Michelle L. Rusk's Blog, page 45

The Vulnerability of Writing

There's a certain vulnerability that comes into writing, of releasing something from your head into the world for anyone to read. While I've never had children, for me it's the closest experience to having one: particularly when I give someone the manuscript to read for the first time.

I think of Stephen King who threw his first version of Carrie into the trash basket where his wife plucked it out and read it (not as easy to do now since many manuscripts never make it to paper form). His life might have been completely different had she not decided she wanted to read it even when he thought he was done with it.

My next book is due out in about a month (more to come on that soon) and when I handed off the first versions for several people to read I'll admit that I was nervous. I have learned that just because something works in my head doesn't mean it does on paper. I have several manuscripts I thought were better than they turned out to be. One someone read, the other one I saw it in the passage of time after I put it aside.

To hand over pages of works that I have written, a story, a book of hope, a memoir, is daunting. I feel as if I'm pacing my house until I find out if the person likes it or not. I don't expect someone to like it all, there always are changes, but my hope is that they like it enough that I can make the changes and move on with it. I need to know if it works or not because if it doesn't I need to fix it. 

Writing stories is what I do. Releasing them for everyone to read is also what I do. But in-between there are huge steps of letting go. I could easily keep them for myself but I want to share them with the world. And for me that means taking a deep breath and believing that's what I meant to do. And the more I do that, the better my writing is.

Gidget Finds Peace

I often say that if Gidget were human, she'd be on a lot of medication. 

My ex-husband and I drove through a rain storm (and then home through a snow storm) to the Oklahoma-Arkansas border to pick up a four-month old German Shepherd who with her parents and been left on the front porch of their home during a cold spell when the family hadn't paid the heating bill and took off for a motel. It was December of 2009, just days before the new year.

My German Shepherd Daisy had died just weeks before after a battle with the aggressive and terminal Hemangiosarcoma cancer. While I know not to run out and adopt another dog after the death of one, I felt as if I had let Daisy down, not catching her cancer early enough and losing her at age 5 1/2. I had an intense need to help another German Shepherd.

I started to peruse the newspaper, the internet, any place I might find a German Shepherd puppy. We were accepted as an adoptable family for a German Shepherd rescue in Texas although they didn't have any at the time. I told myself after the holidays there would be one.

But then there was Ariella in Muldrow, Oklahoma. And while we weren't the only people to inquire about the puppy, soon we were on our way– with Chaco in tow because he is the oldest and we wanted to make sure he was okay with her– to pick her up.

It was a rough time at our house: our marriage was crumbling but Daisy had brought us together, my ex was very emotionally sick, and we had stopped having dinner parties because of his moods. And that meant Gidget (as we renamed her) didn't get the socialization she should have.

It became a disaster. 

As she grew older, she was scared of people and they became scared of her. We were afraid to leave her alone with anyone for fear what she might do. She wore a muzzle when someone people came over but mostly she was relegated to her crate.

The atmosphere at the house didn't help as the marriage finally ended in September 2011. I would move to my hometown outside Chicago where we had a house, taking Chaco and Gidget with me.

But it wasn't better for Gidget there. She continued to lunge at people, nipping at their behinds. A behaviorist told me that something traumatic had happened to her during that two-week period of puppyhood that is imprinted on them the rest of their lives. Pieces of hot dog lay on the floor in the room where we met and Gidget didn't touch them. She was too scared to notice.

The only silver lining was that she and my mom became best friends.

Almost two years later, Mom and I moved back to Albuquerque and six months later I met Greg, the man I would marry. The night of our first date we came back to the house after dinner and as I was holding Gidget to take her to crate in Mom's room, she and Hattie got in a fight and I got bit by both of them.

Yep, it was a great introduction to Greg of my canine life and I have a scar on my right thigh where Gidget bit me. A souvenir of our first date.

Greg, however, wasn't deterred. He was bound to make Gidget like him– and be around other people. While I was scared to death that Gidget would hurt someone, Greg would patiently take her outside on her leash to introduce her to people, to show her that people aren't so bad. Slowly, Gidget seemed to understand that if she was a good dog, she could be out when people were over, especially in the pool, rather than in her crate at the other side of the house. And she began to show interest in the world around her when we went for a run-walk. 

Gidget's biggest solace was always the pool. She loved to swim from when she was taught that first summer before she turned a year old. And what she liked even better was chasing a ball thrown in the pool. She uses them as an excuse now. "Oh, I dropped my ball in the pool. I need to retrieve it." She climbs in via the steps, grab her ball, and swim to the bench in the deep end where she climbs out.

