Mollie Cox Bryan's Blog, page 26

Five things I thought about during my morning run:

1. The medical tests I had had yesterday wiped me out. I was in bed by 8:30!

2. How busy we are this season. My girls have so many conflicting activities, it's a wonder we are surviving at all.

3. So we are really going to try to do a book trailer for Scrapbook of Secrets. I handed my friend Christy an ARC yesterday for her to read. She filmed the trailer for my pie book.I want her creative wheels to start turning–once that happens you just never know what will happen.

4. Sometimes I want to trip that really tall guy. Every time he passes me, he sort of comes into my lane and I sense a level of long-legged arrogance…

5. So it's official. My e-book is out. Scroll down and click on the link if you're interested in HONEY I'M SORRY I KILLED YOUR AQUASAURS.

Honey, I'm Sorry I Killed Your Aquasaurs (and other short essays on the parenting life)

It is with great pride that I'm announcing that I've dipped my toes into the indie publishing arena. So, I've been asked why. Why would an author under contract with two FINE publishers—one for cookbooks and one for fiction—choose to publish independently? Well, that answer is probably more simple than you think.

I wrote this newspaper column for years and kept the columns, of course, not just because I wrote them—but I also because I LOVED writing them. Not only are they juicy memories captured about parenting my girls when they were small children, but they are full of inspiration and laughs for parents—who happen to be some of my favorite people. What a waste to let them sit in a drawer.

From a business perspective, it is unwise to just let them sit there. For years. Oh sure, I've sold several of them to parenting magazines from time to time. One of the ways in which a freelancer earns a living is by keeping rights and reselling articles and maybe making books from them. And a few years ago my agent tried to sell a group of my food essays and it became clear that even with my cookbooks (one a regional best seller) and magazine articles I still didn't have the "platform" to sell a book of essays to a publisher.

So what is a writer to do? These days we've so many opportunities with indie publishing. So if you think there's an audience out there for your work, now you can go directly to your readers.

It took months of compiling and gathering. Fortunately, these essays had already been edited so I didn't have to find an editor–which I highly recommend for anybody going the indie route. 

Truthfully, this book might not be for everyone. But for those readers who have kids and not much time to read, it's perfect because the essays are short and oh, so heartfelt.

 

Running and Scraps of Paper

When I was running this morning, this song came over Pandora. It's "Half an Acre" by Hem. I hear it every once in awhile. Every time I do, I think of SCRAPBOOK OF SECRETS and how a life can unfold through bits and pieces of paper ephemera. Sit back, relax, and enjoy this lovely song.

BDlZbEcRGEo

Five things I thought about during my morning run:

1. I don't mind rain, except when it lasts for days. It's the gray I don't like. All the gray.

2. Last night's scrapchat on Twitter. It was fun.

3. Last week's craziness is leading to this week's catching up time. Whew.

4.I'm trying to format my e-book, Honey I'm sorry I killed Your Aquasaurs. Yesterday, I wanted to pound my head in the wall from it. This morning, I'm going to try it ONE MORE TIME.

5. Chapter One of Scrapbook of Secrets is on my blog. If you are here, just scroll on down.

Scrapbook of Secrets, Chapter One

It's two months until launch day for SCRAPBOOK OF SECRETS! To celebrate, I'm sharing the first chapter with you. Of course, I hope that it will spark your curiosity to read more and head right over to Amazon to pre-order a copy. But I also hope that you will just plain like it. Feel free to leave me a comment after reading it. If you'd rather chat about it, I'm having a lunch time chat on Friday on my Facebook author page. You are invited! Enjoy!

Chapter 1

For Vera, all of the day's madness began when she saw the knife handle poking out of her mother's neck. Her mother didn't seem to know it. In fact, she was surprised that the blade was inside her. "How did that happen?" she demanded to know from her daughter.

Vera just looked at her . . . calmly. "Well, now, Mother, we need to call someone, an ambulance . . . a doctor. . . . I don't know. Should we pull it out, or what?"

