S. Kay Murphy's Blog, page 4

Constants

 

It’sbeen six weeks since I’ve posted. I’d like to use my typical “off with thefairies” excuse—and in some ways, I think I would be justified—but really, timeand creative energy have been sorely depleted.

Iknow some of you loyal, compassionate readers, if you follow me on Facebook,have been waiting to hear the warm, fuzzy details of my romantic relationshipwith “that one guy” (or, if you’re Sean Piscioneri, the guy before that guy—sorry—insidejoke). Alas, the guy who began as a friend and briefly became “boyfriend” hasnow agreed that “friend” is the more healthy status for us. We like each other.Always have since we met 27 years ago. We just don’t… see eye to eye on somethings. It’s not important what they are.

Amongthe critical take-aways from that brief experiment, however, is the fact thatmy mental health can still easily be tipped off balance under certaincircumstances. This surprised me. I mean, seriously, when you get to the age of70, and you’ve spent decades working to shore up your strategies and defensesagainst panic attacks, you float along through life thinking you’re safe fromthem. Then out of the blue a trigger is pulled—however gently—and suddenly yourheart is racing and that dark shadow is just there, over your right shoulder,looming. Takes your breath away. Like, literally.

Soone of my accomplishments this summer was finally—FINALLY, damn it—getting anappointment with a therapist. It took a month, from initial phone request tofinally seeing someone (and by “seeing,” I mean staring at a screen image viaZoom), and I had to push hard with follow-up phone calls. But hey, the energyexpended was worth it. I like my therapist. More on that in future posts, Ipromise—not because I really want to talk about my childhood trauma—I don’t—butbecause I want to do whatever I can to encourage others to seek professionalhelp in being the best version of yourself you can be today. And tomorrow.

 

Anothersatisfying accomplishment of the summer was writing 31 poems in the month ofAugust and sending them out to strangers on postcards. This was not a zany ideaof my own. Rather, it was part of the annual “Poetry Postcard Fest” sponsoredby Cascadia Poetic Labs, the mission statement of which states: “Empowering people topractice poetry & deepen connections to place, self & the presentmoment.” (Gotta love the alliteration!) The cool thing about signing up for thePPF is that you also (potentially) receive 31 postcards. So far, I’ve gottenabout 20 postcards, mostly handmade and decorated with creative artwork, inaddition to the poetic offerings. It definitely put some pep in my step on mydaily walk to fetch the mail.

Ididn’t expect to write any particularly whiz bang poetry. Just as in the year Iparticipated in NaNoWriMo, I signed up for the PPF simply to challenge myself,to impose the discipline of working on poems in addition to my other writing.(Once upon a time, I did call myself a poet, because I have had a few poemspublished. But that was years ago.)

Surprisingly,though, I was quite satisfied with several of the 31 poems I wrote, and so, forthe first time in decades, I think I’ll send some out, just to see whathappens. Stay tuned.

Asyou can imagine, I needed inspiration for those poems. I also needed time aloneto process pre and post panic attack, so off to the woods I went, hiking everyfew days with Miss Maya Angelou Murphy, who continues to let her guard downwith me. Nature is an inspiration in and of itself, so I was pleased to capturesome photos reflecting my awe.

And,of course, I spent time with my emotional support pals, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs andJenny the Cat. The Dog Who Hated Being Touched has now become The Dog Who Lovesto Be Loved On—brushed, petted, scratched, massaged, whatever. Whenever theworld becomes “too full of weeping,” as Yeats described it, I can sit down nextto Thom, give him head rubbies and ear scratches, and tell him all about it foras long as it takes for my blood pressure to drop to normal again.

 

Don’tget me started on Jenny’s antics for comic relief. This cat… oh my dragons…. IfI had let her, she would have stayed outside on the patio for the duration ofTropical Storm Hilary as it blew through our town with crazy wind and sidewaysrain. As it was, she stayed out, curled in a corner of the blanket on the patioswing, until I finally made her come in when debris began flying around theyard. And let me tell you, she let me know how unhappy she was about having todo so. She always lets me know exactly how she’s feeling about myunilateral decisions. That’s where dogs and cats are different; dogs say“Okay!” and cats say “Who said so?”

 

Speakingof cats… and dogs… and dragons: I also spent the summer—as promised—working withartist/illustrator Allie Myers on the cover of Fey Girl, the first book in my DragonSinger series of middle grade fantasy novels. Allie is beyond amazing—I feel attimes she is somehow “seeing” what is in my head—and she has just informed me(as in, this morning!) that the front illustration for the cover is complete.And, oh my dragons, it is exactly—no, it is better than what I had imagined inmy head. I will be sharing that in a separate post, along with more informationabout the series. Since the back cover and spine are simple, the cover shouldbe ready in another two weeks, which means the book could be released as earlyas late October, early November—just in time for Christmas. Again, stay tuned.I am so, so excited about these books, and I can’t wait for all four in theseries to be out in the world.

Ifyou’re still reading, thank you. Let me sign off here with one of the poemsfrom this month’s Fest that I particularly liked, once I was satisfied with thefinal draft.

 

Constants

S.Kay Murphy

Iwake up moody, musing

Onthe problems of yesterday.

Inthe still-dark, I take the dogs

Outto the yard, looking up,

Asalways, to find my constants.

Thereis Taurus, stretched across

Thesky, the Seven Sisters,

Whisperingsecrets, and proud

Orion,on his back in August,

Perpetuallysighting his arrow

Nonetheless,unconcerned

Forthe tilt of the Earth

Today,tomorrow, or yesterday.

