M.J. Mac's Blog, page 3
January 27, 2024
Chiseling Creativity
If you read my newsletter in December, you can skip this paragraph, if you didn’t shame on you and now you have to read the next one hundred and four words. It’s about the word I claim to strive toward each year. Some years, I’ve been AWESOME and remembered it 365 times. Sigh, and then there are the years I’ve packed the word away with the decorations. My word for 2023 was CREATE, and after reviewing my day planner, I’m reclaiming it for 2024. I’m recycling it because something exciting happened in my monthly writing workshop a few weeks ago. In this class, we write to prompts based on a passage our instructor selects. Usually, I work on whatever scene I’m about to write in one of my books, but something unusual happened that day.
The Passage: “Let’s Say,” a flash fiction piece by Julia Strayer
The Prompt: “I’m being robbed.”
Time: 10 minutes
I feel a hard push between my shoulder blades and fly forward like a superhero, arms outstretched, anticipating my fall on the dirty pavement. Gravel pushes into my knees, but the pain isn’t from the rocks now embedded in my skin. It’s in my heart seeing the two half-dollar-sized holes in my brand-new sparkly fishnet stockings. The pain in my palms and knees is minor compared to my heart which is constricting. I worked an hour of overtime last week to buy those tights. Not to mention the fact that I almost got fired today because the line was long, and the salesclerk was painfully slow—picking up the package, looking at it sullenly, sighing and scanning it with her little laser gun, and then placing my new tights in a bag. I had gone on my lunch break, and by the time I made it back to the time clock, where my supervisor stood, tapping her watch, I was out of breath and sweating, with the neck of the plastic bag crinkled in my fist like a thief stealing a chicken. Glaring at me as I placed the vanilla-colored card under the dial, I heard the guttural stamp and placed the sum of my value to the company in the gray metal rack. I could feel her eyes boring twin holes in my back, which meant I had to go directly to my station and couldn’t sneak over to my locker to get my sandwich, and all afternoon, my stomach alternated between growling and stabbing me with tiny, hot forks. I’m snapped out of the past and brought back into the indignity of the present when I feel the chain of my purse biting into the soft flesh under my arm. “Give it up. Don’t make me hurt you,” my ears, wearing wide, golden hoops that kiss my cheeks, hear an anxious, high, thin voice. I swear the links around my arm are going to sever my limb, but then the pressure releases as the strap snaps, and a yelp bounces off the brick walls of the alley. Hah! It hit him, I think, with smug satisfaction. I liked that purse, and I like it even more now, knowing it fought back. Yes, it was a knockoff that I bought out of the back of someone’s ratty old car, but it was beautiful, somehow glinting through the dusty, clear plastic bag in the sunlight. Putting it on my shoulder before I walked out tonight, I decided it was worth the two hours I spent babysitting my neighbor’s whiny brat, but now the strap is broken. Maybe I can use some pliers to fix it. “Stay down,” the adenoidal voice of the young teen barks, but now there’s the slightest tinge of nervousness in it, like he’s suddenly realized he may have bitten off more than he can chew. But all I can think is…I’m being robbed…me…of all people. Right here, one block from where I am supposed to meet my friends. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m usually invisible to punks like this twerp who pushed me down. At six feet and two hundred and twenty-five pounds, I resemble a refrigerator decked out in bright blue eyeshadow and a Dolly Parton wig. Looking at my bloodied palms freckled with sharp, tiny stones and the torn black mesh that has changed in size from a half-dollar to the lid of a gas station fountain drink, my brain clicks, and something primordial takes over. I feel a ruby-red smile lifting at the corners of my lips, and I kick out, swinging my booted leg around. I’m glad I chose the thigh-high gold boots with the chunky heels to go with my leather short shorts. I had debated which shoes to wear—sexy stilettos or the boots, and sliding the zipper up, I knew the boots were the right accessory, especially after gazing at my reflection. I liked what I saw—a hunk of woman going out on the town—prowling. Nothing and no one was going to stop me from dancing to the loud, heavy beat of the music pulsating from the club’s speakers while the strobe lights flashed across my sparkly fishnets, that is, until this little freak tried to ruin my night. I hear a crunch as the heel of my boot connects with something, and the twerp lets out a hyena-like yip of pain that echoes as I scramble to my feet. “Not today,” I roar, feeling all seventy-two inches of woman coming out of my throat as my fist connects with his jaw. “And you are going to pay me back for my torn hose, my purse, and for trying to ruin my night, you little creep.”
The Passage: “Let’s Say,” a flash fiction piece by Julia Strayer
The Prompt: “I’m being robbed.”
Time: 10 minutes
I feel a hard push between my shoulder blades and fly forward like a superhero, arms outstretched, anticipating my fall on the dirty pavement. Gravel pushes into my knees, but the pain isn’t from the rocks now embedded in my skin. It’s in my heart seeing the two half-dollar-sized holes in my brand-new sparkly fishnet stockings. The pain in my palms and knees is minor compared to my heart which is constricting. I worked an hour of overtime last week to buy those tights. Not to mention the fact that I almost got fired today because the line was long, and the salesclerk was painfully slow—picking up the package, looking at it sullenly, sighing and scanning it with her little laser gun, and then placing my new tights in a bag. I had gone on my lunch break, and by the time I made it back to the time clock, where my supervisor stood, tapping her watch, I was out of breath and sweating, with the neck of the plastic bag crinkled in my fist like a thief stealing a chicken. Glaring at me as I placed the vanilla-colored card under the dial, I heard the guttural stamp and placed the sum of my value to the company in the gray metal rack. I could feel her eyes boring twin holes in my back, which meant I had to go directly to my station and couldn’t sneak over to my locker to get my sandwich, and all afternoon, my stomach alternated between growling and stabbing me with tiny, hot forks. I’m snapped out of the past and brought back into the indignity of the present when I feel the chain of my purse biting into the soft flesh under my arm. “Give it up. Don’t make me hurt you,” my ears, wearing wide, golden hoops that kiss my cheeks, hear an anxious, high, thin voice. I swear the links around my arm are going to sever my limb, but then the pressure releases as the strap snaps, and a yelp bounces off the brick walls of the alley. Hah! It hit him, I think, with smug satisfaction. I liked that purse, and I like it even more now, knowing it fought back. Yes, it was a knockoff that I bought out of the back of someone’s ratty old car, but it was beautiful, somehow glinting through the dusty, clear plastic bag in the sunlight. Putting it on my shoulder before I walked out tonight, I decided it was worth the two hours I spent babysitting my neighbor’s whiny brat, but now the strap is broken. Maybe I can use some pliers to fix it. “Stay down,” the adenoidal voice of the young teen barks, but now there’s the slightest tinge of nervousness in it, like he’s suddenly realized he may have bitten off more than he can chew. But all I can think is…I’m being robbed…me…of all people. Right here, one block from where I am supposed to meet my friends. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m usually invisible to punks like this twerp who pushed me down. At six feet and two hundred and twenty-five pounds, I resemble a refrigerator decked out in bright blue eyeshadow and a Dolly Parton wig. Looking at my bloodied palms freckled with sharp, tiny stones and the torn black mesh that has changed in size from a half-dollar to the lid of a gas station fountain drink, my brain clicks, and something primordial takes over. I feel a ruby-red smile lifting at the corners of my lips, and I kick out, swinging my booted leg around. I’m glad I chose the thigh-high gold boots with the chunky heels to go with my leather short shorts. I had debated which shoes to wear—sexy stilettos or the boots, and sliding the zipper up, I knew the boots were the right accessory, especially after gazing at my reflection. I liked what I saw—a hunk of woman going out on the town—prowling. Nothing and no one was going to stop me from dancing to the loud, heavy beat of the music pulsating from the club’s speakers while the strobe lights flashed across my sparkly fishnets, that is, until this little freak tried to ruin my night. I hear a crunch as the heel of my boot connects with something, and the twerp lets out a hyena-like yip of pain that echoes as I scramble to my feet. “Not today,” I roar, feeling all seventy-two inches of woman coming out of my throat as my fist connects with his jaw. “And you are going to pay me back for my torn hose, my purse, and for trying to ruin my night, you little creep.”
November 18, 2023
NATIONAL PRINCESS DAY
It’s National Princess Day today. (You didn’t know that, did you? It’s a good thing you read these blogs.) The celebration of November 18th hasn’t been around for long, only twenty-nine years, and came about as a marketing tactic for a children’s movie, but I embrace the holiday all the same. Am I breaking the rule today by wearing my glittering diadem during a non-formal event? Yes, but it is National Princess Day. And I’ll have you know that my sparkling, golden tiara is placed perfectly on my head. How do I know this? Oh, you silly non-princess, place your thumb in the middle of your chin and extend your index finger to the center of your eyebrows. Now, circle your thumb up to the top of your head. That is where your tiara should sit. (Ah-ha! You tried it, didn’t you!)
It’s not easy being a princess. There is a reason Shakespeare wrote, “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.” Being a princess is not for amateurs or the weak. It’s a hard job, and occasionally, we have to remind our inner princess to buck up, especially when that dazzling piece of jewelry is digging its prongs into the tender skin of our head or clamps heavily onto our skull, rendering a headache that can make your eyes bulge like a rubber chicken. But you have to take a deep breath and remind yourself that you are the one wearing the tiara. There is a sticker in a ladies’ restroom in Louisville, Kentucky, which reads, “Chin Up Princess Or The Crown Slips.” In those times when the crown is heavy, your job is to carry yourself with confidence, fearlessness, kindness, and adaptability, no matter what comes at you, because that is what princesses do.