If Vera only had a nickel for every time her mother gave her that look. A look of unbelieving pity, as if to say, Sometimes I can't believe the stupidity of my grown daughter. Having a brilliant mother was not easy—ever—especially not as an adult. As a child, Vera assumed all grown-ups were as smart as her mother, and it was easy to acquiesce to her in all of her grown-up, brilliant, scientific knowledge. At the age of eighty, Beatrice showed no signs of slowness in her mind or any forgetfulness. Nothing. Vera almost looked forward to the day she could help her mother remember something or even tell her something that she didn't know.

As she sat in the X-ray waiting area, looking out the window over a construction site, with a huge dilapidated barn in the distance, she marveled once again at her mother's strength and tenacity. Evidently, she was stabbed during her travels through the town this Saturday morning. She didn't feel a thing—and with three grocery bags in her hands, Beatrice walked four blocks home, the same path she'd traveled for fifty years. "Four different grocery stores have been there and have gone out of business," Beatrice would say. "Yet, I'm still here, walking the same street, the same path. I refuse to die."

Beatrice would not allow her daughter—or anyone—to pick up groceries for her or take her shopping. She said that as long as she could keep getting herself to the grocery store, she knew she was fine. Food is life. "It's the ancient food-foraging impulse in me. I feel it even stronger, the older I get. I want to take care of myself."

How could a woman who still fended for herself every day—cooking, gardening, canning, cleaning, and writing—not feel a knife jab into her neck?

"Vera?" said a man in medical garb who stood in front of her.

"Yes," she said, standing up.

"I'm Dr. Hansen. We've just X-rayed your mom and looked over the film," he said, smiling, revealing two deep dimples and a beautiful set of teeth. He held the film in his hands. "Would you like to see them?"

She followed him over to the wall, where he clicked on a light and clipped on the X-ray to it.

"As you can see, the knife is pretty deep." He pointed to the blade. His nails and hands were the cleanest Vera had ever seen on a man. An overall well-manicured appearance.

"Y-yes," she stammered. That was a knife in her mother's neck. A knife. Long and sharp. Menacing.

"Here's the thing, rather than give you a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo, I'm just going to put this in lay terms."

She despised his patronizing tone. He wasn't even born yet when her father was practicing medicine out of their home. She knew about the human body. She was a dancer; her father was a physician. Her mother might be old, but she was no slouch.

"The reason your mom didn't feel this is because it's lodged in an area where there are few nerve endings, which is a blessing because she is not really in any pain," he said, taking a breath. "You just don't see this every day."

"No," Vera said.

"We can pull it out, using local anesthesia, with great risk for potential blood loss and so on. If she flinches or moves while we're removing it, the damage could be severe. We can also operate to remove it, put her under, which I think is the safest thing."

Vera looked at him for some guidance or answer. Damn it, Bill is out of town. "Have you talked to her about it?"

"Well, yes. . . ."

"And?"

"She doesn't want surgery. She wants us to pull it out."

"So what's the problem? It's her body. I can't make decisions like that for her."

"Your mom is eighty years old and we're not sure she's thinking clearly. And the danger—"

"Doctor," Vera said, trying not to roar. She felt an odd tightening in her guts. She stood up straighter. "My mother's mind is perfectly fine. It's her neck that seems to be the problem right now, and the fact that a knife is sticking out of it."

He looked away. "Vera, I know this might be hard for you. A lot of times we don't see the truth when it comes to our aging parents."

"What exactly are you talking about? I am very close with my mom and would know if something was wrong. I don't understand."

"Well, she's been talking to herself, for one thing."

Vera laughed. "No, she's not. She's talking to my dad. He died about twenty years ago. She talks to him all the time."

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind. "Do you think that's normal?"

"For her, it is."

Vera's mind wandered as the doctor was called away. He said he'd be back. She looked at the crisp blue hospital walls, with beautiful landscape paintings, all strategically placed. One was above the leather sofa so you could lie or sit in style to await the news about your loved ones and gaze into the peaceful garden gazebo landscape; one was above the chair; the hallways were lined with them. Vera saw herself walking down the hall and looking at the same prints twenty years ago. Tranquil settings of barns and flowers did not help the pain. She was only twenty-one then, and she thought she'd soon be back in New York City. As soon as her father healed, got home, and was on the road to being himself, she'd hop on the train to continue her dancing career. She had no idea she'd never see her father again—nor would she ever dance professionally again.