Nothing But Gratitude

 

OnFriday I had one of those moments of profound exasperation at the absolutemindless insensitivity of some people, and (if I may state this publiclywithout seeming like a complete judgy wench) the idiocy of some peoplein the treatment of their dogs. Sigh….

Ineeded a few warm, fuzzy feelings to balance the negative energy, so I askedFacebook friends to post pictures of their pets. Boy howdy, did they ever. Ifyou were one of those folks, thank you. We can never underestimate the power ofseeing a cute dog or cat or horse or reindeer face (or robot—long story) torelease a bit of oxytocin and calm our troubled hearts.

Afterperusing those pics for half an hour, I left the valley and drove to LakeArrowhead to do a quick hike then visit my granddaughter and her baby daughter—allof which enhanced my oxytocin high.

Beyondthat good stuff, I want to take a moment to thank those of you who are regularreaders of my posts. I began this blog in 2009 while I was living in thewilderness of Mt. Baldy, having adventures with nature and wildlife nearlyevery day—while also experiencing many, many rejections of my work written forcommercial purposes (and an occasional sale or two). I wanted to write aboutwhatever I felt like writing about, with no concern for word count or marketviability. So I began to blog (the first post mentioning how much I loathe theword “blog”).

Atfirst, I had a handful of folks who were regular readers willing to skimthrough my somewhat provincial if not inane musings. Slowly, as the posts wentout into the world—and I began to write about more pressing issues, such asrace relations in the U.S. and the “Me too” movement—views of my postsincreased from 30 a month to 100 a month and then close to a thousand a month,which is where the average now hovers.

Butlast month was a banner month. I mean, I had a lotta lotta views. The analyticson Blogger allow me to see what posts people are looking at, so I know whatstarted the upward trend in views (a post that could be construed aspolitical), but I was downright shocked when I saw the numbers skyrocket.

Totalnumber of overall views for June: 9,041. These were not views of the same post;there were a number of different, er, issue-related posts being viewed. But ohmy goodness, I am humbled and grateful whenever people read my words, be it 5or 500. This number nearly floored me.

Sothank you, dear Readers, for clicking that link again and again over the monthsor years to see what the heck I might have to write about in my rambling,parentheses-and-dash-infused style. Before you click away from the page, here’sone more silly rambling offered for your amusement:

Thingsto do while the oatmeal is cooking:

(Note:Of course it’s cooking—no packets here, no “instant” for me! Damn right it’ssteel cut (whatever that means), organic, they-take-forever, cholesterol-loweringoatmeal for this “granola head.”)

Starta load of laundry.

Add“laundry detergent” to the grocery list.

Emptythe dishwasher.

Openthe door for Jenny the Cat to sashay outside and begin her day, warning her notto bring yet another mouse into the house.

Washthe dogs’ dishes and Jenny’s dish.

Washhands thoroughly.

Stirthe oatmeal.

Catchthe mouse that is now scampering about the livingroom with Jenny merrily givingchase.

Carrythe mouse outside (in an empty oatmeal can) and down the block, depositinghim/her near the ravine (and thus near food, shelter, water).

Stop.Notice the sunrise as it tops Mt. San Jacinto.

Thinkof that one guy who always makes you smile.

Smile.

Returnto the house.

Washhands thoroughly.

Stirthe oatmeal.

EncourageJenny disingenuously to “keep looking for Mr. Mousie,” pretending it “must behere somewhere.”

Createa Facebook post documenting the number of mice Jenny has brought into the houseto play with (not to eat).

Walkall the way back to the bedroom to pet Sgt. Thomas Tibbs in his bed and tellhim he is the best boy ever.

Walkback down the hallway to the den to pet Maya and tell her she is the best girlever.

Washhands thoroughly.

Stirthe oatmeal.

Addwalnuts.

Grabthe blank page journal used for poems and jot down the lines that came to mindabout that one guy while you were walking back from relocating the mouse.

Turnoff the burner under the oatmeal and add raisins, dried blueberries, bananaslices, cinnamon, and brown sugar.

Stop.Close your eyes. In one long inhale of this sweet-scented repast, acknowledgewith gratitude the blessings of food, cat, mouse, dogs, dishwasher, washingmachine, sunrises, wild spaces, warm smiles, word gifts… and that one guy.

 

The Continuing Legacy of TKAM

 

Somemonths ago, my dear friend, poet and author Mary Langer Thompson, sent me acopy of the book pictured above, Why To Kill a Mockingbird Matters. I amdeeply indebted, as reading Tom Santopietro’s fascinating review of the writingof the novel and the making of the film reminded me once again how much I lovethis book.

 

Tenyears old and starved for books that were slightly more advanced than the BobbseyTwins and Little House on the Prairie series my friend Cathy hadoffered, I snuck into the closet where some of my older brother’s books werestored, hoping to find a science fiction or fantasy novel I could get lost in.Instead, I pulled out a tattered paperback with the picture of a bird on thecover. To Kill a Mockingbird. I was a birdwatcher. Why on earth would anyonewant to kill a mockingbird?

InHarper Lee’s words, “Thus began our longest journey together.”

Readingit then, at age ten, I didn’t fully understand all the nuances of racerelations. I was a young white girl living in a predominantly white communityin Southern California. That particular summer was a quiet, lazy one. The fierytumult of the Watts uprising was still a year away.

Whatdid resonate with me the first time I read TKAM—and every time since—was thestory of a girl who was as like me as she was unlike me.