I celebrate November 18th faithfully each year, but three times stand out. The first was when I received a velvet box with my own crown blinking back at me. The second was an attempt to break the world record for the most fairy princesses gathered in a room (We nailed it!), but the third was probably my favorite—when I invited a friend’s daughters to be princesses with me. I told the girls to don their fanciest outfits because I had a surprise. Wearing brightly colored dresses we trooped down a dimly lit corridor, my friend giving me the side eye with each step. I stopped in front of two massive wooden doors and pulled them open while a cloud of music greeted us. “After you, my princesses,” I said to the young ladies who stood frozen in place, peeking into the room, their eyes wide and their mouths agape. “It’s time to dance.” And we did. We whirled and spun past golden-flecked walls. Shrieking with laughter, the sound of their high-pitched mirth bounced off the enormous columns surrounding the ballroom. We continued our dance, twirling, leaping, and pirouetting beneath a sea of dazzling crystals that hung from the chandeliers above us until we collapsed onto the floor in a fit of giggles. Okay, it was probably not very princess-like, but it was fun.
Before I close, I want to share some princess trivia with you. Rita Hayworth and Grace Kelley are among the princess ranks, as is Jackie Kennedy’s little sister, Lee. Princess Diana, Princess Ann, and Princess Ameera showed us how to be true humanitarians while rocking a diadem. Then there are the fictional princesses (or princi, as the Hubster calls Elvis and me). Snow White was the youngest Disney princess (and the only one with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame). Sleeping Beauty (aka Princess Aurora) had only a few lines in her own movie and only eighteen minutes on the screen, but she captured us. Mulan is ranked as one of the strongest princesses, and our girl Belle, the lover of all things books, broke a long-standing fairytale tradition by being the one who saved the prince. I love how she shook things up!
So, how will you celebrate your inner princess today? First, straighten your crown. It will make you stand taller and more confident. It’s kind of like making that Superman pose, but let’s think about this: his only accessory is a big S on his chest; a tiara is so much more fabulous. Next, look in the mirror and remind the reflection you see of how fantastic they are. And now, with grace and dignity, glide into the world, a scarlet cape trimmed in ermine across your shoulders, and remind the world that it needs to bow for a princess.
It’s not easy being a princess. There is a reason Shakespeare wrote, “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.” Being a princess is not for amateurs or the weak. It’s a hard job, and occasionally, we have to remind our inner princess to buck up, especially when that dazzling piece of jewelry is digging its prongs into the tender skin of our head or clamps heavily onto our skull, rendering a headache that can make your eyes bulge like a rubber chicken. But you have to take a deep breath and remind yourself that you are the one wearing the tiara. There is a sticker in a ladies’ restroom in Louisville, Kentucky, which reads, “Chin Up Princess Or The Crown Slips.” In those times when the crown is heavy, your job is to carry yourself with confidence, fearlessness, kindness, and adaptability, no matter what comes at you, because that is what princesses do.
I celebrate November 18th faithfully each year, but three times stand out. The first was when I received a velvet box with my own crown blinking back at me. The second was an attempt to break the world record for the most fairy princesses gathered in a room (We nailed it!), but the third was probably my favorite—when I invited a friend’s daughters to be princesses with me. I told the girls to don their fanciest outfits because I had a surprise. Wearing brightly colored dresses we trooped down a dimly lit corridor, my friend giving me the side eye with each step. I stopped in front of two massive wooden doors and pulled them open while a cloud of music greeted us. “After you, my princesses,” I said to the young ladies who stood frozen in place, peeking into the room, their eyes wide and their mouths agape. “It’s time to dance.” And we did. We whirled and spun past golden-flecked walls. Shrieking with laughter, the sound of their high-pitched mirth bounced off the enormous columns surrounding the ballroom. We continued our dance, twirling, leaping, and pirouetting beneath a sea of dazzling crystals that hung from the chandeliers above us until we collapsed onto the floor in a fit of giggles. Okay, it was probably not very princess-like, but it was fun.
Before I close, I want to share some princess trivia with you. Rita Hayworth and Grace Kelley are among the princess ranks, as is Jackie Kennedy’s little sister, Lee. Princess Diana, Princess Ann, and Princess Ameera showed us how to be true humanitarians while rocking a diadem. Then there are the fictional princesses (or princi, as the Hubster calls Elvis and me). Snow White was the youngest Disney princess (and the only one with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame). Sleeping Beauty (aka Princess Aurora) had only a few lines in her own movie and only eighteen minutes on the screen, but she captured us. Mulan is ranked as one of the strongest princesses, and our girl Belle, the lover of all things books, broke a long-standing fairytale tradition by being the one who saved the prince. I love how she shook things up!
So, how will you celebrate your inner princess today? First, straighten your crown. It will make you stand taller and more confident. It’s kind of like making that Superman pose, but let’s think about this: his only accessory is a big S on his chest; a tiara is so much more fabulous. Next, look in the mirror and remind the reflection you see of how fantastic they are. And now, with grace and dignity, glide into the world, a scarlet cape trimmed in ermine across your shoulders, and remind the world that it needs to bow for a princess.
October 22, 2023
Young Love
This morning, I had the privilege of watching young love on the beach. (No, not that kind, although I have happened upon it, and I usually do a quick about-face and hiss for Elvis to leave the investigating to the mosquitos.) It was early—the only music wafting through the air was the low cymbals of the tide rolling in and the parrots flitting about in the trees, shrieking back and forth like elementary school children on the playground. Elvis and I stepped on the beach, deciding which way to go. Yesterday, we went to the left, which meant today was a turn to the right. There were aromas on the coconuts lying here and there we needed to visit. A few minutes into our walk, I noticed a young couple by the big tree lying at the edge of the waterline. I have dubbed this giant “Floating Man” as it has drifted down the shoreline for the last two months. If you squint just right and have an imagination like mine, it looks like a man with wild, curly hair fanned out in the water, legs spread casually as he enjoys his moment of peace in the ocean. (You should see what I can do with clouds.)
But I digress. Elvis and I continue our sandy stroll, getting closer to the couple at the tree. They are young and in love, and you can tell this by the pearly grins on their faces as they look into each other’s eyes, locked in an embrace. I watch her drop her hands from his waist and, with a giggle, scampers onto the pale yellow trunk and begins to walk down its spine like a balance beam. Never taking his eyes from her, the young man walks beside her in the black and white sand, his hand outstretched in case she falls. She stumbles on a knot and immediately grasps his fingers, but I can tell from her smile as the breeze blows her long, straight, black hair around her face that she doesn’t really need it. She has perfect balance—she only wanted a reason to touch his hand. His soft brown eyes follow her every movement. He’s a young man in love. He can’t help it. She is lovely, as graceful as a cat, walking confidently toward the tree’s massive roots, hanging above the bubbling surf.
Elvis begins to walk toward the tree. “Nope,” I say, and she looks at me unamused. That’s her spot to check her pee-mail, and this is her beach. “On the way back.” She chuffs at me in annoyance, but I don’t want to break the magical spell cast over this young couple. Soon enough, something or someone will prick the balloon and let reality in, but it won’t be us. Elvis takes off for the high sand. The smells up there aren’t nearly as delicious, and she makes no bones about how annoyed she is with me. We walk on, and, like a voyeur, I steal glances over my shoulder at the couple. To be young and in love without a care in the world other than the person who fills your every thought.
“Okay, home,” I say to the blonde bomb a little later. She’s taken care of business and checked all but one of her spots. The dog, who was trudging in the sand seemingly on her last legs only moments ago, now bounds down the beach like a greyhound. I shake my head at her, my actress is in high form today. I notice that the young couple has left the tree and are walking toward me, stopping to take a picture of themselves, trying to capture their morning. The young woman frowns when she looks at the photo. Something is wrong. “Que tome la foto?” I ask hesitantly in my very broken Spanish, praying I haven’t said something wrong, and gesture at her phone.
“Si!” they answer with smiles that would make a dentist faint away at their loveliness.
I look at the screen showing the two faces and press the shutter, hoping I’ve caught their fairy-tale moment. I hand her back the phone, and she grins, seeing the image, and I breathe a little sigh of relief. My picture-taking skills are not noteworthy. If I can take one without my finger in the photo, it’s a good day. But what is reflected on the screen has captured what she wanted—the magic they both feel. “Gracias,” they say, never taking their eyes off the phone, and begin walking down the beach arm in arm. I nod and send up a little prayer for them. Please don’t let anyone burst this fragile little soap bubble today. Let them have this moment.
Uninterested in my capturing of young love, Elvis is engrossed in the smells of Floating Man, which was previously denied her. A multitude of canines have left messages, and she’s getting her nose full. When I get close, she decides she’s had enough. She gives me a look and begins trotting up the beach. It’s time for her to be with her true love, the one she thinks about all day—the stainless steel bowl with kibble and a garnish of mozzarella cheese. Ah, love comes in all forms.
But I digress. Elvis and I continue our sandy stroll, getting closer to the couple at the tree. They are young and in love, and you can tell this by the pearly grins on their faces as they look into each other’s eyes, locked in an embrace. I watch her drop her hands from his waist and, with a giggle, scampers onto the pale yellow trunk and begins to walk down its spine like a balance beam. Never taking his eyes from her, the young man walks beside her in the black and white sand, his hand outstretched in case she falls. She stumbles on a knot and immediately grasps his fingers, but I can tell from her smile as the breeze blows her long, straight, black hair around her face that she doesn’t really need it. She has perfect balance—she only wanted a reason to touch his hand. His soft brown eyes follow her every movement. He’s a young man in love. He can’t help it. She is lovely, as graceful as a cat, walking confidently toward the tree’s massive roots, hanging above the bubbling surf.
Elvis begins to walk toward the tree. “Nope,” I say, and she looks at me unamused. That’s her spot to check her pee-mail, and this is her beach. “On the way back.” She chuffs at me in annoyance, but I don’t want to break the magical spell cast over this young couple. Soon enough, something or someone will prick the balloon and let reality in, but it won’t be us. Elvis takes off for the high sand. The smells up there aren’t nearly as delicious, and she makes no bones about how annoyed she is with me. We walk on, and, like a voyeur, I steal glances over my shoulder at the couple. To be young and in love without a care in the world other than the person who fills your every thought.