The last time Vera was here was with her father. The hospital had just opened, and he was impressed with the technology and the vibrant pulse of new medicine. The research arm intrigued him. Some older doctors were jaded and looked at the new hospital with suspicion, but not her father. Ironic that he died here, under the new establishment's care.

She sighed a deep and heavy sigh.

"Vera!" It was Sheila running up the hall, wiry brown hair needing combing. She was dressed in a mismatched sweat suit. "Oh, girl! What on earth is going on? I've been hearing rumors. Is your mama okay? Lord!"

For the first time that day, Vera smiled. "Sit down, Sheila. You're a mess."

Sheila took a quick look at herself and laughed. "You know, I just threw anything on. Is your mother—"

"She's fine," said Vera. "She's trying to tell the doctors what to do."

"Really?" Sheila sat up a little straighter, looking very serious. "I can hardly believe that," she said, and a laugh escaped. Then she grabbed her belly and howled in a fit of laughter.

Vera felt tears coming to her eyes through her own chortles. "You haven't heard the best part," she managed to say, trying to calm herself down as a nurse passed by, glancing at them. "Mama was stabbed and she never felt a thing."

"What?" Sheila stopped laughing for a minute. "Are you serious?" Her face reddened and laugher escaped. "Oh, girl, only Beatrice. Only Beatrice."

Vera's mother had just been stabbed, and she and her best friend were laughing about it, like schoolgirls unable to control their nervous giggles. A part of Vera felt like she was betraying her mother. However, she knew if Beatrice had been in this room, she'd be laughing, too.

When the women calmed down, Sheila brought up Maggie Rae, which was the other startling news of the day. "Did you hear the news?"

Vera sighed. "Yes, I heard about it. I saw the ambulances and police at her house and went over to see what was happening. You know, I blame myself. I knew something was wrong. I just didn't know what to do about it, or maybe I just tried to talk myself out of it."

Vera thought about the tiny young mother, always with her children clinging to her, and with a baby on her hip—or in a stroller. She was pretty in a simple way—never made-up, always pulled her long black hair into a ponytail and wore glasses most of the time. Though once or twice, Vera had seen her wearing contacts, which really opened up her face. Even though Maggie Rae rarely made eye contact, she always held herself erect and moved with a graceful confidence and sway in her hips.

"Now, Vera," said Sheila, "you hardly knew that woman. Who really knew her? She kept to herself."

"She brought Grace in for dance lessons once a week," Vera told her. "I know her as well as any of the rest of them. Except she was awfully quiet. And so small. Like a bird. Every time I saw her, it looked like she had gotten even thinner."

"Hmm-hmm, I know. It's odd. She was one of my best customers, but she never came to a crop," said Sheila, who sold scrapbooking supplies for a living. "I invited her. She never came, so I just . . . stopped. You know, you can only push so far. "

They sat in their own silence, with the hospital noise all around them, each knowing her own sadness and her own triumphs and joys, but neither knowing what it was like to be pushed quite that far. To be pushed far enough to put a gun to one's head while the children were peacefully sleeping upstairs. What kind of darkness led Maggie Rae Dasher to that moment? And what do people ever really know about the neighbors and townsfolk who live among them?

"Did she leave a note or anything?" Vera wondered out loud.

Sheila shrugged.

A nurse dressed all in blue passed them; a mother carrying a baby in a carrier and holding the hand of a toddler limped along; someone was coughing and another person laughed. A man in a wheelchair wheeled by them, while another gentleman hobbled with a cane. Phones were ringing. Announcements were being made—doctors were paged.

"Damn," said Sheila. "This place sucks."

"Wonder where the doctor is?" Vera looked around. "I'm going over to that desk to see what's going on. I should at least be able to see Mama."

As Vera walked around the nurses' station to try to find some help, she thought she could hear her mother's voice.