Likeme, Scout was a tomboy. (With my first read, I was ever-so-envious of Scout’soveralls; It would be another ten years before I finally had the buying powerto purchase my first pair at age twenty. I’m nearly seventy now, and I stillwear them often.)

Unlikeme, Scout had a comfortable and close relationship with her father (somethingelse I was envious of).

Butwhat a story! Bored of a summer, Scout, Jem, and Dill spent their daysimagining life inside the Radley home, in the same way my brother, sister, andI would wonder and speculate about the weird neighbors who’d moved in nextdoor, bringing with them a live monkey that roamed freely about the house andregularly attacked and bit the girl our age who lived there.

Inmy initial read, the trial of Tom Robinson seemed to interrupt the flow of thebook, and I didn’t understand most of it, or the chapters about thewell-intentioned but clearly racist (although not to me at the time) missionarysociety or Scout’s very racist third-grade teacher. Happily, the novel returnedto the mysterious figure of Boo Radley in its final pages.

Atsome point in my childhood or adolescence, I saw the movie based on the book. Ihave no memory of how I saw it for the first time; it must have been shown ontelevision. But my emotional memory recalls the tenderness that Atticusextended to his young daughter.

Someyears later, when my own daughter turned ten, I gave her a copy of TKAM for herbirthday. It occurred to me then—since my kid would be reading it—that I shouldread it again, review it from an adult perspective. My, how differently—howmuch more heavily—the story landed on my heart. Now that I had more fullyexperienced the Civil Rights Movement. Now that I had been caught up in raceriots at my high school. Now that I had Black friends. Now that I had childrenof my own, some of them racially mixed.

IfI had loved the novel before, I revered it now.

SoI count myself most fortunate and blessed that, nearly as soon as I beganteaching high school, I was privileged to teach To Kill a Mockingbird aspart of the curriculum. I taught ninth grade for 25 of the 27 years of myteaching career, with multiple sections of ninth grade in any given year. Howmany times now have I read aloud these words, affecting a Southern accent, “Folkscall me Dill” or “Scout, let’s get us a baby” or “Hey, Boo”? I have no idea.How many times have I watched my students as they watched the big reveal of BooRadley in the movie? I have no idea of that number, either. But I can tell youthat, despite having read and seen it over a hundred times now, that scene—whether inthe book or in the film—still brings me to tears.

Inrecent years, TKAM has had its detractors. In my humble opinion, the criticswho focus solely on the plot thread of Tom Robinson miss the mark of HarperLee’s great American novel. As much as we may agonize over the stark truth ofhis situation, the book is not “about” Tom. It’s Scout’s story, one hundredpercent. It’s a coming-of-age tale—albeit based on the harsh realities ofSouthern issues—of a young girl who is, initially, blissfully ignorant of theignorance in her community. She is six and innocent as the story begins, ninewhen it closes, her eyes now having been opened to see some of those thingsthat Atticus would have kept her from seeing, if only he could have.

Sixtyyears on—even after all those years of reading it over and over again to sweetbut squirrely freshmen, even after my lofty graduate classes in Faulkner andO’Neill and the many women writers like Toni Morrison who have brilliantly shifted the landscape in modern literature—TKAM is still my favorite book. Innine years and four months, my great-granddaughter will turn ten. I know exactlywhat gift I will give her for that birthday.

A Cascade of Nostalgia

 

ForestFalls, named in part for a very tall, very beautiful cascading waterfall (called "Big Falls") at the eastend of town, is a small village in the foothills below Mt. San Gorgonio inSouthern California. I made my first sojourn there when I was in high schoolwhen a group of “Jesus freak” young people like myself car caravanned therefrom Riverside. I still have photos and many fond memories from that day.

Ahalf dozen years after that first trip, I returned to Forest Falls to attend myvery first writers conference at Forest Home, the beautiful conference centerthere. At the age of 21, I had entered a national writing contest, won thirdplace, and the person who called to make that announcement told me, “I see thatyou live in Southern California. In addition to everything else you’ve won[publication in a national magazine with a readership of six million, plusbooks on writing AND the entire Chronicles of Narnia series, just forfun], we’d like to send you to a writers conference.”

Didthose lovely folks have any idea how attending that conference would catapultme into my dream of writing and publishing? I don’t know, but it sure did.

Whenmy children were old enough, we returned for a day of hiking, picnicking,blackberry picking—and, at the end of it, a trip to the ER for stitches aftermy eldest son stepped on a piece of broken glass while wading barefoot in thestream.

Ican assure you, when I returned many years later with three young grandkids intow, I made sure all of us kept our shoes on.

Atsome point in my adult life, I picked up a friend who was trying to decidewhether or not to leave her abusive husband. I took her up to Forest Falls inmy beloved VW bug. While we rock-hopped over rough terrain to get to the falls,we also attempted to navigate the equally challenging topics of “commitment”and “self-esteem.” Good talk. Good walk. But when we returned to the car—the onlyone at the trailhead on a weekday—we discovered it had a flat tire. In thehours previous, I had been trying to convince my friend that she was strongerthan she realized. When she saw the flat, she began to wring her hands and cry.(Mind you, this was decades before the convenience of cell phones.) She was notreassured when I told her not to worry, we would, together, fix the flat ourselves.But we did, handily. At some point, a young man with a six-pack of beer pulledinto the parking area on a motorcycle. He took a seat under a tree and watchedus do the work—and I was grateful that he never offered to help, just sat anddowned his beer, one after another. Because when we triumphantly finished andclimbed into the car to leave, my friend told me how empowered she felt.Booyah.