“Okay, home,” I say to the blonde bomb a little later. She’s taken care of business and checked all but one of her spots. The dog, who was trudging in the sand seemingly on her last legs only moments ago, now bounds down the beach like a greyhound. I shake my head at her, my actress is in high form today. I notice that the young couple has left the tree and are walking toward me, stopping to take a picture of themselves, trying to capture their morning. The young woman frowns when she looks at the photo. Something is wrong. “Que tome la foto?” I ask hesitantly in my very broken Spanish, praying I haven’t said something wrong, and gesture at her phone.
“Si!” they answer with smiles that would make a dentist faint away at their loveliness.
I look at the screen showing the two faces and press the shutter, hoping I’ve caught their fairy-tale moment. I hand her back the phone, and she grins, seeing the image, and I breathe a little sigh of relief. My picture-taking skills are not noteworthy. If I can take one without my finger in the photo, it’s a good day. But what is reflected on the screen has captured what she wanted—the magic they both feel. “Gracias,” they say, never taking their eyes off the phone, and begin walking down the beach arm in arm. I nod and send up a little prayer for them. Please don’t let anyone burst this fragile little soap bubble today. Let them have this moment.
Uninterested in my capturing of young love, Elvis is engrossed in the smells of Floating Man, which was previously denied her. A multitude of canines have left messages, and she’s getting her nose full. When I get close, she decides she’s had enough. She gives me a look and begins trotting up the beach. It’s time for her to be with her true love, the one she thinks about all day—the stainless steel bowl with kibble and a garnish of mozzarella cheese. Ah, love comes in all forms.
September 26, 2023
Happy Birthday G.O.A.T
One year ago today, I published A Boat for a Goat, the first book in what has become a series, with book four coming out on November 1st. It was a heady feeling as I pushed the “publish” button, and a few hours later, when I received the email that my book was live, I almost wet my pants. I wrote a book…and people might read it! Oh crap! What did I do? Is there an undo button? What if I make a fool of myself? (Well…let’s think about that. Would it really be the first time?)
I didn’t set out to be a writer. I was the poster child for corporate America—suits, high heels, lipstick, phone surgically attached to my hand, and available 24/7—a real people pleaser. But something happened in late December of 2020. Cruise director Kennedy Reeves came into my life like that cheap adhesive glue they use on price stickers. No matter how much I tried to remove her, she was firmly stuck in my brain, and there wasn’t enough Goo Gone on the shelves to get rid of her. (I know you all think she’s this sweet, helpful young woman, but she’s actually a bit of a tyrant.)
“I have a story for you to write,” she said. “It’s great, and it’s going to turn your world upside down.”
“I’m busy and don’t need my world turned upside down,” I told her. “It’s complicated enough as it is. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“It’s a really great story,” she said in a sing-song voice, “full of quirky characters, drama, mystery...”
“I have those things already, trust me. Quirky characters galore and all the drama I can handle. And the mystery of who left the coffee pot on all night in the office is an easy solve—we all know who it was even if they won’t own up to it. Besides, I don’t know how to write a book.”
“Yes, you do. It’s deep down inside you, but it’s there. Plus, I’ll be there to help. And I’ve already done the hard work. Just write down what I tell you. Think of it like taking minutes.”
I ignored her for a week, but she kept knocking on my brain. It was a lot like sitting in the backseat of the car as your little sister’s finger crossed the imaginary battle line on the seat to poke you. I finally gave in on New Year’s Day, deciding to write for a few hours and see if there was anything there and also exorcise it and Kennedy from my brain. I had other things to do, and writing a book was not one of them. Starting the project, the same way I attacked anything before me, I opened my laptop and pulled up a fresh file in Excel. (Stop laughing; you already know I’m a Liner, not a Pantser, and yes, for those of you wondering, there were color-coded tabs.)
On April 1, 2021 (irony), I finished A Boat for a Goat, and during the preceding three months, words poured from my fingertips at a rate that I can’t explain. I researched and wrote every spare second I had—early in the morning before work, on my lunch break, and deep into the night. And the ideas came at all hours. I had scoffed at articles about authors who shared photos of receipts and air sickness bags with words written on them, and I finally understood the insanity. When inspiration strikes – don’t allow it to slip away. I kept a tablet and pen beside my bed and would wake up to find semi-legible scrawlings as my creative side took over during sleep. I sent countless notes to myself during walks with Elvis, and I will admit there was one section I wrote in eyeliner on the bathroom mirror because I was afraid the idea would vanish before I could find something to write with. But mostly during that time, I was smiling, which had been a rarity lately. My cheeks hurt. I was getting joy from what I was doing.
The Hubster and Elvis were patient and supportive during this time. Eating dinner was an afterthought and something to be done quickly so I could get to my laptop to write. There was one funny night when I came out of the guestroom/office after a particularly long and intense writing session. The Hubster looked at me in alarm. “What are you doing?” he asked as I lay crumpled on the ground, my fingers snaking up the door. “Making sure this scene is right,” I replied. “I want this guy to suffer.” The Hubster looked at me, blinked, and, shaking his head, returned his gaze to the television.
The rest, as they say, is history. I gave the original manuscript to a few people to read, and most of them didn’t hate it. A few told me to stick with my day job, but it was too late. By then, Kennedy had already suckered me into book two. “We’ll do a story about chefs with secrets, and there is a truly awful travel writer on that cruise. Oh, and I have another idea about a cruise in Alaska just to mix things up,” she whispered. “I’m so excited. There are so many things to tell you!”
Writing books is a little like having children, and like kids, there is a huge learning curve between number one and number four. But you still anticipate, dream, struggle, and worry throughout the process. When you finally receive the physical copy of your book, the one you get before anyone else gets their hands on it, it’s magical. Everything that was difficult drifts away as you admire your written words. The idea knocking around in your brain, the dialogue that ran through your head, the hours you spent researching traveled to your fingertips, and the result is right there in your hands—you are holding your story. On those enchanted days, I find a comfortable spot, open the cover, and read with a cheek-hurting grin on my face.
So happy birthday to my own special G.O.A.T. You were first and will always hold a special place in my heart—the Greatest Of All Time.
Oh…and if you are reading this – it’s free for download today, so tell a friend about my firstborn!
I didn’t set out to be a writer. I was the poster child for corporate America—suits, high heels, lipstick, phone surgically attached to my hand, and available 24/7—a real people pleaser. But something happened in late December of 2020. Cruise director Kennedy Reeves came into my life like that cheap adhesive glue they use on price stickers. No matter how much I tried to remove her, she was firmly stuck in my brain, and there wasn’t enough Goo Gone on the shelves to get rid of her. (I know you all think she’s this sweet, helpful young woman, but she’s actually a bit of a tyrant.)
“I have a story for you to write,” she said. “It’s great, and it’s going to turn your world upside down.”
“I’m busy and don’t need my world turned upside down,” I told her. “It’s complicated enough as it is. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“It’s a really great story,” she said in a sing-song voice, “full of quirky characters, drama, mystery...”
“I have those things already, trust me. Quirky characters galore and all the drama I can handle. And the mystery of who left the coffee pot on all night in the office is an easy solve—we all know who it was even if they won’t own up to it. Besides, I don’t know how to write a book.”
“Yes, you do. It’s deep down inside you, but it’s there. Plus, I’ll be there to help. And I’ve already done the hard work. Just write down what I tell you. Think of it like taking minutes.”
I ignored her for a week, but she kept knocking on my brain. It was a lot like sitting in the backseat of the car as your little sister’s finger crossed the imaginary battle line on the seat to poke you. I finally gave in on New Year’s Day, deciding to write for a few hours and see if there was anything there and also exorcise it and Kennedy from my brain. I had other things to do, and writing a book was not one of them. Starting the project, the same way I attacked anything before me, I opened my laptop and pulled up a fresh file in Excel. (Stop laughing; you already know I’m a Liner, not a Pantser, and yes, for those of you wondering, there were color-coded tabs.)
On April 1, 2021 (irony), I finished A Boat for a Goat, and during the preceding three months, words poured from my fingertips at a rate that I can’t explain. I researched and wrote every spare second I had—early in the morning before work, on my lunch break, and deep into the night. And the ideas came at all hours. I had scoffed at articles about authors who shared photos of receipts and air sickness bags with words written on them, and I finally understood the insanity. When inspiration strikes – don’t allow it to slip away. I kept a tablet and pen beside my bed and would wake up to find semi-legible scrawlings as my creative side took over during sleep. I sent countless notes to myself during walks with Elvis, and I will admit there was one section I wrote in eyeliner on the bathroom mirror because I was afraid the idea would vanish before I could find something to write with. But mostly during that time, I was smiling, which had been a rarity lately. My cheeks hurt. I was getting joy from what I was doing.
The Hubster and Elvis were patient and supportive during this time. Eating dinner was an afterthought and something to be done quickly so I could get to my laptop to write. There was one funny night when I came out of the guestroom/office after a particularly long and intense writing session. The Hubster looked at me in alarm. “What are you doing?” he asked as I lay crumpled on the ground, my fingers snaking up the door. “Making sure this scene is right,” I replied. “I want this guy to suffer.” The Hubster looked at me, blinked, and, shaking his head, returned his gaze to the television.
The rest, as they say, is history. I gave the original manuscript to a few people to read, and most of them didn’t hate it. A few told me to stick with my day job, but it was too late. By then, Kennedy had already suckered me into book two. “We’ll do a story about chefs with secrets, and there is a truly awful travel writer on that cruise. Oh, and I have another idea about a cruise in Alaska just to mix things up,” she whispered. “I’m so excited. There are so many things to tell you!”
Writing books is a little like having children, and like kids, there is a huge learning curve between number one and number four. But you still anticipate, dream, struggle, and worry throughout the process. When you finally receive the physical copy of your book, the one you get before anyone else gets their hands on it, it’s magical. Everything that was difficult drifts away as you admire your written words. The idea knocking around in your brain, the dialogue that ran through your head, the hours you spent researching traveled to your fingertips, and the result is right there in your hands—you are holding your story. On those enchanted days, I find a comfortable spot, open the cover, and read with a cheek-hurting grin on my face.
So happy birthday to my own special G.O.A.T. You were first and will always hold a special place in my heart—the Greatest Of All Time.