"What?" the voice said. "Listen, you twit, you'll do it because I said you will. Stop treating me like I am five. I am eighty, of sound mind and body, except for this friggin' knife hanging out of my neck. And oh, by the way, I am a doctor of physics myself. So don't tell me—"

"Mama," Vera interrupted as she walked into the room. Sitting up in bed, her mother looked so small, which belied the sound of her voice and the redness of her face. "Calm down, sweetie."

She folded her arms over her chest. "Son of a bitch!" She cocked her head and looked behind Vera. "What's the scrapbook queen doing here? Am I dying or something?"

"Hey," Sheila said. "You've got a knife sticking out of the back of your neck. Don't get too cocky, old woman."

"Huh!" Beatrice said, and smiled. "Glad to see you, too. Now, Vera, what are we going to do about this mess?"

"I told the doctor that it's your body. You do what you want, Mama."

"Yes, but," she said, after taking a sip of water, leaning forward on the pillows that were propping her in an awkward position, which forced her to sit up so the knife would not hit the bed, "what do you think? What would you do?"

Vera could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her mother was asking for her advice. She couldn't remember if that had happened before. "Honestly, if it were me, I'd want to be put out. I'd be afraid of moving, you know?"

"I don't know about being operated on at my age. . . . You know they killed your daddy. What if they kill me, too? I can't leave yet. I've got too much work to do, and then there's you. I can't leave you without a parent," she said quietly.

Vera knew that's what it would come to—this is where he died, not for his heart problems, but from a staph infection.

"Just do what she asks," Vera said to the young doctor, who was still hovering. "She won't move."

 

Chapter One, Scrapbook of Secrets

It’s two months until launch day for SCRAPBOOK OF SECRETS! To celebrate, I’m sharing the first chapter with you. Of course, I hope that it will spark your curiosity to read more and head right over to Amazon to pre-order a copy. But I also hope that you will just plain like it. Feel free to leave me a comment after reading it. If you’d rather chat about it, I’m having a lunch time chat on Friday on my Facebook author page. You are invited! Enjoy!

Chapter 1

For Vera, all of the day’s madness began when she saw the knife handle poking out of her mother’s neck. Her mother didn’t seem to know it. In fact, she was surprised that the blade was inside her. “How did that happen?” she demanded to know from her daughter.

Vera just looked at her . . . calmly. “Well, now, Mother, we need to call someone, an ambulance . . . a doctor. . . . I don’t know. Should we pull it out, or what?”

If Vera only had a nickel for every time her mother gave her that look. A look of unbelieving pity, as if to say, Sometimes I can’t believe the stupidity of my grown daughter. Having a brilliant mother was not easy—ever—especially not as an adult. As a child, Vera assumed all grown-ups were as smart as her mother, and it was easy to acquiesce to her in all of her grown-up, brilliant, scientific knowledge. At the age of eighty, Beatrice showed no signs of slowness in her mind or any forgetfulness. Nothing. Vera almost looked forward to the day she could help her mother remember something or even tell her something that she didn’t know.

As she sat in the X-ray waiting area, looking out the window over a construction site, with a huge dilapidated barn in the distance, she marveled once again at her mother’s strength and tenacity. Evidently, she was stabbed during her travels through the town this Saturday morning. She didn’t feel a thing—and with three grocery bags in her hands, Beatrice walked four blocks home, the same path she’d traveled for fifty years. “Four different grocery stores have been there and have gone out of business,” Beatrice would say. “Yet, I’m still here, walking the same street, the same path. I refuse to die.”

Beatrice would not allow her daughter—or anyone—to pick up groceries for her or take her shopping. She said that as long as she could keep getting herself to the grocery store, she knew she was fine. Food is life. “It’s the ancient food-foraging impulse in me. I feel it even stronger, the older I get. I want to take care of myself.”

How could a woman who still fended for herself every day—cooking, gardening, canning, cleaning, and writing—not feel a knife jab into her neck?

“Vera?” said a man in medical garb who stood in front of her.

“Yes,” she said, standing up.

“I’m Dr. Hansen. We’ve just X-rayed your mom and looked over the film,” he said, smiling, revealing two deep dimples and a beautiful set of teeth. He held the film in his hands. “Would you like to see them?”