Inthe past, the trip to Forest Falls required some planning, as it was somedistance from where I lived. Moving to Calimesa, however, put me much closer,so that now I can get up there in just over half an hour, traffic permitting.

Soof course, I had to take Maya. Here’s what happened when I did:

Assoon as we left the car and hit the trail, we saw the giant sign erected by theForest Service: The area around the waterfall was “closed,” for all intents andpurposes. Why? Because in order to get to the falls, you have to cross MillCreek, and (as mentioned in my previous post), the water in the creek isrunning so high and so fast, it’s treacherous. Plus someone dies every year bytrying to climb the falls, and I think USFS is simply tired of calling Searchand Rescue to pack out another dead body. Seriously.

However—wecould still walk along the creek, which we did. (Click here to see a bit of that.) Until she saw people. Too manypeople. There may have been a total of five or six at various points along thestream. But for her, one human (besides me) is too many. So she panicked. Whereto escape?? Into the water. She headed straight into the stream and would havepaddled to the far side had I not reeled her back in. (When we hike, she’s on afifteen-foot lead, so she really did get pretty far before I wrangled hercloser to shore.)

 

WhenI wouldn’t let her retreat, she did what I have taught her to do when she’s fearful,which is to sit down and take a breath. (Okay, I know you can’t really teach adog to take a nice deep breath, but she sits, and I do the deep breathing.)Yep, she sat her little bottom right down in that ice-cold water. Silly dog.

 

Wedidn’t stay much longer; I had things to do at home. But I did stop to takepictures, and realized (shout out to all my Baldy friends!) from a certainpoint, you can see all the way from Forest Falls to Mt. Baldy. And yes, of courseI waved when I realized that. You never know who might be waving back.

 

Rising Out of the Gloom

 

It’sbeen a very long time since I’ve been kissed, and it finally happenedtoday! Details to follow….

Ifyou live in Southern California, you know that we’ve been having day after dayafter day of first “May Gray” and then “June Gloom,” those mornings in whichthe marine layer from the Pacific Ocean has drifted far enough inland to covereveryone in light to heavy fog. Yesterday was no different, the damp and tangylayer so thick I had to use my windshield wipers as I drove Miss Maya AngelouMurphy up to a hiking spot that, while quite familiar to me, had beenpreviously undiscovered by her.

ThurmanFlats is located off Hwy 38, a mile or two to the east of the Hwy 38 and BryantStreet junction. There is a small brown Forest Service sign for it that indicates“Picnic Area, ¼ mile.” You can't miss it if you drive slower than the 70mph mostlocals want to drive on that stretch of highway.

And thereis indeed a beautiful, tree-shaded picnic area there, but I wasn’t intending tohave a picnic. I just needed to rise above the gray gloom that had beenhovering physically outside my house but also mentally inside my head. I know,I know; we writers live inside our heads. I try to come out and play from timeto time… but… a lot has been going on that I’ve had to… ruminate upon. We’lljust leave it at that.

Thephoto above was taken from the parking lot at ThurmanFlats. Note the pretty blue sky, the low cloud cover in the valley below. Yes!I could feel my spirits lifting as I called Maya out of the car.

Challenge#1: Would Maya be willing to cross water and boulder hop with me to get to MillCreek? We had to pick our way over places like this:

Butthat girl was ready and willing, as she always is when we hit the trail,and across she went, stopping only when I asked her to so I could get apicture. Then on we went.

Throughthe trees and blackberry brambles, keeping an eye out for both bears andsnakes, we carefully, cautiously traversed the trail and found Mill Creekgushing madly with water pouring over and around boulders at a level I’ve neverseen it, and I’ve been going there for decades. Hooray for snow melt!

Challenge#2: Would Maya come willingly to the edge of the roaring stream? Or would shefear it?

Challengeaccepted, of course. She trotted right up. I held her back from the edge. Ididn’t want her to take a dip in the icy water then have the current drag herin (and me along with her). There is a very short video of her coming throughthe woods to find the water, which you can view by clicking here.

Wewalked along the edge of the stream for a bit, but it had broadened so much,the trail was obliterated in some spots. It was early when we went, and my carhad been the only one in the parking lot, so I was surprised to find a pair ofmen’s shoes by the shore. Did he walk back along the trail barefoot?  Did he realize when he arrived home where he’dleft them? Who knows. I left them where I found them.

 

Weheaded back—which was when my kiss was finally bestowed. We had almost reachedthe narrow trail leading to the parking area when I heard a commotion andlooked up through the foliage, half expecting to see a bear. Nope. It was a boundingdog, a large coonhound, followed by an even larger German shepherd. Theybarreled straight for us.

Challenge#3: Would Maya completely freak out? Or allow the over-excited doggos to greether?

Turns out, she didn’t do either, really. She sat down, which is what I’vetaught her to do when she’s frightened. The dogs ran up and sniffed her, butshe remained sitting quietly, not trying to run. I could hear the dogs’ person tryingto call them back from yards away, shouting as loud as he could to be heardabove the roaring stream. I looked up to see him moving down the trail—a manabout my age, backpack on his shoulder, two smaller terrier mixes following athis heels. He called to me, something by way of apology, I assume. I laughedand shrugged because I couldn’t hear him, then turned my attention back to thedogs just as the coonhound leapt up and kissed me right on the cheek!

Wait.You didn’t think the kiss was offered by a man, did you? Nah. Just a sweet dogsaying hello—and leaving huge muddy paw prints down my sleeve and all over thefront of my jacket. Closer now, the man called once more to his rambunctiousboys, and both galloped off, leaping over boulders and kicking up sand. I’mguessing they had a great day. Maya and I left them to return home, drivingback down into the drizzle, but not minding it one bit.