Oh…and if you are reading this – it’s free for download today, so tell a friend about my firstborn!
August 26, 2023
National Dog Day AKA Elvis is in the House
I remember the day clearly. The hubster and I were driving across Texas on our way from New Orleans to Las Vegas. He was at the helm steering the twenty-six-foot moving van that was jam-packed with everything we owned, and we were trailering our very impractical car behind us. I was in the passenger seat, which I swear was made of cinderblocks covered and covered in a questionable plasticky-vinyl material that stuck to my skin, and we were on day three of our journey. Yes, I know it’s a twenty-five-hour drive, and we should not have still been in Texas at that point, but the van was not a fan of Sammy Hagar, and the red needle on the speedometer never reached fifty-five. (There were times it would barely hit thirty as we chugged up a mountain, and I wondered if we would slide down the interstate like a playing piece in Chutes and Ladders.)
Now when I ride shotgun across the country with the hubster, there are a few things I can count on with him. He’ll drink Code Red Mountain Dew, munch on Doritos or something similar, stop the vehicle only when gas is needed – so plan your bathroom breaks and hunger pains accordingly, and head-banger music will be played because it keeps him awake. I myself think that seeing a sign that reads, “Prison Zone – Don’t Pick Up Hitchhikers,” is enough to keep one alert. The other one that caught my attention was a three-foot by five-foot bright yellow sign that said, “Watch for Rattlesnakes.” Why? Would they be hitchhiking as well?
I waited for the right moment. The tank and our bellies were full, and the sun was out. “Can I get a dog when we get to Vegas?”
It was silent for a few minutes. “Well,” my husband, who had suddenly turned into Ward Cleaver, sighed. “You’ll have to walk it, feed it, take care of it. It’s a big responsibility.”
Now mind you, I wasn’t six. I was a seasoned adult (that’s a polite way of saying I was between forty and fifty) who had held down jobs, paid her taxes, grocery shopped when she WASN’T starving, and put gas in the car BEFORE the little yellow light came on. My daughter was in college and wasn’t overly traumatized by my raising her. I had a pretty good track record of keeping her fed and watered. Made sure she received proper culture (Spamalot) and knew the lyrics to “Margaritaville” and “Bohemian Rhapsody.” And I did my best not to embarrass her in public. (Okay, I tried.)
“Oh, and the dog can’t sleep in the bed,” my husband said.
“Okay,” I agreed. Cross that bridge when you come to it, I told myself. The key is to get him to agree to the dog. I assumed the conversation was over and resumed looking out the window for hitchhiking rattlesnakes. I’d start looking when we got to Vegas for my new bestie.
The hubster took a long pull on his Code Red and looked at the asphalt before us. “There’s one more thing.” I felt a shoe dropping. What was the catch? “I get to name the dog.” There was a long pause, and he turned and gave me his signature blank look. “And its name will be Elvis.” I started to say something but thought better of it. Elvis? We were moving to Vegas, and it sounded kind of cool. I had been told once to practice calling your dog’s name before bestowing it on them. Imagine standing on your back porch at ten o’clock at night and hollering, “Stinkerbelle, where are you?” I rest my case. (By the way, after using this methodology, Stinkerbelle was changed to Stella.)
The drive finally ended (a lot of togetherness time), and after the last box was flattened, I began the search for our new dog. (She’s napping under my chair right now.) Las Vegas’ animal shelters are lovely, but unfortunately, as with any large city, there are quite a few. List in hand (like you are surprised), I drug the hubster to North Las Vegas Animal Shelter. I had found the perfect dog. He checked all the boxes, and, ironically, his name was Elvis. It was meant to be.
Well…it wasn’t. If it had been a Tinder date, there would have been a definite swipe left. Not wanting to deal with rush-hour traffic, the hubster suggested we look around. There were about forty minutes until they closed, and I shrugged. Sure. My dream dog was a dud. I’d start looking again tomorrow. But then…we rounded the corner and walked past a kennel. “Hi, my name is Electra,” the sign on the outside of her door said, and a long-haired blonde with a beaky nose who looked very much like me looked me in the eye. “It’s close to Elvis,” she winked, and I was in love.
Now the thing to know about Las Vegas is that you can get married WITHOUT A WAITING PERIOD – all you need is a picture id and one hundred bucks. Don’t have a bouquet – you can rent one, and if you want an Elvis impersonator to officiate, there’s a guy for that. However, if you want to adopt a dog or cat, that’s a different story. There’s paperwork, a cooling-off period, and an interview. Marry whomever you wish to in Sin City, and you can do it in the time it takes to get a manicure, but you better be serious about a lifelong commitment to any four-legged creature.
The next twenty-four hours were a mad scramble. I had to have this dog. She was me in canine form. The paperwork was sitting in the adoption counselor’s inbox before she got to her desk, and by nine, I was burning up the credit card with purchases for my new bestie. Ten minutes before closing, we became the proud minions of Elvis and carried her out like the princess she is.
Her personality came out as we got to know her. She’s an extroverted introvert. Likes adults but isn’t keen on kids. Toddlers and babies terrify her. Cats intrigue her, and birds are to be chased. Walks on the beach are fine as long as the water doesn’t touch her feet. She can hear the refrigerator door open while soundly asleep and will race to see what you have just stuffed in your mouth, and you’d better be prepared to share. White wine is fine, but red is better. And her favorite bar, Hawaii, is just down the beach, and it’s her bar. Just ask anyone there. Oh, and the no sleeping in the bed…well, she laughs and rolls her eyes as she takes up the middle third. “Humans and their rules.”
Now when I ride shotgun across the country with the hubster, there are a few things I can count on with him. He’ll drink Code Red Mountain Dew, munch on Doritos or something similar, stop the vehicle only when gas is needed – so plan your bathroom breaks and hunger pains accordingly, and head-banger music will be played because it keeps him awake. I myself think that seeing a sign that reads, “Prison Zone – Don’t Pick Up Hitchhikers,” is enough to keep one alert. The other one that caught my attention was a three-foot by five-foot bright yellow sign that said, “Watch for Rattlesnakes.” Why? Would they be hitchhiking as well?
I waited for the right moment. The tank and our bellies were full, and the sun was out. “Can I get a dog when we get to Vegas?”
It was silent for a few minutes. “Well,” my husband, who had suddenly turned into Ward Cleaver, sighed. “You’ll have to walk it, feed it, take care of it. It’s a big responsibility.”
Now mind you, I wasn’t six. I was a seasoned adult (that’s a polite way of saying I was between forty and fifty) who had held down jobs, paid her taxes, grocery shopped when she WASN’T starving, and put gas in the car BEFORE the little yellow light came on. My daughter was in college and wasn’t overly traumatized by my raising her. I had a pretty good track record of keeping her fed and watered. Made sure she received proper culture (Spamalot) and knew the lyrics to “Margaritaville” and “Bohemian Rhapsody.” And I did my best not to embarrass her in public. (Okay, I tried.)
“Oh, and the dog can’t sleep in the bed,” my husband said.
“Okay,” I agreed. Cross that bridge when you come to it, I told myself. The key is to get him to agree to the dog. I assumed the conversation was over and resumed looking out the window for hitchhiking rattlesnakes. I’d start looking when we got to Vegas for my new bestie.
The hubster took a long pull on his Code Red and looked at the asphalt before us. “There’s one more thing.” I felt a shoe dropping. What was the catch? “I get to name the dog.” There was a long pause, and he turned and gave me his signature blank look. “And its name will be Elvis.” I started to say something but thought better of it. Elvis? We were moving to Vegas, and it sounded kind of cool. I had been told once to practice calling your dog’s name before bestowing it on them. Imagine standing on your back porch at ten o’clock at night and hollering, “Stinkerbelle, where are you?” I rest my case. (By the way, after using this methodology, Stinkerbelle was changed to Stella.)
The drive finally ended (a lot of togetherness time), and after the last box was flattened, I began the search for our new dog. (She’s napping under my chair right now.) Las Vegas’ animal shelters are lovely, but unfortunately, as with any large city, there are quite a few. List in hand (like you are surprised), I drug the hubster to North Las Vegas Animal Shelter. I had found the perfect dog. He checked all the boxes, and, ironically, his name was Elvis. It was meant to be.
Well…it wasn’t. If it had been a Tinder date, there would have been a definite swipe left. Not wanting to deal with rush-hour traffic, the hubster suggested we look around. There were about forty minutes until they closed, and I shrugged. Sure. My dream dog was a dud. I’d start looking again tomorrow. But then…we rounded the corner and walked past a kennel. “Hi, my name is Electra,” the sign on the outside of her door said, and a long-haired blonde with a beaky nose who looked very much like me looked me in the eye. “It’s close to Elvis,” she winked, and I was in love.
Now the thing to know about Las Vegas is that you can get married WITHOUT A WAITING PERIOD – all you need is a picture id and one hundred bucks. Don’t have a bouquet – you can rent one, and if you want an Elvis impersonator to officiate, there’s a guy for that. However, if you want to adopt a dog or cat, that’s a different story. There’s paperwork, a cooling-off period, and an interview. Marry whomever you wish to in Sin City, and you can do it in the time it takes to get a manicure, but you better be serious about a lifelong commitment to any four-legged creature.
The next twenty-four hours were a mad scramble. I had to have this dog. She was me in canine form. The paperwork was sitting in the adoption counselor’s inbox before she got to her desk, and by nine, I was burning up the credit card with purchases for my new bestie. Ten minutes before closing, we became the proud minions of Elvis and carried her out like the princess she is.
Her personality came out as we got to know her. She’s an extroverted introvert. Likes adults but isn’t keen on kids. Toddlers and babies terrify her. Cats intrigue her, and birds are to be chased. Walks on the beach are fine as long as the water doesn’t touch her feet. She can hear the refrigerator door open while soundly asleep and will race to see what you have just stuffed in your mouth, and you’d better be prepared to share. White wine is fine, but red is better. And her favorite bar, Hawaii, is just down the beach, and it’s her bar. Just ask anyone there. Oh, and the no sleeping in the bed…well, she laughs and rolls her eyes as she takes up the middle third. “Humans and their rules.”