She followed him over to the wall, where he clicked on a light and clipped on the X-ray to it.

“As you can see, the knife is pretty deep.” He pointed to the blade. His nails and hands were the cleanest Vera had ever seen on a man. An overall well-manicured appearance.

“Y-yes,” she stammered. That was a knife in her mother’s neck. A knife. Long and sharp. Menacing.

“Here’s the thing, rather than give you a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo, I’m just going to put this in lay terms.”

She despised his patronizing tone. He wasn’t even born yet when her father was practicing medicine out of their home. She knew about the human body. She was a dancer; her father was a physician. Her mother might be old, but she was no slouch.

“The reason your mom didn’t feel this is because it’s lodged in an area where there are few nerve endings, which is a blessing because she is not really in any pain,” he said, taking a breath. “You just don’t see this every day.”

“No,” Vera said.

“We can pull it out, using local anesthesia, with great risk for potential blood loss and so on. If she flinches or moves while we’re removing it, the damage could be severe. We can also operate to remove it, put her under, which I think is the safest thing.”

Vera looked at him for some guidance or answer. Damn it, Bill is out of town. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“Well, yes. . . .”

“And?”

“She doesn’t want surgery. She wants us to pull it out.”

“So what’s the problem? It’s her body. I can’t make decisions like that for her.”

“Your mom is eighty years old and we’re not sure she’s thinking clearly. And the danger—”

“Doctor,” Vera said, trying not to roar. She felt an odd tightening in her guts. She stood up straighter. “My mother’s mind is perfectly fine. It’s her neck that seems to be the problem right now, and the fact that a knife is sticking out of it.”

He looked away. “Vera, I know this might be hard for you. A lot of times we don’t see the truth when it comes to our aging parents.”

“What exactly are you talking about? I am very close with my mom and would know if something was wrong. I don’t understand.”

“Well, she’s been talking to herself, for one thing.”

Vera laughed. “No, she’s not. She’s talking to my dad. He died about twenty years ago. She talks to him all the time.”

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “Do you think that’s normal?”

“For her, it is.”

Vera’s mind wandered as the doctor was called away. He said he’d be back. She looked at the crisp blue hospital walls, with beautiful landscape paintings, all strategically placed. One was above the leather sofa so you could lie or sit in style to await the news about your loved ones and gaze into the peaceful garden gazebo landscape; one was above the chair; the hallways were lined with them. Vera saw herself walking down the hall and looking at the same prints twenty years ago. Tranquil settings of barns and flowers did not help the pain. She was only twenty-one then, and she thought she’d soon be back in New York City. As soon as her father healed, got home, and was on the road to being himself, she’d hop on the train to continue her dancing career. She had no idea she’d never see her father again—nor would she ever dance professionally again.

The last time Vera was here was with her father. The hospital had just opened, and he was impressed with the technology and the vibrant pulse of new medicine. The research arm intrigued him. Some older doctors were jaded and looked at the new hospital with suspicion, but not her father. Ironic that he died here, under the new establishment’s care.

She sighed a deep and heavy sigh.

“Vera!” It was Sheila running up the hall, wiry brown hair needing combing. She was dressed in a mismatched sweat suit. “Oh, girl! What on earth is going on? I’ve been hearing rumors. Is your mama okay? Lord!”

For the first time that day, Vera smiled. “Sit down, Sheila. You’re a mess.”

Sheila took a quick look at herself and laughed. “You know, I just threw anything on. Is your mother—”

“She’s fine,” said Vera. “She’s trying to tell the doctors what to do.”

“Really?” Sheila sat up a little straighter, looking very serious. “I can hardly believe that,” she said, and a laugh escaped. Then she grabbed her belly and howled in a fit of laughter.

Vera felt tears coming to her eyes through her own chortles. “You haven’t heard the best part,” she managed to say, trying to calm herself down as a nurse passed by, glancing at them. “Mama was stabbed and she never felt a thing.”

“What?” Sheila stopped laughing for a minute. “Are you serious?” Her face reddened and laugher escaped. “Oh, girl, only Beatrice. Only Beatrice.”