 

Pivoting

 

Iwas 23 years old when I wrote my first book, 25 by the time it was releasedacross the country by a national book publisher. Ah, the good old days! Backthen, I wrote first drafts in longhand, then typed them on an IBM Selectrictypewriter, edited each page, and typed a final draft, so that everything Iwrote was replicated at least twice, sometimes three times.

Thesubmission process back then was similar in some ways to what it is now.Despite what we might see in the movies (proud, independent women marching intoeditors’ offices and plunking down weighty manuscripts with entreaties that thework be considered), the whole deal begins with a simple letter, dubbed a“query” letter, because it’s basically a question: “Hey there, I wrote thisbook about this person/thing/idea. Care to read it?”

Pre-computerage, these letters were sent off via USPS in great numbers with, of course, aself-addressed, stamped envelope (the sacred SASE) enclosed for the reply. Thenthe waiting began. Weeks, often months, sometimes years later (or never), aresponse would finally arrive: “We regret to inform you” or “Thanks for yourrecent query letter regarding blah blah blah book. However….” Or (blessedly)“Hello, Kay! I was intrigued by your idea for a book about prepared childbirth.Please send me a proposal.”

Theproposal is somewhat like a very lengthy query. In it, the writer is once againasking that the work be considered, but the first three chapters or fifty pagesare included, plus an outline of the entire book, plus, in recent years, theauthor’s marketing strategy, and the author’s bio including previous publishingcredits.

Oncethe proposal (typed and retyped on that trusty machine) was packaged up andsent out (again via USPS, again with a SASE tucked inside), the waiting wouldbegin again… weeks… months… years. No exaggeration. No kidding.

Ofcourse, if one desired to be published by one of The Big Five New YorkPublishers, one submitted queries to an agent, not the publishers themselves,as the Big Five will not take unsolicited mail from the likes of us lowlyurchins pecking away at keyboards for fun or for a living. Ahem.

Nowadays—Ojoy!—we live in the whizbang era. I can write queries on my laptop, send themout to writer friends for feedback, make changes rapidly, and email themout—for FREE! No stamps, no SASE, no waiting! Well, okay, still waiting… weeks,months, years for a reply. But at least no waiting for the mail to arrive atits destination.

[Sidenote here about the whizbang era: I once sent a short piece to the Home Forumeditor of the Christian Science Monitor (a publication which pays very nicely)to whom I had submitted successfully in the past. I sent this new essay at5:30a.m., via email. By the time I got to my day job at 7:00a.m. and turned onmy computer, the editor had responded with a short email in reply: “Hi Kay, Iread your piece over my first cup of coffee this morning and loved it. It’ll bein our October 30th issue. A check is on its way to you. Thanks forthinking of us.” Holy hot damn. That’ll make your day, won’t it?]

Idigress.

Onemore note about querying publishers or agents: In modern times, this can alsobe done by (a) spending $250-$500 or so to attend a writers conference and“pitching” one’s idea directly to an agent or publisher face-to-face (known asoffering the “elevator pitch”—in other words, if you encountered said person inan elevator, how might you quickly describe your story idea in a way thatgrabbed the listener’s interest enough to be offered a read—or (b)participating in “pitch wars” on Twitter, during which one tweets out (in 280characters or less—that’s characters, not words) a synopsis of one’sbook idea—for all the world (and hopefully an agent) to see.

Ilove writers conferences, but can no longer afford them. I am reluctant toshare my story ideas with the masses before they are in print, especially in today’sworld of I-saw-it-online-so-it-must-be-fair-game-to-copy, so neither of thoseoptions will work for me.

Allof the above is a verbose, reminiscent preface to make this short announcement(mostly as a follow-up to my post of 27 February of this year): After a gooddeal of rumination, two brief forays into the modern publishing world (duringwhich I was told the first book in my middle-grade series is “too long” for thatage group and also four books in the series is “too many” for a small press),and a couple of great conversations with two writer friends, I have decidedthat my series will be published “independently” (as we now say to avoid thesad and defeatist label of “self-published”).

Whatthis means for me:

Nowaiting.

Thefirst book will be released as soon as I can get it formatted and have a coverdesign professionally created. Booyah.

Ihave total control over the creative content; I will not need to change thetitles of the books in the series (to suit the marketing department of anypotential publisher) or the characters’ names, nor will I have to cut the booklength from 70,000 to 50,000 because “children don’t want to read long books,”as the industry believes. (I keep suggesting the so-called experts ask kids,but no one is listening to me. Again, I’m just the urchin pecking away….)

Italso means that there will be a handful of fellow writers who will shake theirheads and cluck their tongues in an exercise of group schadenfreude because “poorKay couldn’t get her kids’ books published so she did it herself.”

Sigh.It used to bother me that I didn’t get respect among my writer friends. Butseriously, if they’ve read my work (and many of them haven’t), and they don’tthink I’m “good enough” by now, I can’t help them with that. They are not thereaders I’m concerned with, anyway. The ten-year-olds who read this series canlet me know if they like the books or not. And I’m pretty sure they will (likethem, I mean—but also let me know—because that’s how ten-year-olds roll).

So:Those of you who are mentioned in the books or have become characters in oneform or another, you won’t have long to see yourselves in print. Wondering ifthat’s you? Stay tuned….

