Cynthia Rogan's Blog, page 3

Trusting Your Instincts

Have you ever let fear keep you from doing something? If that something is physically dangerous, then fear might be the first step toward your survival. But what if the something you’re afraid of can’t physically hurt you? What if the fear of it holds you back—keeps you from moving forward or enjoying life to its fullest?

Shortly after I started my first novel, I saw an ad for a weekly writer’s critique group. I knew instantly that it was just what I needed. Besides, what could it hurt? Still, I was terrified. In my experience, whether a group is friendly or hostile, reading your work in front of others is much like standing naked in front of a bunch of hecklers. The group was kind at first. They didn’t point out the scar on my ______ or the mole on my ______ or the fact that I’ve let my ________ go, so I joined. From that group, I learned a lot more about how to give and accept feedback than I did about writing. I also learned a little more than I care to admit about cruelty.

One day, after I finished reading, a man in the group (let’s call him Bob) said, “Let me know next time you’re bringing something to read, and I’ll bring a magazine to keep me busy.”

This, from a man who was writing a very looooong chronicle about the life of Job. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. He had recently thrown water into the face of a woman in a restaurant for the sin of talking on her cell phone. What he said to me seemed to erase anything positive I’d gotten from the group. Bob’s ugly opinion shook my own belief in my writing ability. After several weeks of being unable to write anything at all, I decided that type of critique was not helpful, and I didn’t go back. But why did I allow Bob’s opinion to crush my spirit? Why did I focus on what he said, rather than all the positive feedback I’d gotten?

Well, according to psychological theory, we all tend to focus more attention on the bad things that happen. Those are more likely to stick in our memories and be the basis for our decisions.

I remember reading the “Clan of the Cave Bear” series and being intrigued by the thought that we carry the memories of our ancestors with us. A few years ago, while doing research for a play, I stumbled across a theory about something called the Negativity Bias. Here’s my simplified version.

Look at those fangs.

In prehistoric days, if you remembered which berries Uncle John ate before he died, or which cave the saber-toothed tiger kept her cubs in, or which valley had no crevices to hide in, you just might live long enough to pass that knowledge down to your kids. The people who forgot to fear those things didn’t survive. Those with the scariest memories lived the longest. Those are the people we come from. Those memories live somewhere in our brains. We call them instinct.

Some scientists believe that the amygdala portion of our brain, which regulates emotion and motivation, uses two thirds of its neurons to detect bad news. So, it’s searching for the negative stuff—even the negative stuff that can’t cause us physical harm (such as the comment Bob made about my writing). Even though that comment couldn’t cause me physical harm, it initiated a physical response.

Eventually, I had to let that feeling go. My love of writing and characters forced me to begin again. I never gave Bob another chance to come after me. That doesn’t mean I’ve never had another similar experience. I’ve had to shield myself from negative comments on everything from “bad” language, to subject matter, to story line, to edits, to which points of view I should or shouldn’t use.

Every time it happens, it shakes me a little. My heart pounds. I start to sweat. I get defensive. I begin to doubt myself. I wonder if I should be writing at all. Then I remind myself that a mama saber-tooth is not coming after me. It’s just an opinion, and opinions can only hurt us if we let them.

No matter what, I have to keep writing.

Please keep reading.

When the Time is Right

I love spring.

Especially after a cold winter.

It’s not so much the milder temperatures.

It’s the birth—the rebirth.

The trees—their leaves turned brown and fell off. So they spent the fall and winter having nothing to clothe them and keep them warm except the memory of the sun and the leaves.

The flowers went to seed, fell off their stalks. Some of them will never return. They just weren’t able to withstand the temperatures. They needed a warmer place—a place to hibernate until the sun came out.

But I was talking to a friend on the phone the other day, and that conversation gave me a deeper appreciation for fall and winter.

“Have you ever had any Sea Monkeys,” he asked.

“No.”   I remember seeing packets in the grocery store checkout line labeled “Magical Sea Monkeys,” but at that time I was fully convinced that—short of ice cream—grocery stores were not purveyors of magical goods.

“Why?” I was confused. This wasn’t the type of conversation we usually had.

“I kept some safe today, and I can’t wait to tell my kids.”

Apparently, he’d been working around vernal pools that afternoon.

“Vernal pools?” I asked.