Vera’s mother had just been stabbed, and she and her best friend were laughing about it, like schoolgirls unable to control their nervous giggles. A part of Vera felt like she was betraying her mother. However, she knew if Beatrice had been in this room, she’d be laughing, too.

When the women calmed down, Sheila brought up Maggie Rae, which was the other startling news of the day. “Did you hear the news?”

Vera sighed. “Yes, I heard about it. I saw the ambulances and police at her house and went over to see what was happening. You know, I blame myself. I knew something was wrong. I just didn’t know what to do about it, or maybe I just tried to talk myself out of it.”

Vera thought about the tiny young mother, always with her children clinging to her, and with a baby on her hip—or in a stroller. She was pretty in a simple way—never made-up, always pulled her long black hair into a ponytail and wore glasses most of the time. Though once or twice, Vera had seen her wearing contacts, which really opened up her face. Even though Maggie Rae rarely made eye contact, she always held herself erect and moved with a graceful confidence and sway in her hips.

“Now, Vera,” said Sheila, “you hardly knew that woman. Who really knew her? She kept to herself.”

“She brought Grace in for dance lessons once a week,” Vera told her. “I know her as well as any of the rest of them. Except she was awfully quiet. And so small. Like a bird. Every time I saw her, it looked like she had gotten even thinner.”

“Hmm-hmm, I know. It’s odd. She was one of my best customers, but she never came to a crop,” said Sheila, who sold scrapbooking supplies for a living. “I invited her. She never came, so I just . . . stopped. You know, you can only push so far. ”

They sat in their own silence, with the hospital noise all around them, each knowing her own sadness and her own triumphs and joys, but neither knowing what it was like to be pushed quite that far. To be pushed far enough to put a gun to one’s head while the children were peacefully sleeping upstairs. What kind of darkness led Maggie Rae Dasher to that moment? And what do people ever really know about the neighbors and townsfolk who live among them?

“Did she leave a note or anything?” Vera wondered out loud.

Sheila shrugged.

A nurse dressed all in blue passed them; a mother carrying a baby in a carrier and holding the hand of a toddler limped along; someone was coughing and another person laughed. A man in a wheelchair wheeled by them, while another gentleman hobbled with a cane. Phones were ringing. Announcements were being made—doctors were paged.

“Damn,” said Sheila. “This place sucks.”

“Wonder where the doctor is?” Vera looked around. “I’m going over to that desk to see what’s going on. I should at least be able to see Mama.”

As Vera walked around the nurses’ station to try to find some help, she thought she could hear her mother’s voice.

“What?” the voice said. “Listen, you twit, you’ll do it because I said you will. Stop treating me like I am five. I am eighty, of sound mind and body, except for this friggin’ knife hanging out of my neck. And oh, by the way, I am a doctor of physics myself. So don’t tell me—”

“Mama,” Vera interrupted as she walked into the room. Sitting up in bed, her mother looked so small, which belied the sound of her voice and the redness of her face. “Calm down, sweetie.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Son of a bitch!” She cocked her head and looked behind Vera. “What’s the scrapbook queen doing here? Am I dying or something?”

“Hey,” Sheila said. “You’ve got a knife sticking out of the back of your neck. Don’t get too cocky, old woman.”

“Huh!” Beatrice said, and smiled. “Glad to see you, too. Now, Vera, what are we going to do about this mess?”

“I told the doctor that it’s your body. You do what you want, Mama.”

“Yes, but,” she said, after taking a sip of water, leaning forward on the pillows that were propping her in an awkward position, which forced her to sit up so the knife would not hit the bed, “what do you think? What would you do?”

Vera could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her mother was asking for her advice. She couldn’t remember if that had happened before. “Honestly, if it were me, I’d want to be put out. I’d be afraid of moving, you know?”

“I don’t know about being operated on at my age. . . . You know they killed your daddy. What if they kill me, too? I can’t leave yet. I’ve got too much work to do, and then there’s you. I can’t leave you without a parent,” she said quietly.

Vera knew that’s what it would come to—this is where he died, not for his heart problems, but from a staph infection.