Conversations with My Cat

 

Friends,it has been over a month since I posted here. Usually, my absence from the blogmeans that I am sad or ruminating or preoccupied with mental health challenges.Not this time. This time it has been because I have been giddily happy—surprised,amazed, and tearfully grateful for what the Universe has recently brought intomy life—all of which will, eventually, be expressed in words in this space (ifI can find sufficient words to capture those feelings).

Inthe meantime, we interrupt these (mostly) serious posts regarding social justice,women’s rights, suicide prevention, and nature walks to bring you:

Conversationswith My Cat

Ihave recently been told that Jenny the Cat is “squishy cute.” I cannotdisagree. It has also been suggested (though not by the same person) that, no,not everyone has conversations with their pets the way I do. How can this be?If your cat speaks to you, do you not answer in kind? If your dog questionsyour punctuality in doling out dinner or treats, do you not offer some lameexcuse regarding “the next commercial” or “Hang on! I’m not ready to get up outof this chair yet”? Indeed you do. I do concede, your conversations may not beas in depth as mine…. But see for yourself. Below is a composite of atypical day in conversation with Jenny.

4:30a.m.

Jenny:Mom! Mom! Wake up time? Wake up time?

Me:Jen, come here. Get on the bed. Let’s cuddle. Your boy is still sleeping.

[Mostnights, Jenny prefers to sleep in the guest room, not on the bed with me. Don’task me why (and don’t suggest that I snore). She also mirrors the movements ofThomas. If he gets up, she does. If he sleeps longer, she will wait on my beduntil he gets up before venturing out to the kitchen. Silly girl.]

Jenny:RRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrr

[Incontrast to Purrl, who would purr if I so much as said her name, Jenny is notas demonstrative—except in the morning when we cuddle, and at night when it’stime for bed.]

5:00a.m.

Jenny:Mom! Mom! Outside? Outside!

[Andso the demands begin… and will continue until the dogs are fed and walked andthe sun has risen sufficiently to allow her out to the back yard. In themeantime….]

6:00a.m.

Jenny:Mom! Mom! Treats? Treats?!?

Me:Yes, Jen, hang on. Thomas gets his treats first because he went walking. Andwhat did you do? Tell me again why you get treats, dearest? For watching outthe window while we walked? For meeting us at the door? I’m not sure what thisreward is for, but here you go, little girl.

6:05a.m.

Jenny:Mom! Mom! Outside!

Me:Ok, Ok, good grief. Go on out there. Do not bring a mouse back with you.

6:30a.m.

Jenny:[Running to the living room and opening her jaws to deposit a live mouse on thefloor, which promptly skitters under my writing desk] Mom! Mom! Baby!

Me:Jen! Good grief! You didn’t hurt him, did you?

[Shenever does. She brings them in and chases them around until they’re exhaustedenough for me to scoop into an empty oatmeal can. The last mouse she brought inwas more afraid of me than it was her, and when I tried to get it, the poorthing ran to where Jenny lay on the floor like a sphinx, and it cowered againsther chest. Her response? She just sat there, harboring the fugitive with a smuggrin on her face. Cats. Sheesh.]

9:00a.m.

Naptimebegins… and goes on and on throughout the day, with occasional interludes for cattreats (if the dogs get one) and exchanges such as these:

1:00p.m.

Jenny: Mom. [Waking me from a nap]

Me: [Whispering, so as not to wake Thomas] Up here, baby. Jump up on the bed.

Jenny: Mom. Sleepy. [Flopping over next to my side and going back to sleep]

5:00p.m.

Me:Jen! You’re up! Hi, baby. Wanna cuddle with Mom? Wanna eat your dinner?

Jenny:  [Silence, as she strolls haughtily past me and through the open door to the back yard]

[Ican’t blame her. I don’t like to chat when I wake from my nap, either.]

6:00p.m.[As Jenny jumps onto the kitchen table, flopping over next to where I amsitting, trying to have a phone conversation with The Very Special Man in My Life]

Jenny:Mom. Talking?

Me:Yes, honey. Shhhh….

Jenny:Mom. Pet Jenny.

Me:Of course. Shhhh….

Jenny:Mom! Mom! Look!

Me:Good grief. What?

Jenny:[Looking out the window] Bird!

Me:I see it.

VerySpecial Man: Is that Jenny? What’s she saying?

[Note:This is how you know a man is very special, when he understands that if the catis talking, she must be saying something of import.]

6:30p.m.[As I attempt to resume my conversation with the human]

Jenny:[Puffing up to twice her size] Mom! Mom! Look!

Me:What, Jen?

Jenny:DOG! [Her eyes track Ace, the large collie who lives down the street andpasses our house every single day at this time on his way to the dog park with oneof his humans.]

Me:Yes, Jen. It’s Ace. Again. You’re safe, baby. Might be a good idea to stay innow—

Jenny:[Jumping down from the table] Outside!

7:00p.m.

Me:[Calling into the back yard] Jen! Time to come in now!

Jenny:[Grumbling as she trots back along the walkway toward the door] Why? Why? Whycome in? Now? Right now? Why?

Me:[Shaking the can with cat treats] Come on, stop complaining. I’ll give you atreat for coming in.

Jenny:Treat?!?

8:00p.m.

Jenny:Mom! Mom! Bedtime!

Me:I know, dearest. Let me finish this—

Jenny:Mom! Treat time! Bedtime!

Me:OK! OK!

8:30p.m.

Jenny:RRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrr

AI? Pffffffttttt....

 

"Let sleeping dragons lie," by Eirescei, can be found on DeviantArt.com. (Used with permission.)