Our goal was that by our wedding Gidget would attend the rehearsal dinner party we had in the backyard that included fifty people. By then she had been to several dinner parties and had done really well with multiple house guests. Still, fifty people was something else. 

She stayed in the backyard, mostly looking a little scared, but she did it. She didn't lunge or bark. And the biggest surprise of all was how many people said she was their favorite of the four, something that had never happened in her life.

I call them G squared– Greg and Gidget. But I now understand why Gidget came into my life because as Greg and I continue to weave our lives together, Gidget is a big part of that. 

Happy 6th Birthday, my shepherd girl.

 

 

The Characters of The Green Dress

While many people in my life keep coming and telling me they know who the characters of The Green Dress are based on, I just smile and laugh because I know better. Yes, there are details I have taken from people but Audrey and Vince are not Greg and I (nor did I have a rich aunt who left me a lot of money and a house with a pool). In fact Greg one day said to me, "Where you and Vince went on a date."

Just like the characters in my previous novels, this time I'm not Audrey. However, something people don't always realize is the challenge of creating likable characters. For me at least this is a challenge because if I don't like the characters I'm less likely to be engaged to finish writing the novel. This is also true of me for watching movies and particularly television. I will stop watching certain shows if I don't like the characters.

And in my writing it's happened twice in the past two years: I have two manuscripts– one that needs to be almost completely revised and a second one that isn't finished– where I ended up not liking the man I created and I lost interest. 

When I'm creating characters, I not only need to think of a man I would like to have in my life, when I'm surrounding the main character with her (because I've only written from a female perspective so far) friends and family, I think of people I'd like to have at my dinner table. Now there might be people I don't really like but I try to keep them out of her orbit at least enough that they don't affect my interest in writing the story.

A good example of this is Audrey's ex-husband. I had to make sure he was someone I didn't like but he also didn't play into the story much except as part of her past. The tricky part of this is that sometimes there have to be antagonists who are human (rather than the main character battling herself or something about her life). But even trickier is making the antagonists work that they don't make the main character come off someone others would think is stupid as in, "Why would she waste her time with him?"

None of my characters are perfect but I want them to be finding strength in their lives rather than escorting everyone out the door before dinner has even started.

A Message

A friend's father died on Friday and her mother is also sick. While she has as much knowledge about grief as I do, we all know that parent grief is different. And having lost both my parents– a year and a half ago for my mom and coming up on ten years for my dad– I thought about what I would tell her if she asked me for any thoughts.

And there was one thought that came to me, the one that I remind myself of each day:

Be who your parents wanted you to be.

My parents knew from an early age I wanted to be a writer. My mom was good about fostering creativity in the house: always supplying us with paper to draw on along with crayons and markers. While she didn't consider herself a creative person, her creativity was endless because she was feeding us with mechanisms to play with (my play kitchen was filled with jello boxes and other cardboard items that she thought I could use for pretend food). She taught us to cook and bake at an early age, always including us in making cookies. She taught me to sew. I could go on and on.

Honestly, I didn't see this until after she died but it seems like the further I get from her death and the more I spend my time trying to be the person I've always wanted to be, it all comes flooding back.

It's easy to get caught up in so much every day, especially because we have responsibility swirling around us– family, work. But life is short and losing our parents is a reminder that we won't have them forever. We can best remember them by being who they wanted us to be. It takes work but it also means I'm becoming who I've always wanted to be.

The Coach's wife

This is my third season following the Cleveland High School girls soccer team. But there's a slight difference this year: I am the coach's wife.

Long ago in what seems like another life, I wrote an article about what it was like to be a coach's wife. This stemmed form my covering football and basketball at the Ball State Daily News, where I earned my bachelor's degree in journalism. Even in my early twenties I could see the challenge of being a coach's wife– one that can have many rewards– but involves a certain kind of woman (or man– after all there are "coach's husbands" out there).

I remember one assistant football coach's wife I interviewed. She was clearly very independent and was used to doing things on her own because he was around so little during the football season and beyond. They didn't have children and she filled her hours without him by doing her own thing. The others that I interviewed (the head football and basketball coaches' wives) had children and their lives were slightly different).

While I have been around for two previous seasons, this one has shifted: we are married and living in the same house. Greg is one of the most helpful people when it comes to making sure that the dishwasher is emptied (not my favorite thing) and keeping up with his duties as the resident pool boy (something he likes to joke about with everyone).