“Just do what she asks,” Vera said to the young doctor, who was still hovering. “She won’t move.”

Five Famous Women Authors I'd Like to Scrapbook with:

1. JK Rowling. She has a child and she may already have a scrapbook or two. But it would be so cool to get creative with her. You just have to wonder what kind of scrapbooks would she make? Would they open on their own? Sprinkle fairy dust? Heh.

2. Charlaine Harris.  I think she'd be a hoot to hang out with. Have you read her books? Some of the funniest vampire fiction I've ever read. Oh wait. It's the ONLY funny vampire fiction I've ever read.

3. Rita Mae Brown. She loves her animals and I love mine. Maybe we could scrapbook about our cats. I'd hope that she'd regale us with stories of Sneaky Pie while we were pasting photos into our scrapbooks

4. Toni Morrison. Because she's my favorite writer and all crops need a poet or two.

5. Erica Jong. 'Nuff said.

What famous  women writers would you like to scrapbook with? (Next week, the men writers, I promise!)

 

Why Dance Matters to Me

I'm compiling a book of my slice-of-life parenting columns that I wrote for about eight years. I ran across a little something that I found worthy of sharing right now. The reason? Because my family has been blessed by the generosity and kindness of a dancing teacher—Dulcey Fuqua of Old Dominion Performing Arts Studio. This week is tough one for her— and her students. It's "tech week," which means her 50-plus dancers will be rehearsing every night for the Nutcracker. I've been trying to express to anybody who would listen what Dulcey and her vision of a  dance community means to me—and to my daughters. You see, dance should be for anybody who feels the pull of it—not just children of the privileged. Dulcey gets that.  So, as I worked on this new book of old columns these words jumped out at me—expressing exactly how I feel, today.

"As a child that danced, I can tell you that it opened up the world to me—a poor girl from a broken home who certainly would have been labeled "at-risk" by the powers-that -be today.  Through dancing I met people from all over the world, giving me a a broader sense of belonging to something other than my tiny neighborhood in Beaver County, Pa. Not only did it give other obvious attributes—grace, discipline, confidence in myself and my body, appreciation of all kinds of music, etc., but it also gave me a rich and deep well of inner resources. An inner landscape with which I easily draw on in my writing and my life today.

But as a child, things were not always easy. Sometimes we did not have enough food or heat. And I certainly did not have the designer clothes or cars that many of the young people have today. But I had the dance and the imagination that went with it. The best times we had were when Mom would turn up the stereo and we would all dance and sing. Sometimes we had the whole neighborhood dancing in our tiny living room.

When I think back to what has made the difference between what my life is now and what it very easily could have been, I think of dancing as being the foundation for my curiosity about other worlds, and and driving me forward. I knew that there was something more. Many of the non-dancing people I grew up with are in prison, dead, or are facing the daily struggle of dealing with drugs, alcohol, or some other addiction. I am not saying that the arts is a cure for all of society's ills, but  I know it is a great place to start."

If your interested in Dulcey, ODPAS, or seeing the Nutcracker this coming weekend, click here for more info. The quality of dance coming out of this small studio is amazing. Check them out.

Five things I thought about during my morning run:

1. Blue sky. Light-filled morning. Slightly chilled breeze. Perfect morning for running outside.

2. My Thanksgiving totally rocked. I saw my whole family–a rare thing, indeed.

3. My sister went all-out. Beautiful table. Great food. My mom's chestnut stuffing was unbelievably good.

4. For those of you who have been asking about my health…I think my dr. is on top of it. We increased the dosage of one of my medicines and guess what…my heart palpitations are gone. The test will be this week as I ease back into work.

5. Yes! My book launch is getting closer! If any of you are looking for a guest blogger during February, let me know. I'm signing blogs up for my blog tour. Email me at molliebryan@comcast.net.

In Process

I'm in the process of redesigning this site. You can still find all of my blog posts here, as well as any information about my writing and books. Some links might be broken and other weird things might happen. In the mean time, please enjoy the start of my redesign. And, by the way Happy Thanksgiving!

Cheers,

Mollie