I’ve heard a lot of talk recently about AI (Artificial Intelligence) and how new apps recently released can write English papers and even books. “It’s the way of the future!” is what we’re hearing proclaimed, with some suggesting that “anyone” will be able to write a book simply by telling the AI software what they want. Yeah. Right. Just as we were told twenty years ago that books would soon be obsolete because we’d all have Kindles (or similar digital readers), which would do away with paper books forever.

Yeah. Good thing I didn’t hold my breath for that to happen.

If you’re a writer who is sweating this stuff, please stop. Your craft is safe. Trust me. If it helps, consider what I wrote some years ago as a submission to a “Flash” contest for nonfiction. Maybe it will help. Here ya go:

(Prompt: Write 250 words on why writing is a mystery.)

Why is writing a mystery to me? Because when Shakespeare wanted Hamlet to express the depth of his depression, he could have written his line as, “Man, I’m just so sad about it all.” Instead, he wrote, “O God, God, how weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of the world.” And when Milton described the domain of Satan as “darkness visible,” he reached for a phrase that had never been used before… and it worked for generations to come, as did Frost’s choice of the road “less traveled by” and Whitman’s cry of “O Captain, my Captain!” Writing is a mystery to me because we cannot resolve scientifically—even with all our super-technology—why one particular word order is more pleasing, more poignant, more profound than another. Nor can a machine, given every dictionary entry known to the language, replicate the creativity, the subtle dance with words that a writer produces with a simple pen and paper. Writing is a mystery to be because a craftsman with words can so set the stage that two words may bring us to tears… or to our knees:

“Hey, Boo.”

“Jesus wept.”

Writing is a mystery to me because when I write, I become enthralled, and when I emerge, finally, there lies my soul upon the paper—for all the world to see.

Rising with the Day

 

Bread is such an amazing food, isn’t it? Take a handful of ingredients—salt, sugar, flour, water, yeast—maybe some olive oil and rosemary—combine it, then watch as it does its magic.

I woke to snowfall on Thursday. We’ve been expecting this storm, here in Calimesa, hoping for snow because we rarely get real snow. When I opened the door to take the dogs out at 4:00a.m., big, fluffy flakes were falling. Did the dogs mind? Not a wit. They had to pee! Out into the yard they raced, returning to me on the patio ten minutes later, their coats dusted with flakes that were already melting.

It rained and snowed on and off all day—a good day to hunker down and produce some good work.

So after breakfast, I started some bread rising. The night before, in anticipation of the storm, I’d plucked some sprigs of rosemary from my back yard shrub, washed it, and minced the leaves. (The entire house smelled like fresh rosemary, and I remember catching a whiff of the scent as I went to bed.) I added salt, sugar, water, flour, yeast, and some olive oil, stirred, mixed, and kneaded until a dough was formed. (When people ask if I have a bread maker, I always answer in the affirmative as I hold up my two hands. I’ve been making bread this way for 50 years. No reason to change it up now.)

With the dough in the bowl, rising nicely, I opened my laptop. I know I don’t talk about it much—I consider it bad form to do so—but since I retired, I’ve been working on a series of children’s books. (Not a Young Adult novel, as I’ve done before, but a Middle-Grade series, for kids 10-12.) The idea came to me years ago, when I lived in Mt Baldy. I intended to write one fun book. Then I heard a fellow writer talk about the advantage of writing a series—in order to sell more books.

Huh, I thought. I could make it a trilogy. (Which is how it started, but well into the second book, I knew there had to be four, as it follows the seasons.)

But finding the time to write it was nearly impossible while I was still working. (Though I did write the first 30 pages and hand them off to one of my favorite brilliant ten-year-olds, Matthew Confer, who read it and gave me the best feedback I’ve ever gotten from a first reader. Matthew is 19 and in his second year of college now.)

One week before our rainy snowstorm, I finished the last chapter of the fourth book. All that was left to write was a short epilogue. But some things happened… some good, some bad… and I didn’t get back to it until Wednesday night. After I chopped up all that aromatic rosemary, I wrote the first half of the epilogue.

On Thursday, while the bread was rising, the house now filling with the scent of yeasty dough, I put some soft music on for the fur kids, then, as I mentioned, opened the laptop. And cried. And wrote the final words of the book. And cried some more.

It may seem like a tired trope of egocentric writers, so forgive me if that’s the case, but I absolutely love my characters. Writing fiction is damn hard—you have to create lives and back stories and scenarios out of thin air—truly like pulling a rabbit out of a hat where none existed previously. But a decade ago, when I had the idea, one snowy, wintry night in Baldy while I lay in bed in the loft with my tiny cat, Sugar Plum, curled beside me, I began to tell her a story. A story about a cat… and a dragon. And in the years that passed, the story took shape in my head. And I knew exactly how it would end. Ten years and four books later, that story ended exactly as I had envisioned it.

To celebrate, I took a long nap. When I got up, I shaped my lovely mound of dough into four smaller mounds, let them rise one more time, and then put them in the oven.

Imagine the joy in my house: The quiet snow falling… the scent of fresh baked bread… the satisfaction of seeing a vision come to fruition….

Storytelling is much like making bread. You only need a handful of ingredients—a few characters, a setting, a bit of conflict to get the story churning—and, with patience, you can produce something wonderful. Something magical.

Damn, I can’t wait to see these books in print. Stay tuned!

The DirecTV Guy

 

Okay, I’m going to palaver on about my hellacious weekend, but really, all that mess is just backstory to what I really want to say about the DirecTV guy. Please be patient….