June 26, 2023
CONFESSIONS OF A SERIAL GIRL
So, I’m a confessed serial reader. I love the long story that ends and then picks up again with the next book. It’s why I’m already thinking about books five and six of the Kennedy Reeves series. I can’t find the end of the story.
My love of serials started early with Encyclopedia Brown. I couldn’t wait to get to the end of the short story and turn to the back to see if I had the answer right. When I was given my Aunt Eileen’s set of Nancy Drew books, I devoured them. Yep, right there on the spot, I plunked down on the rag rug, my back against her bed, and began reading The Secret of the Old Clock. I’m sure she was less than thrilled. I can still remember that book. It was a yellow hardback with Nancy on the front wearing a green dress and holding a big rectangular clock in her lap. But what I loved best about the fifty-odd books was that even though there was an ending, there was a beginning right around the corner with Nancy solving yet another mystery for one of her father’s oddball clients with the help of Bess and George, her cousins. I loved the town of River Heights; it seemed so quaint, but boy, there was a lot of drama in that little village. Then Nancy spread her wings and began to see the world, and I traveled with her to France, Egypt, Nairobi, and Japan.
I’ve always been addicted to serials, and I re-read books constantly to find some little nugget I missed the first time. In the many, many moves I have made and the unknown to be faced, there is comfort in knowing the characters and locations will always be the same for me between the pages. There are books and short stories I’ve read by Stephen King where a reference is made to an event in another town or happened years earlier, and I smile and think to myself, “Yep, I remember when that happened,” like an old man reminiscing with his friends about the good old days. The comfort of solving crimes with Lillian Jackson Braun in The Cat Who series took me on a whirlwind adventure as Jim Qwilleran, a down-on-his-luck newspaperman, became wealthy, but to keep the money he inherited, he had to live the quaint country life up north. Thank goodness he found some crimes to solve to stay busy. Even the more gruesome books I’ve read by Patricia Cornwell have left me with a satisfying amount of comfort, knowing that even the serial killer had become somewhat familiar. I discovered the Diane Mott Davidson series along the way, and…well… I’ll apologize now. Those books got damaged during reading because I had to try to make the recipes, she not only described in mouth-watering fashion but provided how to make the delectable dishes in the story. Some of the pages are glued together with egg white, there is flour in the binding of a few, shiny spots here and there with butter stains, and there was one recipe you can barely read due to a bowl of chocolate spilling on it. I was sad but satisfied when I finished the last book. It was a good run.
I think that is why I began writing a series with Kennedy Reeves. From the very start, I intended this to be an ongoing story, even if it was just for me. And I’ll continue the series until the story plays out. I wanted a story similar to the books I’ve read, with memorable, quirky characters that weave in and out. Major ones like Kennedy, as well as minor ones like Billy the Bellman, Vera Jameson, and Mr. Phyfe, as well as ones we’d like to strangle. (I won’t mention any names, but umm...hello? Omar?) I think in this modern world we live in, we need that sense of comfort—of the familiar. It’s like tomato soup and grilled cheese on a slushy day. Writing about Kennedy, her co-workers, and the passengers gives me a sense of belonging in a world that often feels aloof and uncaring.
And care? Oh my goodness, if you could only understand how much I worry about these characters. I felt the indignation and terror on the first cruise as an outsider tried to rip the team apart. I stood beside Kennedy on the gangway, my heart breaking with her as Omar walked down the pier. I watched Bert wipe the smear of ketchup off Art’s cheek and felt his nervousness when they went to dinner, and I spied on Rosemary and Franklin as they danced in the moonlight. When the Velveteen Rabbit asks the Skin Horse what real is, he sums up how I feel about my characters perfectly. “‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’”
(Sniff…sniff…I’m not crying. You’re crying. Pass me a tissue, please.)
I just finished writing book four, A Sleaze on the Seas. There is some tweaking still to do, but the gist of the book is finished. It’s been a difficult one to write. I started too soon, immediately after finishing A Heist on the Ice. I had so many ideas and avenues to explore…and I had to know what happened next. We all did, and honestly, I had no idea what would happen in the next book. All I knew I had was the title the hubster and I had come up with a year earlier and some ridiculous joke about lawyers and sharks. Other than that, I had nothing, nada. Then writer’s block hit, and it hit more than once. There were many days that writing this book reminded me of trying to drive up the icy and steep hill where I worked in Pittsburgh. Some days I made it. Some days, I ended up in the ditch. And then there were days when I silently handed my keys to the security guard wearing wet shoes. The same thing happened this time, although my toes weren’t numb this go around.
So, I did what a good writer does…I waited for my characters to speak. We’ll see what you think of the dialog. But don’t worry. The story doesn’t end with book four. A good series should be like a cruise—stepping on board wide-eyed with wonder, cute towel animals left on your bed, some sunburn and seasickness, exotic ports of call to explore, a patch of rough weather, and as you are walking down the gangway, already booking your next trip.
My love of serials started early with Encyclopedia Brown. I couldn’t wait to get to the end of the short story and turn to the back to see if I had the answer right. When I was given my Aunt Eileen’s set of Nancy Drew books, I devoured them. Yep, right there on the spot, I plunked down on the rag rug, my back against her bed, and began reading The Secret of the Old Clock. I’m sure she was less than thrilled. I can still remember that book. It was a yellow hardback with Nancy on the front wearing a green dress and holding a big rectangular clock in her lap. But what I loved best about the fifty-odd books was that even though there was an ending, there was a beginning right around the corner with Nancy solving yet another mystery for one of her father’s oddball clients with the help of Bess and George, her cousins. I loved the town of River Heights; it seemed so quaint, but boy, there was a lot of drama in that little village. Then Nancy spread her wings and began to see the world, and I traveled with her to France, Egypt, Nairobi, and Japan.
I’ve always been addicted to serials, and I re-read books constantly to find some little nugget I missed the first time. In the many, many moves I have made and the unknown to be faced, there is comfort in knowing the characters and locations will always be the same for me between the pages. There are books and short stories I’ve read by Stephen King where a reference is made to an event in another town or happened years earlier, and I smile and think to myself, “Yep, I remember when that happened,” like an old man reminiscing with his friends about the good old days. The comfort of solving crimes with Lillian Jackson Braun in The Cat Who series took me on a whirlwind adventure as Jim Qwilleran, a down-on-his-luck newspaperman, became wealthy, but to keep the money he inherited, he had to live the quaint country life up north. Thank goodness he found some crimes to solve to stay busy. Even the more gruesome books I’ve read by Patricia Cornwell have left me with a satisfying amount of comfort, knowing that even the serial killer had become somewhat familiar. I discovered the Diane Mott Davidson series along the way, and…well… I’ll apologize now. Those books got damaged during reading because I had to try to make the recipes, she not only described in mouth-watering fashion but provided how to make the delectable dishes in the story. Some of the pages are glued together with egg white, there is flour in the binding of a few, shiny spots here and there with butter stains, and there was one recipe you can barely read due to a bowl of chocolate spilling on it. I was sad but satisfied when I finished the last book. It was a good run.
I think that is why I began writing a series with Kennedy Reeves. From the very start, I intended this to be an ongoing story, even if it was just for me. And I’ll continue the series until the story plays out. I wanted a story similar to the books I’ve read, with memorable, quirky characters that weave in and out. Major ones like Kennedy, as well as minor ones like Billy the Bellman, Vera Jameson, and Mr. Phyfe, as well as ones we’d like to strangle. (I won’t mention any names, but umm...hello? Omar?) I think in this modern world we live in, we need that sense of comfort—of the familiar. It’s like tomato soup and grilled cheese on a slushy day. Writing about Kennedy, her co-workers, and the passengers gives me a sense of belonging in a world that often feels aloof and uncaring.
And care? Oh my goodness, if you could only understand how much I worry about these characters. I felt the indignation and terror on the first cruise as an outsider tried to rip the team apart. I stood beside Kennedy on the gangway, my heart breaking with her as Omar walked down the pier. I watched Bert wipe the smear of ketchup off Art’s cheek and felt his nervousness when they went to dinner, and I spied on Rosemary and Franklin as they danced in the moonlight. When the Velveteen Rabbit asks the Skin Horse what real is, he sums up how I feel about my characters perfectly. “‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’”
(Sniff…sniff…I’m not crying. You’re crying. Pass me a tissue, please.)
I just finished writing book four, A Sleaze on the Seas. There is some tweaking still to do, but the gist of the book is finished. It’s been a difficult one to write. I started too soon, immediately after finishing A Heist on the Ice. I had so many ideas and avenues to explore…and I had to know what happened next. We all did, and honestly, I had no idea what would happen in the next book. All I knew I had was the title the hubster and I had come up with a year earlier and some ridiculous joke about lawyers and sharks. Other than that, I had nothing, nada. Then writer’s block hit, and it hit more than once. There were many days that writing this book reminded me of trying to drive up the icy and steep hill where I worked in Pittsburgh. Some days I made it. Some days, I ended up in the ditch. And then there were days when I silently handed my keys to the security guard wearing wet shoes. The same thing happened this time, although my toes weren’t numb this go around.
So, I did what a good writer does…I waited for my characters to speak. We’ll see what you think of the dialog. But don’t worry. The story doesn’t end with book four. A good series should be like a cruise—stepping on board wide-eyed with wonder, cute towel animals left on your bed, some sunburn and seasickness, exotic ports of call to explore, a patch of rough weather, and as you are walking down the gangway, already booking your next trip.
June 9, 2023
ODE TO MY FLIP FLOPS
Look at you, my beauties. We’ve sure seen some miles.
Seeing the worn spots, my wrinkles break into smile.
The leather rubbed away in places, the soles paper thin.
Can you remember, dear friends, all the places we’ve been?
Living in my tote bag or waiting patiently by the door.
Simply sliding my feet into your comfort sends me straight to my core.
You’ve been tossed into scratched gray bins going through TSA.