And while this is high school girls soccer, not college or professional, I understand the time commitment. I was once a teacher and cross country/track coach but I was single and only had me to look after. You get used to letting things go, knowing that the car might not get washed for several months and you might not see much television.

Greg won five state championships (in a row I might add!) at another school here in Albuquerque before moving onto coach college and do other things. He returned to the high school teaching ranks six years ago and found his way back into a head coaching job.

I can empty the dishwasher sometimes. I make sure he walks out in the morning with a lunch in his hand; we plan our meals so we're not eating out all the time because of soccer. And I know that when soccer is over– essentially the other three seasons of the year– he'll make up for what he doesn't have time for now.

Being a coach's wife isn't unlike any other life situation within a relationship: we want our "other half to succeed" and we know that to do that we might have to give up some of ourselves for a time. But later, they will make it up to us. It's never 50-50 each day no matter the relationship. The balance is always shifting because life situations shift. But if want to have a true partnership and help our spouse be the person he or she is supposed to be, then we'll gladly empty the dishwasher.

The Thread at Marshall Field's on State Street

As I created my latest bucket bag last week, this one from a roll of fabric I bought from an estate sale, I was looking for thread to match when I stumbled across a spool of thread I'd forgotten about, and one that would match the bag perfectly.

It was a spool my grandmother had bought me at Marshall Field's on State Street in Chicago, the was the one time my maternal grandmother took my older sister and me on an L ride (my first) into the city. My sister had gone with her before but this was the first time I got to go. I'm guessing I was around eight (making this the late 1970s) and there are several things I remember from this trip: the L ride itself (I couldn't get it in my head how it could go underground and then come back above ground), visiting Marshall Field's, and having a grilled cheese for lunch somewhere on State Street.

And I also realize that saying she bought me thread at Marshall Field's dates me: not only is Marshall Field's now Macys but department stores no longer sell sewing notions. 

My room was green, probably because my sister Karen's room was pink (and anyone who knows her is laughing at this). The spool of thread is stamped 35 cents and I'm sure my grandmother saw it as something small she could buy me. I can still remember getting to pick it out.

Somehow it landed on top of a large plastic bin filled with my thread, my mom's, my friend Fred's mother's thread, my friend Bonnie's, and some I bought at an estate sale. And somehow it has stayed with my mom or me all these years.

When I started to make the bucket bags about a month ago, I knew I would need a lot of patience and that would be a big part of my challenge. I got tired of not seeing what I wanted or liked, I wanted to make my own things with my own patterns. And I thought, if these people can sew this in a factory, why can't I do the same?

And so when I sit to sew, I have to relax and keep myself there. I think of my friend Bonnie who not just thought I didn't take enough time to do things but jokingly once told me that my job was getting in the way of our craft projects. And I think of my grandmother whose sewing skills I didn't know a lot about but of the hat and purse she made for my Raggedy Ann finger puppet when I left Raggedy Ann behind at their house once. And of the thread that left me inspired that day to use it finish the outside of my latest bucket bag. It's as if I included a piece of Grandma Zurawski in the bag.

Letting Go Lane

No one wants to be on Letting Go Lane. While the name might sound serene, it's not a serene place to be because it's often rocky and not paved nicely. However, the view at the end of it is amazing and it's worth getting to if you can weather the storm to get there.

We all have people and situations in our lives we need to let go of but it's easy to stay away from Letting Go Lane. After all, even if the road is somewhat rocky, it's more comfortable than taking a new road that has unknown scenery. And an unknown surface.

We often let people who don't treat us well– are disrespectful– stay in our lives. Or we let relationships that should be severed continue. While we aren't being treated well, we see the alternative– mostly because it's unknown– as more challenging.

And so we stay on the road with the ugly scenery knowing that every once in a while it will look nice. We ignore Letting Go Lane, not wanting to do the work of getting on the road to find peace, hope, and happiness because it means working on ourselves before we can get to the part with the great scenery.

But what we fail to realize is that the work is worth it. The storm won't last forever. And it means we'll have a happier, more hopeful future in the long run. And having been there more than once, I know the scenery is amazing. I'm not turning back.

 

Happy 10th Birthday, Hattie!

It's hard to believe that Hattie turns ten on Sunday. And that means Hurricane Katrina was ten years ago this month.

