the book business and one that I must accept.

Despite how hard it was to reconcile that I have to return to a ‘real’ job, I know that for everything there is a season. For now, my priority must be taking care of the two little girls that God entrusted me with. But I need you to know this – I will not give up. I will carve out time to write every day. I will continue to better my craft. I will never cave to the darkness. Perhaps it will be longer between books, but I promise more will come. Blog posts may be infrequent, but they will come.

Why do I tell you all this, rather than pretending that I’m still making a living as a writer? No one has to know the truth behind our public ‘social media’ personas. I know this. But I don’t roll that way. I believe in telling the truth, always. Lies never helped another human being feel inspired or less alone or less disenchanted. Pretending something is other than it is creates more anxiety and envy and self-doubt in others. And that is not my purpose. That is the opposite of my purpose. So here is the truth. I have to start over. Again. I’m sad. I’m scared. I’m disoriented.

But I know this for sure. We must never give up on our dreams or pursuing paths that are our destinies, even when the facts don’t always support that choice. I was born to be a writer. It is my gift and purpose. Has it been easy? No. Is it hard right now? Very much so. But no one ever achieved anything great without struggle and hard work. We all know this to be true. So, rest assured, I will fight another day. I will keep fighting for as long as it takes. I hope you will too.

The Surrounding Village

I wake on Mother’s Day to a cup of coffee delivered by Emerson. She grins at me and does a kick-ball-change movement with her feet as she sets the cup on the bedside table. The smell of homemade coffee cake drifts up from the kitchen below. Ella joins us, bringing gifts. Emerson’s written a poem from prompts at school. Ella decorated a cup with drawings of our cats’ noses –an idea she found on Pinterest. After I open the homemade gifts, they hand me a box from Nordstrom. This one was bought by one of my best friends but picked out by Emerson. Inside that silver box – a new workout skirt and a pretty blouse in Seahawk colors. Emerson gets me.

The girls decide they want to gather all the cards and letters from Mother’s Days of the past. They know I keep them all in my memory drawer downstairs and trot off to their search.

While they’re downstairs gathering our memories, I sip my coffee and think of my friend who, despite a busy work and travel schedule, took the time to take Emerson shopping for my gift. At Nordstrom, no less, which let’s be honest, is way more than I deserve or need. I marvel for a moment at her generosity. To say I’m grateful isn’t really an adequate description. But I am just that – grateful. She is one of several friends who volunteer to take the children shopping for my birthday, Christmas and Mother’s Day presents. These acts of kindness are the true gift, as they give my children the pleasure of choosing the perfect present for their mother. Beyond that, though, is something deeper – a lesson they will take with them all their lives. They learn of kindness, of generosity, of friendship. Like ripples on a lake, these acts of love will continue forth because they were witness to it.

This raising of children, especially as a single parent, is all about learning to accept gifts from the village that surrounds. It’s hard, sometimes, to accept the help. I am guilty of being proud. But the last three years have humbled me. I know without my village, without the women who step in to be help parent my children, I would be lost. I rarely ask for help, yet my friends, my mother, my aunt, offer it, again and again. Money, time, tissues for my tears.

It’s almost three years since my marriage ended. Holidays are still hard. Would I rather be part of a nuclear family? Yes. Do I feel that more keenly on holidays? For sure. But my village makes it bearable. My village keeps me from crying on the bathroom floor. Because they are here, I am not alone.

Our mothers come in many forms. For my children, they find mothering in my friends, their aunts, my mother. They will learn to be mothers and friends by watching those around them. Someday they will be a friend’s village.

On the list of things I know to be true? There is never too much love in any child’s life. We learn to love not only by being loved but by watching those we love being loved by others. Acts of kindness continue forth.

I’ll leave you with Emerson’s poem. This one’s getting framed.

The Hollow

It is Saturday evening. I’m visiting my friend Clare at her home. Downstairs her husband watches a ‘guy’ movie. Her little son, thirteen months old, is asleep in his crib. The smells of dinner, turmeric and garlic, linger. We sit on her couch and eat creamy cheese and those crispy crackers with the raisins that are my favorite. Between bites and sips of red wine we talk of motherhood, our work, her marriage, my search for love. We talk of God and the mystics, of the unexplainable nature of creativity. I speak of the sadness that follows me around and the anxious beating of my heart. I confess that I’m lonely for companionship, for someone who would choose to be there when I returned home and accept me whether I was weary or disheartened or joyous or triumphant. She does not flinch, does not look away, but remains watching with her clear eyes. “I understand,” she says. And in that simple sentence is the essence of friendship, of any loving relationship. I understand.

She’s just finished reading my latest novel. I flush with pleasure when she says it’s art I’ve made with my fingertips. She understands these things, I think, as I look around her living room, where her photographs and her husband’s paintings are displayed on their walls. This home is beautiful and eclectic, a reflection of two artists who took the ultimate leap of faith and married, bought a home together, started a family. All of it such a risk, I know now. Because sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes you have to let go and start again.

Before I leave, we embrace and thank one another for the gift of time. I feel loved and fed. The hollow place in my anxious heart has been filled with our kinship. But when I walk into the night air, the chill from the breezes off Puget Sound wrap around me. I shiver as I get in my car to drive east across the bridge to my life in the foothills. I cannot discern if it’s the damp, cold air or the sense of dread that chills me. I do not want to go home to an empty house. My girls are with their father and the house feels empty without them. I have a sudden image of a deep canyon and an echo. But I start the car and drive east.