(I apologize now for the looks you received at x-ray.)
New jobs, homes, and countries, and several oceans of blue,
Mardi Gras parades, concerts, goat races, and of course, walking Elvis too.
You’ve seen me through highs and lows, my dearest old friends,
Slipping you on for a walk always makes my heart mend.
My closet has housed boots, dock shoes, slippers, and stiletto heels.
But it is you, my ratty and worn flip-flops, that give me the feels.
Some of those shoes were expensive, money I shouldn’t have spent,
But oh, my darlings dearest, to have you, I’d pay a mint.
You can see they are my favorites, as evidenced by wear,
When they finally give out, I’ll be bereft. They’ve been rare.
Because who finds flips flops like these? They’re not Rainbows or Clarks.
Nope, just some trusted old friends with a place in my heart.
Seeing the worn spots, my wrinkles break into smile.
The leather rubbed away in places, the soles paper thin.
Can you remember, dear friends, all the places we’ve been?
Living in my tote bag or waiting patiently by the door.
Simply sliding my feet into your comfort sends me straight to my core.
You’ve been tossed into scratched gray bins going through TSA.
(I apologize now for the looks you received at x-ray.)
New jobs, homes, and countries, and several oceans of blue,
Mardi Gras parades, concerts, goat races, and of course, walking Elvis too.
You’ve seen me through highs and lows, my dearest old friends,
Slipping you on for a walk always makes my heart mend.
My closet has housed boots, dock shoes, slippers, and stiletto heels.
But it is you, my ratty and worn flip-flops, that give me the feels.
Some of those shoes were expensive, money I shouldn’t have spent,
But oh, my darlings dearest, to have you, I’d pay a mint.
You can see they are my favorites, as evidenced by wear,
When they finally give out, I’ll be bereft. They’ve been rare.
Because who finds flips flops like these? They’re not Rainbows or Clarks.
Nope, just some trusted old friends with a place in my heart.
May 20, 2023
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF AN MB ON ARMED FORCES DAY - BEST DAY EVER!
Today is Armed Forces Day. As a kid, this was a big event on the many, many military bases I grew up on. It was almost like the kickoff to summer, with only two weeks left until our teachers sagged with relief at our departure.
The day always started on the parade grounds, and we’d roll our eyes and do the head thing telling our mothers we’d be careful and, yes, we’d meet them at the designated spot on time. Then we’d race to the field and watch the troops march by - their uniforms crisp and their medals bright and shiny. We’d listen to the drum and bugle corp and hear the snap of the flags carried by the color guard.
The local JROTC would pass out tiny flags, and we’d tuck them in our back pockets. They would go on our bikes as soon as the boring speeches were over. And while the adults went on and on (they took forever!), we’d whisper behind our hands about what we wanted to do first because…
There were jets sitting nearby, begging us to explore, and tanks and helicopters to sit inside and pretend we were in command of them. We’d find the climbing wall, scamper over it, skinning our knees on the rough wood, and land with the wind rushing out of our lungs as our bodies hit the air-filled mats. On other bases, we zipped around the aircraft carriers playing tag or went down ladders into the submarines, feeling claustrophobic. This playground was the jumpstart to our hot summer days of playing make-believe.
There was always a picnic with grilled burgers, hotdogs, and paper plates full of watermelon. If it sounds like the Fourth of July, for us, it was. A special celebration for military families.
As the day wore on, the adult games would begin, and tired of looking at jeeps and planes, we’d flop on the grass to watch the branches go against each other. Tug of war was always a no-brainer. The Marines took that victory home at every base I lived on. My friends and I would watch their faces contort and turn purple with exertion as they pulled that white ribbon closer and closer to their side.
We’d check in with the parental units every hour to assure them we were alive and hadn’t bothered anyone. (MPs bringing you to the family blanket is NOT a good day.) Our mothers removed smudges of dirt from our sweaty faces, then sent us away with the instruction. “Come back when you hear ‘Taps.’”
Someone would shout that the ice cream truck had arrived, and we’d tear off to find it, wait in line for popsicles, and search for a tree to sit under and plot out the rest of the afternoon. And then it seemed like a minute later, we’d hear a lone bugler, and our world went silent and still. Every military kid who has ever lived on a base knows that the world stops with those first three notes until the last one fades away. Cars stop, and their drivers get out. The umpire of the softball game makes a “T” with his hands, and a hush falls over the area for ninety seconds of respect. Ingrained in us, we knew to stop our play and stand still, mouthing the words to the song. It’s a signal for the end of the day, but it was also a reminder of those who didn’t come back. Even as kids, we knew the heaviness that song meant. You knew when it happened on your street, and your friend that you played army with moved away, and you never saw them again, but soon after, a new kid would move into the duplex, and the cycle started again.
The end of Armed Forces Day meant dancing and fireworks. Being kids, dancing was icky, and my pack of friends and I thought it was gross. But..after the dancing was the fireworks, so we'd wait with irritated patience for the music to stop, and we’d hear that first pop and see the explosion of sparkles in the sky. Racing to the family blankets, we'd collapse like puppies. Dirty and smelly, with a ring of dirt around our necks and a Kool-Aid stain around our lips, we’d lay back and watch the showering of glitter in the sky. It had been a great day.
The day always started on the parade grounds, and we’d roll our eyes and do the head thing telling our mothers we’d be careful and, yes, we’d meet them at the designated spot on time. Then we’d race to the field and watch the troops march by - their uniforms crisp and their medals bright and shiny. We’d listen to the drum and bugle corp and hear the snap of the flags carried by the color guard.
The local JROTC would pass out tiny flags, and we’d tuck them in our back pockets. They would go on our bikes as soon as the boring speeches were over. And while the adults went on and on (they took forever!), we’d whisper behind our hands about what we wanted to do first because…
There were jets sitting nearby, begging us to explore, and tanks and helicopters to sit inside and pretend we were in command of them. We’d find the climbing wall, scamper over it, skinning our knees on the rough wood, and land with the wind rushing out of our lungs as our bodies hit the air-filled mats. On other bases, we zipped around the aircraft carriers playing tag or went down ladders into the submarines, feeling claustrophobic. This playground was the jumpstart to our hot summer days of playing make-believe.
There was always a picnic with grilled burgers, hotdogs, and paper plates full of watermelon. If it sounds like the Fourth of July, for us, it was. A special celebration for military families.
As the day wore on, the adult games would begin, and tired of looking at jeeps and planes, we’d flop on the grass to watch the branches go against each other. Tug of war was always a no-brainer. The Marines took that victory home at every base I lived on. My friends and I would watch their faces contort and turn purple with exertion as they pulled that white ribbon closer and closer to their side.
We’d check in with the parental units every hour to assure them we were alive and hadn’t bothered anyone. (MPs bringing you to the family blanket is NOT a good day.) Our mothers removed smudges of dirt from our sweaty faces, then sent us away with the instruction. “Come back when you hear ‘Taps.’”
Someone would shout that the ice cream truck had arrived, and we’d tear off to find it, wait in line for popsicles, and search for a tree to sit under and plot out the rest of the afternoon. And then it seemed like a minute later, we’d hear a lone bugler, and our world went silent and still. Every military kid who has ever lived on a base knows that the world stops with those first three notes until the last one fades away. Cars stop, and their drivers get out. The umpire of the softball game makes a “T” with his hands, and a hush falls over the area for ninety seconds of respect. Ingrained in us, we knew to stop our play and stand still, mouthing the words to the song. It’s a signal for the end of the day, but it was also a reminder of those who didn’t come back. Even as kids, we knew the heaviness that song meant. You knew when it happened on your street, and your friend that you played army with moved away, and you never saw them again, but soon after, a new kid would move into the duplex, and the cycle started again.
The end of Armed Forces Day meant dancing and fireworks. Being kids, dancing was icky, and my pack of friends and I thought it was gross. But..after the dancing was the fireworks, so we'd wait with irritated patience for the music to stop, and we’d hear that first pop and see the explosion of sparkles in the sky. Racing to the family blankets, we'd collapse like puppies. Dirty and smelly, with a ring of dirt around our necks and a Kool-Aid stain around our lips, we’d lay back and watch the showering of glitter in the sky. It had been a great day.
May 10, 2023
PICK ME...CHOOSE ME...LOVE ME
The other day, I gave a talk about marketing to my author group here in the land of swaying palm trees and iguanas. I approached the conversation like I did hundreds of presentations I’ve made in my life, from corporate boardrooms to classrooms. I made sure to have a little treat to start the discussion. (Yes, there were SunRumbrellas at nine o’clock in the morning, and by the end of the talk, we needed a few more.) I had humor to tell the hard, cold facts, lots of props for visual needs, and a bit of razzle-dazzle to keep everyone engaged.
The figures are pretty daunting. Three million books (that’s a three followed by six zeros) are published annually, and the number will be closer to four million by the end of 2023. This means the day that I release my book, a day I have carefully selected, sweated and cussed over, neglected the hubster and Elvis over, pushed myself too hard over…that day...eight thousand other books are now magically available to the world of readers. Let me break it down further…in the one minute it’s taken you to read these two paragraphs, six books were published. BOOM! (Excuse me, I need to find a paper bag to breathe into.)
But hey, who doesn’t love a good, scary story to make your hair stand on end? Remember that horror movie? You thought the maniac was dead, but the girl opened the door to find the real killer standing there holding the murder weapon. In the world of being an author, I just opened the door, and twenty violinists are plucking their strings as tense staccato notes pour out. The book market has flooded to ten times its size in twenty years, yet revenues REMAIN THE SAME. (Gasp...Sorry, I’ll be back in a few minutes. I need to hide under a blanket for a minute, gulp some wine, and breathe into my paper bag again.)
Writing a great book is not enough anymore. Oh sure, you wrote it. You designed the cover, praying it fits your target audience (unless you are lucky enough to have a publisher who handles this for you). You edit until your eyes are swimming and the pads of your fingers are raw before sending it to a professional editor. And while it is in their hands, you vacillate between terror that the book is so horrible the editor is feeding it to their shredder and composing a note to say, “Perhaps you should think about something else,” or you lay in a hammock daydreaming about the champagne corks that will pop at your book launch and the thousands of people that will stop what they are doing to sit down and read your book.