Hattie came to us after a summer of remodeling the house and my first trip to Europe. My ex husband wanted to go with his friend from Maine in a lobster truck to deliver supplies to an area of southern Mississippi where they weren't getting much help. When he asked if it was okay if he went, I said as long as they took dog food in the truck and brought me back a dog.

What Hattie will never understand is that Craig (my ex husband's friend) not only adopted a dog that day (as well as his friend they stayed with) but that Craig flew back to Mississippi several weeks later and cleaned out the shelter in Lucedale, flying all the puppies and dogs back to Maine. I believe one died but the others found homes. Hattie's rescue led to of so many others who were not in New Orleans and wouldn't be alive today without Joe and Craig showing up at that shelter in the woods one day.

The photo above was taken about five years ago and to me, that's Hattie. The world is her oyster but she's little on the lazy side. While she will scamper (my word for her) around, she is definitely the queen bee here at the house probably because she's the smallest. I used to call this photo, "The World According to Hattie."

And while this is Hattie's birthday, it also means we are coming up on the ten year-anniversary of some significant events in my life: several months after Hattie joined the family, we adopted Ginger, the white lab for my mom, and then my dad died just about six weeks after that. All of this led to my book, Ginger's Gift: Hope and Healing through Dog Companionship.

So as we celebrate Hattie turning ten, we also remember the events that changed our lives in many ways.

Two Months Post Wedding

It's hard to believe that the wedding is already two months behind us. The thing is, I still can't put it into words. Yes, there are words I can use to describe it– classic, elegant– the two that I used from the moment we started planning it. 

Yet I find myself wishing the day hadn't gone so fast once I started my walk up the aisle. There is a photo of me sitting in a chair in the bride's room with my sister and my friend Jim who escorted me up the aisle, just waiting. And then once we were at the front of the church, it all flew by.

What surprised me most was how much I emotion I felt in the church. And yet I also find I can't quite describe it. The church felt spiritual in a way I'd never felt before, probably because we had all our loved ones gathered there. The music, the blessings, the vows, it all came together in a most perfect way for us.

Since the wedding, I've had a lot of people tell me what a great time they had, but also how spiritual it was. And how connected to others they felt. At first I was thinking, "Well, everyone is going to tell the bride they had a good time at her wedding." Although I have been to some boring weddings myself, finding myself seated with people who really didn't want to spend time getting to know me, I hoped our wedding would be different. We tried to put people together who we thought would have interesting conversations. 

And then last week a friend said, "I was worried because I've been to some boring weddings. But yours was different." She felt that everyone was friendly and talkative, not feeling like she only knew a few people and had no one to talk to.

In some ways the wedding was very traditional because most people don't marry in a church anymore. We tried to play up bringing people together for conversation. We did away with the cake cutting and other silly aspects. We wanted it to be simple so it was focused on us and our loved ones.

We wanted people to enjoy the setting and why they were there: to celebrate with us.

Our photographer Pamela said this is what happens when you bring two people together for a wedding where they have given much to the world.

And for me, I'm still trying to describe it. 

Selling Kate

While I realize I have always posted my writing rewards– which often have been Kate Spade bags– but there is a myth out there about me: that my house is filled with bags.

While I thought a purse was cool in junior high and into high school, I hated carrying one after that and I'm not sure when I picked it back up. But I do remember the first designer purse I bought: it was a yellow rubber Tommy Hilfiger bag I bought on Rodeo Drive at the Tommy store in 2000. I was there for my first American Association of Suicidology conference. I enjoyed the bag for a time but eventually I realized I needed a new one but I wasn't going to pay full price. 

Several times a year I would comb the clearance rack at Foley's (now Macy's) here in Albuquerque. I had a black Nine West bag I used for a long time in the winter. Then there was a nautical looking Tommy. But my favorite was the picnic basket looking Tommy with the red plaid lining. 

I realized one day I didn't need to have all these bags in a closet though and set to selling them on eBay, just keeping one or two at a time.

Today I have very few Kate bags. If find they don't work for me (I don't like the size or shape) they get unloaded on eBay. Or if the color wasn't quite right for me (the one pictured is the last one I sold and a recent one but the color was too pastel for my tastes), then they, too, get sold. I have a few favorites and the Barbie pink one Greg will never let me sell because when we first started dating, it was how he spotted me in the stands of the soccer games that he coached.

While I still wish I had the Tommy picnic basket (I used to call it my personal picnic basket), I don't believe in holding onto what I won't use again. Someone else out there can enjoy it. I had it for a time, I enjoyed it, and then it's time to send it on to someone else. And that keeps the closet space manageable.