In the middle of the night on Thursday night, I was heading for the back yard with Thomas when I walked through a large pool of water on the floor. It was coming from under the refrigerator.

But that’s not what this post is about.

The next morning, I called an appliance repair place, and they scheduled someone to come out and fix the fridge the same day. Booyah!

So I’m thinking, I’m on a roll. Might as well get this over with and call DirecTV. My receiver had essentially quit working days before. I was so done with DirecTV. But wait! The lovely young woman I spoke with made it all okay, said she’d send someone out the next day to install a new receiver, and we did a fancy-dance work-around on the cost. Boom!

Fridge repair guy, Ruben, comes out, pulls the fridge out, clears the defrost drain tube of all the accumulated ice, charges me a fair price and heads out, mentioning as he does that “there may be some residual condensation there on the floor.” Huh. So I just keep putting down dry towels, rinsing the wet ones, drying them, repeating the process.

At 3:00a.m. the next morning, taking Thomas out, I step into nearly-a-lake on the kitchen floor. Many, many towels are removed from the dryer and thrown on the floor to try to sop it all up. I do not go back to bed.

At 6:45a.m. I call the appliance repair place and am surprised when someone actually answers. I explain that I still have “huge amounts of water” on my floor, and I’m told the technician “will call” me. And, eventually, he does. When he comes back out and pulls the fridge out again, he discovers that the water is not coming from the refrigerator. It’s seeping in under the wall. What’s on the other side of the wall? My water heater.

But that’s not what this post is about.

Ruben takes some pictures, tells me his company can replace the water heater (which is what I should have done last summer, due to age, and I knew it), and they’ll call me with an estimate.

So now I’m sopping up water in and around my water heater. And there’s no shut-off valve for the incoming cold water on the thing, so to stop it would mean turning my water off at the main. No. Hard stop.

Overwhelmed, I call my next-door neighbor, the very cool and heroic Gustavo, who hurries over, assesses the situation, hurries back to his place, returns with channel locks, a pipe wrench, some plumbers tape and a pipe cap. Fifteen minutes later—I kid you not—he’s shut down my water heater. Finally, the water stops seeping under the wall. I don’t have hot water, but I can deal with that. I have water. I have pans. I have a stove. I once went two weeks without hot water while living in Mt. Baldy. What I don’t have is water accumulating along the baseboard and pooling on the floor. Bravo!

Just as Gus is picking up his tools, the DirecTV guy shows up. Whew.

That’s what this post is about. It’s about the DirecTV technician, Luis.

He introduced himself, showed me his badge, then trudged in, carrying a new receiver. As he went to work doing the install, I went in the kitchen and started getting organized for who-knows-how-many days without hot water.

When I finished, Luis was sitting idly on the living room floor, scrolling through his phone, waiting for the system set-up on the receiver to do its thing. I asked him if he was having a good day.

“I’m not,” I said, “so I hope your day is going well.”

He shrugged. “Saturday is always easy.” Then he looked back at this phone.

Hmm. Definitely not a chatty guy.

I persisted. “Because less traffic?”

He shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess.” Then he pointed to my typewriter. “I used to have one. In school. For homework.” His accent was heavy, his English imperfect. I wondered if he found it easier not to engage in conversation with people who weren’t likely to understand him.

I told him I was a writer, and it’s like this quiet gentleman just came to life. “You do art, then,” he said. “I am artist, too. I paint.” He picked up his phone again, excited now, poking it a couple of times to bring up Instagram. He started to show me his pictures, but I told him to wait while I got my phone so I could follow him on the platform. As I scrolled through his beautiful beach and forest scenes, I told him how much I loved the mountains, how I used to live in Mt. Baldy. He told me he drives up to Idyllwild as often as he can just to be up in the mountains and look for scenes to paint. He told me how he was bored during the pandemic so he watched some YouTube videos and picked up a brush and started painting with acrylics. His wife took one look at what he was doing, he said, and she charged off to Hobby Lobby, buying him more paint and canvasses. He started posting pictures of his work on Instagram, and people commented. So he set up an Etsy account, and now he sells them. His wife, he said, likes to go to bed early and get up when the world is quiet. (Sounds familiar.) After she goes to bed, he paints. For two or three or five hours. He showed me a picture of his wife and son, talked a bit about his wife going through some health problems in recent years. She didn’t want him to sell any paintings—because she loves all of them.

Finally, he asked if he could see a copy of one of my books. I grabbed one and showed him. He asked where he could buy a copy. I took that one back, signed it, and gave it to him.

“I will read it,” he said. “I promise.”

And I believe he will.

Given the “Salvi Pride” tag on his Instagram profile, I’m guessing Luis is from El Salvador. I don’t know how long he’s been in the U.S. or what he had to go through to get here or what it felt like to leave his homeland, hoping, as he came to this strange new country, that he would somehow make a better life for himself and his family.

But… consider this: His Instagram handle is @luis_vichez_art. What if, like, a whole lot of people read this post and decide to follow Luis on Instagram? And maybe even some people buy a painting from him? Wouldn’t that be amazing? I’m telling you right now, it would make all the insanity of the past couple of days worth it.

And oh—the appliance repair business called while I was talking to Luis. They gave me a reasonable estimate on replacing the water heater—on Monday, so I would only have to be hot waterless through Sunday. Which is when I’m writing this. And guess what? They called back this morning to ask if they could please do the job today. A day early. And yeah, it gets even better. They did the whole job in an hour and a half. Done, cleaned up, water heating as I wrote the check.

But that’s not what this post is about. It’s about Luis, the painter. @luis_vichez_art