It’s in this window of time that some hard truths begin peppering you like sleet in a windstorm. You should have been marketing your book for months, even years before you released it. How many followers do you have? Do you have a website? What are your brand colors? Do you have a font family? (A font family? I can barely keep up with the human ones.)
Market research, and social media posts, and pages, oh my! Publicity, and Digital Ads, and Websites, Oh My! SEOs, AND KEYWORDS, AND HASHTAGS, OH MY!… Lions, and tigers, and bears are less scary than these words. Reading them, I get sweaty, my pulse races, and I do that thing where I walk a circle around the house while beating my wrists against my thigh. I just want to write, and that’s hard enough to do with writer’s block, creating unforgettable characters and exciting plots, researching, and sprinkling in fresh, pithy dialog, but now I have to dive off the high dive into the marketing pool? What if my bathing suit goes to the bottom? What if I belly-flop? (Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.)
I’m not alone on this walk. Every author, every small business owner: the guy who does your pest control, the place you take Buffy for her grooming, the mom-and-pop gift shop, and the bar around the corner your friend owns—we’re all going down this yellow brick road full of potholes to the Emerald City. Some approach the path like a horse on derby day: bumping against the gate, frantic to get out and run, legs furiously pumping, muscling others out of the way. And then there are those of us who trip and faceplant. We’re not sure what we are doing, and we keep praying that we somehow connect with our customers.
Could you do something for me this week? No…I take that back. I know you guys. Do it TODAY. In fact, do it as soon as you finish reading this blog post. On second thought, STOP READING and do it NOW. I want you to take thirty seconds and find the Facebook and Instagram pages of the small businesses you use. Find their websites. You know where they are because you use it to find their phone number when you need something. Like them, leave a review, comment on their post, and share their page.
Remember when you forgot to make Buffy’s appointment with the groomer, and she looked like Phyllis Diller? The groomer graciously squeezed Buffy in (although with that hair, it was a challenge), and Buffy, while still a bit miffed at the experience, pranced and paraded down the sidewalk while your neighbors looked on, appreciating Buffy’s combed locks. The groomer squeezed you in because she values your patronage and hopes you’ll recommend her. When your tire started making that slump-thump noise on the way home, you stopped at the tire shop just as the guy was closing, but he rolled up the bay door and plugged your tire, allowing you to get home safely. Did you give him a shout-out for that service? What about the company that makes sure that Buffy’s, ahem, business, is not in the yard for your mother-in-law’s shoe to slide across? (Trust me, if this happens, the withering glare you are getting is the least of your troubles.)
Did you realize that in addition to maintaining their business, they are also finding ways to say PICK ME, CHOOSE ME, LOVE ME! Don’t just do it on Small Business Saturday to make yourself feel good and check the box. If it’s a book you bought, post a review or leave a star (or five if it's one of mine) where you bought it. If it’s a small business, do a shout-out on your social media page and tag them.
You may not realize this, but the five seconds you took to like their page, leave a comment, share, or post a review, those are the things that whisper, “Hey, you’re doing it, and I believe in you…keep going.”
See you in two weeks! MJ Mac
The figures are pretty daunting. Three million books (that’s a three followed by six zeros) are published annually, and the number will be closer to four million by the end of 2023. This means the day that I release my book, a day I have carefully selected, sweated and cussed over, neglected the hubster and Elvis over, pushed myself too hard over…that day...eight thousand other books are now magically available to the world of readers. Let me break it down further…in the one minute it’s taken you to read these two paragraphs, six books were published. BOOM! (Excuse me, I need to find a paper bag to breathe into.)
But hey, who doesn’t love a good, scary story to make your hair stand on end? Remember that horror movie? You thought the maniac was dead, but the girl opened the door to find the real killer standing there holding the murder weapon. In the world of being an author, I just opened the door, and twenty violinists are plucking their strings as tense staccato notes pour out. The book market has flooded to ten times its size in twenty years, yet revenues REMAIN THE SAME. (Gasp...Sorry, I’ll be back in a few minutes. I need to hide under a blanket for a minute, gulp some wine, and breathe into my paper bag again.)
Writing a great book is not enough anymore. Oh sure, you wrote it. You designed the cover, praying it fits your target audience (unless you are lucky enough to have a publisher who handles this for you). You edit until your eyes are swimming and the pads of your fingers are raw before sending it to a professional editor. And while it is in their hands, you vacillate between terror that the book is so horrible the editor is feeding it to their shredder and composing a note to say, “Perhaps you should think about something else,” or you lay in a hammock daydreaming about the champagne corks that will pop at your book launch and the thousands of people that will stop what they are doing to sit down and read your book.
It’s in this window of time that some hard truths begin peppering you like sleet in a windstorm. You should have been marketing your book for months, even years before you released it. How many followers do you have? Do you have a website? What are your brand colors? Do you have a font family? (A font family? I can barely keep up with the human ones.)
Market research, and social media posts, and pages, oh my! Publicity, and Digital Ads, and Websites, Oh My! SEOs, AND KEYWORDS, AND HASHTAGS, OH MY!… Lions, and tigers, and bears are less scary than these words. Reading them, I get sweaty, my pulse races, and I do that thing where I walk a circle around the house while beating my wrists against my thigh. I just want to write, and that’s hard enough to do with writer’s block, creating unforgettable characters and exciting plots, researching, and sprinkling in fresh, pithy dialog, but now I have to dive off the high dive into the marketing pool? What if my bathing suit goes to the bottom? What if I belly-flop? (Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.)
I’m not alone on this walk. Every author, every small business owner: the guy who does your pest control, the place you take Buffy for her grooming, the mom-and-pop gift shop, and the bar around the corner your friend owns—we’re all going down this yellow brick road full of potholes to the Emerald City. Some approach the path like a horse on derby day: bumping against the gate, frantic to get out and run, legs furiously pumping, muscling others out of the way. And then there are those of us who trip and faceplant. We’re not sure what we are doing, and we keep praying that we somehow connect with our customers.
Could you do something for me this week? No…I take that back. I know you guys. Do it TODAY. In fact, do it as soon as you finish reading this blog post. On second thought, STOP READING and do it NOW. I want you to take thirty seconds and find the Facebook and Instagram pages of the small businesses you use. Find their websites. You know where they are because you use it to find their phone number when you need something. Like them, leave a review, comment on their post, and share their page.
Remember when you forgot to make Buffy’s appointment with the groomer, and she looked like Phyllis Diller? The groomer graciously squeezed Buffy in (although with that hair, it was a challenge), and Buffy, while still a bit miffed at the experience, pranced and paraded down the sidewalk while your neighbors looked on, appreciating Buffy’s combed locks. The groomer squeezed you in because she values your patronage and hopes you’ll recommend her. When your tire started making that slump-thump noise on the way home, you stopped at the tire shop just as the guy was closing, but he rolled up the bay door and plugged your tire, allowing you to get home safely. Did you give him a shout-out for that service? What about the company that makes sure that Buffy’s, ahem, business, is not in the yard for your mother-in-law’s shoe to slide across? (Trust me, if this happens, the withering glare you are getting is the least of your troubles.)
Did you realize that in addition to maintaining their business, they are also finding ways to say PICK ME, CHOOSE ME, LOVE ME! Don’t just do it on Small Business Saturday to make yourself feel good and check the box. If it’s a book you bought, post a review or leave a star (or five if it's one of mine) where you bought it. If it’s a small business, do a shout-out on your social media page and tag them.
You may not realize this, but the five seconds you took to like their page, leave a comment, share, or post a review, those are the things that whisper, “Hey, you’re doing it, and I believe in you…keep going.”
See you in two weeks! MJ Mac
April 24, 2023
Taking Chances
“We’re going apple picking,” the hubster says to me over coffee one crisp, fall Wisconsin morning in 2011.
“Apple picking?” I question and look up from my laptop. Apple picking? I wonder. Seriously? It was our anniversary weekend, and I had other ideas…a long lunch, some shopping…but apple picking? It certainly wasn’t high on my list of things I felt compelled to do. Well, this is all still new, I reason. We’d only been married two years, and I hadn’t exactly planned on moving to Milwaukee from Charleston, but there I was, living downtown in a condo in the Third Ward. Why not? It could be fun, I thought, mentally giving myself a push on the shoulder. So, two hours later, dressed in my cutest apple-picking clothes, we pull off the interstate and turn left. I will never forget that we turned left. It is etched in my brain.
“Um, babe, the apple orchard is the other way,” I say, but he doesn’t respond, which is not unusual. The hubster is a man of few words. A few minutes later, he pulls into a driveway, and that is when I see the sign on the metal building. “We’re going SKYDIVING?” I gasp, my mouth hanging open, and I receive his patented, over-the-eyeglasses look, which I adore but also makes me want to pop his eyeballs out of his head. I suddenly feel like I did five minutes before I walked down the aisle to get married. A whopping dose of apprehension with a side of excitement. I felt this feeling a few years later as we stood in front of an unsmiling immigration officer in the humid Tocumen airport. I stare at the sign through the windshield mute for a full minute. I finally utter, “Okay, let’s do it. If I don’t, I’ll always wonder.”
After going through check-in and the safety class, the two sides of my brain began fighting.
“This is going to be so cool,” my wild, adventurous side said. She’s the bold one who occasionally gets let out—you’ll find her sitting in the front seat of the roller coaster, riding a motorcycle, rappelling down the side of a building, hanging off a helicopter…packing up her life and moving to Central America… Now you understand why we don’t let her out much. Wild Child’s a bit of an extremist. On her bicep, you can read the words, “Take the risk or lose the chance,” tattooed in bold, black letters with a halo of flowers around them.
On my other shoulder was fear. Fear, you would think, would be a quiet, sniveling being. Oh, how I wish she was that way. Fear comes out, guns blazing, with her hands on her hips, explaining, rather dramatically, that whatever I am about to do is not only ridiculous but WILL NOT happen on her watch. I’ll admit, there are a few times I probably should have listened to her, but well...there’s a line about letting sleeping dogs lie. Shhhh.