When I arrive, I wait as the garage creaks to life, rising slowly, before pulling into my space. The tidiness of my nature isn’t evident here in the garage. Instead it hints at the messiness of my life. Books, photographs, saved papers and files are in boxes where a second car used to park. Our ‘fake’ Christmas tree, items set aside for donation, old speakers and a defunct computer crowd against the trash bins. On one of the shelves is my wedding dress preserved in one of those airless seals they do for you at the dry cleaner. “Your Wedding Gown” in fancy cursive adorns the box. It never ceases to draw my eye. It always makes me sad

Your wedding gown. I’d had it carefully put away after the wedding, hoping I might have a daughter to give it to someday. Maybe she would want to wear it for her wedding, or have it made into something new, I thought at the time. It is all tulle and sparkles and cut in a classic style that would hold up against the decades between weddings. But my two daughters, the ones I dreamt of and were blessed with, don’t want it. Not now. “Mom, wouldn’t it be bad luck to wear it since you and Daddy got divorced?”

I step inside. The cats greet me with their green eyes and flickering tails. I keep my coat on as I head upstairs to my bedroom, still chilled. The cats follow. I do not turn on any lights except the one in the bathroom as I change into pajamas and brush my teeth. The hollow feeling has returned. I stand in the doorway between my bathroom and bedroom. My quilt is the color of a clear sky right before nightfall with white pillows, newly washed and fluffed. Like an echo, I think of the Saturday night I hoped for at the beginning of my marriage. It smells of baked chicken and sounds like children laughing in the other room and tastes of red wine he poured while I tossed the salad. But it was not to be. This was. An empty bed.

I silently chastise myself for feeling so much self-pity instead of grateful for a quiet night to myself. But the emptiness remains. This is not the life I wanted, that I thought I’d have. No amount of bravery overcomes my sadness. My dream of a happy family has long since blown away in the breezes off Puget Sound. The possibility of a love of my own is doubtful, considering the odds of a woman my age attracting a man, not to mention how I am. You know, so much energy and emotion and my artistic soul. Plus, we come as a threesome. Three blonds for the price of one, I think, as I turn off the bathroom light.

The space between what I hoped for and what I’ve become – this is the place I live now. Echoes of the family I wanted are there in the garage. But inside is my life. An empty house on a Saturday night. Beds neatly made with no one in them. Sliding my bare feet into cold sheets. Two cats curling up near my feet.

All that said, I must fight my way through the hollow. I must, no matter what, have hope that tomorrow will be better. I know there is honor in continuing forth even when sadness wants to take us down, keep us from getting out of bed. And it is true that dreams morph. Disappointments often bring opportunities we couldn’t possibly imagine because they’re so much bigger than we ever allowed ourselves to hope for. Change brings pain but also chances for a new beginning. I am stronger than I was three years ago. Life is better, too, in many ways. I have the opportunity for love now, when before I’d accepted that my bad marriage was as good as it was going to get for me.

So tomorrow I will wake and open the latest manuscript and write, feed the cats, go to kickboxing and make dinner when the children come home tired and hungry. I will fight against the hollow, the sadness, for one more day. One minute at a time. I will embrace the family we’ve become – three blonds for the price of one. This is all I can do. And for now it must be enough to simply believe that a new, morphed dream awaits.

 

Insatiable Darkness

“Well darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable

And lightness has a call that’s hard to hear

I wrap my fear around me like a blanket

I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it, I’m crawling on your shore.” Indigo Girls, Closer to Fine

When I was a child I was afraid of the dark. Unable to sleep, I saw spiders and bugs crawling on the walls, convinced of their existence until I switched on the light and saw nothing but the tiny purple flowers on the wallpaper my mother had hung for me with her loving hands.

Now, at forty-something, I’m still afraid of the dark. Not the dark night but darkness itself. It is fear itself, this darkness, and it speaks to me in a shaming, ridiculing voice. It invades. It wants to crush me. It is the reason for every mistake, every regret.

Masses of things scare me. Inconsequential things like stories about ghosts, spiders, snakes, crossing busy streets on foot, the increasing crows feet next to my eyes, doing my taxes, burning the popcorn, going to the doctor, driving at night.

Big things, too, like dying before I can finish raising my girls, getting old, not getting old, writing, not writing, being single, getting married again, not getting married again, supporting my family as a single mother when my only skill is writing books, never selling another book. In relationships and friendships I’m afraid to be seen in equal measure to my fears of being invisible.

The dark voice is loud, insatiable. You’re a bad mother. You have no talent. No one could love you and your big, needy heart.

When I look back on the last thirty years, I know all the biggest regrets and mistakes were made from a position of fear. My two largest, marrying the wrong man and not writing seriously for all the years between college and Emerson’s birth nine years ago, were because I let insidious fear win. No one can love you. Your writing is a joke.

Sometimes I slip into the old fear mode. More often than not this last year the dark voice speaks. Get a real job. Don’t let anyone in because they will only leave you. Don’t trust. Expect the worst. The darkness is trying like hell to win. But I know enough now to know the dark voice is like the bugs on the wall, only there until I flip on the light.

So I flip on the light. I give fear the finger and look towards the light. I hug my daughters, call my mother, tell a girlfriend how much I love her, open the door when he knocks. I write and write and write.

Because light is love and love is the opposite of fear. The harder we love, the less chance fear’s ugly voice can invade.

And in this way we will win, my friends. Give fear the finger. Turn on the light.

 

Wild and Unruly

Guest posting over at author Arleen Williams’ blog today about my experiences growing up in a small town before moving to south central Los Angeles for college.