The next thing I know, I’m putting on a very unattractive orange jumpsuit and removing my earrings and other jewelry when a man of medium height and dark hair in a set of black coveralls approaches me and introduces himself. “Hi, I’m Hoagie, your partner today.”
My friend Fear heard him, and her head snapped up. “Your partner’s name is HOAGIE? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” she screams in my brain. “It’s the name of a sandwich or something you call a golden retriever. It is NOT the name of the man who will hold your life in his hands.” And while she is shrieking this, Wild Child smirks as I step into the harness that will tether me to Hoagie.
As we walk across the field to the little plane that will take us up into the air, Fear changes tactics and pleads with me to stay behind—sweat beads on my forehead which is odd because it’s Wisconsin in the fall. Snow will be dusting the ground soon. Maybe this isn’t such a great idea, I think as my stomach begins to lurch. I had that same feeling as we stood in line to board our Delta flight to Panama. “There is no shame in backing out,” Fear whispers each time.
(As I write this, I reflect on how many of these life-changing moments happen as I walk down that long, white aisle covered in cheap carpeting to the oval door of an airplane.)
We reach our jumping altitude, and Hoagie taps me on the shoulder. I take a deep breath, lock my eyes on the hubster, and give my skydiving partner, a man named after a high-calorie, high-fat, sodium-off-the-charts bread roll stuffed with deli meat and cheese, a thumbs-up. We stand at the open door, and I swear you can see my heart jumping through the hideous orange jumpsuit. Fast forward eleven years, and as the hubster and I settle Elvis under the seat in front of me for our four-hour flight to Panama City, he asks if I am ready, and I feel butterflies the size of pterodactyls in my stomach but raise a shaky thumb and give him a tentative smile. “Sure.”
Take the risk or lose the chance, I hear Wild Child say. The cold air brushes my face. I bend my knees and push off into the air, and I feel terror, exhilaration, and, oddly…joy, if you can believe it. In that split-second, the smile that comes across my face is so wide and pure that my cheeks actually hurt. I’m thankful the hubster had the foresight to capture the moment, and I wish I could explain this weird recipe of emotions, but I don’t have the words. As Hoagie and I hurdle toward Earth at more than a hundred miles per hour, I feel pure, unadulterated joy. And let me tell you, even now, each time I leap off the diving board into this unknown bouillabaisse of life, those feelings of terror and joy bubble up.
“Let’s do it,” I say to the hubster, and a slow smile comes across my face, and I shake my head. I give him a slight shrug. “If we don’t, we’ll always wonder.” And so, the next skydive of sorts begins, and we pack up our life for the next adventure. Take the risk or lose the chance.
I contemplated the fourth book in my series for a while. Only a handful of people have read the series. Not a lot of interest yet. Take the risk, or lose the chance, I hear the words whispered over the roar of the ocean on my walk, and I come home determined to write the next book. You see, writing each new book, and even this little blog that only a few will read, is like those wild risks I have taken.
Maybe even scarier because putting my books out there is akin to standing naked in Times Square—people either gawk or ignore you. Fingers on the keyboard, pen scratching paper at three in the morning…these are the things that make the corners of my lips lift, and that same smile, as I jumped into nothingness, plasters my face once again.
Today is National Take A Chance Day. I know it’s a made-up holiday, but I like it. It reminds me to take chances, not peek around the bougainvillea—to go out and conquer. I’m not talking about taking a huge risk but step outside of your comfort zone. Bare yourself to the world…no wait, terrible choice of words there…wear clothes. We don’t want to cause risks that involve rubbernecking and accidents…but take a chance. What does it matter if it works or not? Hated the outcome? You never have to ponder it again. Like what happened? Geeze, now you have to decide if you will continue. Where will you be led? But be warned… Take the risk, or lose the chance…I didn’t expect to be writing a mystery series on the beach eight degrees from the equator.
“Apple picking?” I question and look up from my laptop. Apple picking? I wonder. Seriously? It was our anniversary weekend, and I had other ideas…a long lunch, some shopping…but apple picking? It certainly wasn’t high on my list of things I felt compelled to do. Well, this is all still new, I reason. We’d only been married two years, and I hadn’t exactly planned on moving to Milwaukee from Charleston, but there I was, living downtown in a condo in the Third Ward. Why not? It could be fun, I thought, mentally giving myself a push on the shoulder. So, two hours later, dressed in my cutest apple-picking clothes, we pull off the interstate and turn left. I will never forget that we turned left. It is etched in my brain.
“Um, babe, the apple orchard is the other way,” I say, but he doesn’t respond, which is not unusual. The hubster is a man of few words. A few minutes later, he pulls into a driveway, and that is when I see the sign on the metal building. “We’re going SKYDIVING?” I gasp, my mouth hanging open, and I receive his patented, over-the-eyeglasses look, which I adore but also makes me want to pop his eyeballs out of his head. I suddenly feel like I did five minutes before I walked down the aisle to get married. A whopping dose of apprehension with a side of excitement. I felt this feeling a few years later as we stood in front of an unsmiling immigration officer in the humid Tocumen airport. I stare at the sign through the windshield mute for a full minute. I finally utter, “Okay, let’s do it. If I don’t, I’ll always wonder.”
After going through check-in and the safety class, the two sides of my brain began fighting.
“This is going to be so cool,” my wild, adventurous side said. She’s the bold one who occasionally gets let out—you’ll find her sitting in the front seat of the roller coaster, riding a motorcycle, rappelling down the side of a building, hanging off a helicopter…packing up her life and moving to Central America… Now you understand why we don’t let her out much. Wild Child’s a bit of an extremist. On her bicep, you can read the words, “Take the risk or lose the chance,” tattooed in bold, black letters with a halo of flowers around them.
On my other shoulder was fear. Fear, you would think, would be a quiet, sniveling being. Oh, how I wish she was that way. Fear comes out, guns blazing, with her hands on her hips, explaining, rather dramatically, that whatever I am about to do is not only ridiculous but WILL NOT happen on her watch. I’ll admit, there are a few times I probably should have listened to her, but well...there’s a line about letting sleeping dogs lie. Shhhh.
The next thing I know, I’m putting on a very unattractive orange jumpsuit and removing my earrings and other jewelry when a man of medium height and dark hair in a set of black coveralls approaches me and introduces himself. “Hi, I’m Hoagie, your partner today.”
My friend Fear heard him, and her head snapped up. “Your partner’s name is HOAGIE? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” she screams in my brain. “It’s the name of a sandwich or something you call a golden retriever. It is NOT the name of the man who will hold your life in his hands.” And while she is shrieking this, Wild Child smirks as I step into the harness that will tether me to Hoagie.
As we walk across the field to the little plane that will take us up into the air, Fear changes tactics and pleads with me to stay behind—sweat beads on my forehead which is odd because it’s Wisconsin in the fall. Snow will be dusting the ground soon. Maybe this isn’t such a great idea, I think as my stomach begins to lurch. I had that same feeling as we stood in line to board our Delta flight to Panama. “There is no shame in backing out,” Fear whispers each time.
(As I write this, I reflect on how many of these life-changing moments happen as I walk down that long, white aisle covered in cheap carpeting to the oval door of an airplane.)
We reach our jumping altitude, and Hoagie taps me on the shoulder. I take a deep breath, lock my eyes on the hubster, and give my skydiving partner, a man named after a high-calorie, high-fat, sodium-off-the-charts bread roll stuffed with deli meat and cheese, a thumbs-up. We stand at the open door, and I swear you can see my heart jumping through the hideous orange jumpsuit. Fast forward eleven years, and as the hubster and I settle Elvis under the seat in front of me for our four-hour flight to Panama City, he asks if I am ready, and I feel butterflies the size of pterodactyls in my stomach but raise a shaky thumb and give him a tentative smile. “Sure.”
Take the risk or lose the chance, I hear Wild Child say. The cold air brushes my face. I bend my knees and push off into the air, and I feel terror, exhilaration, and, oddly…joy, if you can believe it. In that split-second, the smile that comes across my face is so wide and pure that my cheeks actually hurt. I’m thankful the hubster had the foresight to capture the moment, and I wish I could explain this weird recipe of emotions, but I don’t have the words. As Hoagie and I hurdle toward Earth at more than a hundred miles per hour, I feel pure, unadulterated joy. And let me tell you, even now, each time I leap off the diving board into this unknown bouillabaisse of life, those feelings of terror and joy bubble up.
“Let’s do it,” I say to the hubster, and a slow smile comes across my face, and I shake my head. I give him a slight shrug. “If we don’t, we’ll always wonder.” And so, the next skydive of sorts begins, and we pack up our life for the next adventure. Take the risk or lose the chance.
I contemplated the fourth book in my series for a while. Only a handful of people have read the series. Not a lot of interest yet. Take the risk, or lose the chance, I hear the words whispered over the roar of the ocean on my walk, and I come home determined to write the next book. You see, writing each new book, and even this little blog that only a few will read, is like those wild risks I have taken.
Maybe even scarier because putting my books out there is akin to standing naked in Times Square—people either gawk or ignore you. Fingers on the keyboard, pen scratching paper at three in the morning…these are the things that make the corners of my lips lift, and that same smile, as I jumped into nothingness, plasters my face once again.
Today is National Take A Chance Day. I know it’s a made-up holiday, but I like it. It reminds me to take chances, not peek around the bougainvillea—to go out and conquer. I’m not talking about taking a huge risk but step outside of your comfort zone. Bare yourself to the world…no wait, terrible choice of words there…wear clothes. We don’t want to cause risks that involve rubbernecking and accidents…but take a chance. What does it matter if it works or not? Hated the outcome? You never have to ponder it again. Like what happened? Geeze, now you have to decide if you will continue. Where will you be led? But be warned… Take the risk, or lose the chance…I didn’t expect to be writing a mystery series on the beach eight degrees from the equator.