“They’re part of the wetland preservation projects. They’re just dips in the land where rainwater and runoff accumulate,” he said.

“But there are things that grow in these pools that don’t necessarily grow anywhere else.”

“Like Sea Monkeys?” I asked, trying to steer him back to the point.

“Well, yeah!”

Turns out, those Magical Sea Monkeys were just an exciting marketing name for the Fairy Shrimp that grow in those vernal pools. They’re these tiny crustaceans (about an inch long) that have been around almost forever (or since the Ordovician period if you know your periods).

Now, here is the magical part.  

Not only do these delicate-looking creatures swim upside down, but when the sun gets too hot and it evaporates all the water in their vernal pool, they dry out and so do any eggs they’ve produced. But those eggs can stay like that, dried up, sometimes for decades. Once they get wet, in as little as thirty hours, they hatch and—Shazam—the vernal pool is once again filled with live Fairy Shrimp.

Can you believe it?

Just thinking about it chokes me up. It’s amazing. It’s beautiful.

There are novels like that—novels that get put on the back burner—like the story of Minnie Chance.

It came to me years ago—an idea that I would write someday.

The seed was planted, but it needed something more.

At that point, I hadn’t written many novels.

I think Minnie had to wait until the timing was right.

One day, the pool filled with water and magically, the story came alive again.

Maybe, like the Fairy Shrimp, stories never go away. Maybe they just dry out until they have enough nutrients and hydration to be resurrected.

This year it’s time for the house of Minnie Chance’s.

Next year, I’ll resurrect “The Courier.”

I have no choice. I can’t stop writing.

Please keep reading.  

When the Time is Right

I love spring.

Especially after a cold winter.

It’s not so much the milder temperatures.

It’s the birth—the rebirth.

The trees—their leaves were brown, they fell off. Those trees spent the fall and winter having nothing to clothe them and keep them warm except the memory of the sun and the leaves.

The flowers went to seed, fell off their stalks. Some of them will never return. They just weren’t able to withstand the temperatures. They needed a warmer place—a place to hibernate until the sun came out.

But I was talking to a friend on the phone the other day, and that conversation gave me a deeper appreciation for fall and winter.

“Have you ever had any Sea Monkeys,” he asked.

“No.”   I remember seeing packets in the grocery store checkout line labeled “Magical Sea Monkeys,” but at that time I was fully convinced that—short of ice cream—grocery stores were not purveyors of magical goods.

“Why?” I was confused. This wasn’t the type of conversation we usually had.

“I kept some safe today, and I can’t wait to tell my kids.”

Apparently, he’d been working around vernal pools that afternoon.

“Vernal pools?” I asked.

“They’re part of the wetland preservation projects. They’re just dips in the land where rainwater and runoff accumulate,” he said.

“But there are things that grow in these pools that don’t necessarily grow anywhere else.”

“Like Sea Monkeys?” I asked, trying to steer him back to the point.

“Well, yeah!”

Turns out, those Magical Sea Monkeys were just an exciting marketing name for the Fairy Shrimp that grow in those vernal pools. They’re these tiny crustaceans (about an inch long) that have been around almost forever (or since the Ordovician period if you know your periods).

Now, here is the magical part.  

Not only do these delicate-looking creatures swim upside down, but when the sun gets too hot and it evaporates all the water in their vernal pool, they dry out and so do any eggs they’ve produced. But those eggs can stay like that, dried up, sometimes for decades. Once they get wet, in as little as thirty hours, they hatch and—Shazam—the vernal pool is once again filled with live Fairy Shrimp.

Can you believe it?

Just thinking about it chokes me up. It’s amazing. It’s beautiful.

There are novels like that—novels that get put on the back burner—like the story of Minnie Chance.

It came to me years ago—an idea that I would write someday.

The seed was planted, but it needed something more.

At that point, I hadn’t written many novels.

I think Minnie had to wait until the timing was right.

One day, the pool filled with water and magically, the story came alive again.

Maybe, like the Fairy Shrimp, stories never go away. Maybe they just dry out until they have enough nutrients and hydration to be resurrected.

This year it’s time for the house of Minnie Chance’s.

Next year, I’ll resurrect “The Courier.”

I have no choice. I can’t stop writing.

Please keep reading.  

Why Did They Do That?

Like many of us, I was a shy kid. It was hard for me to make friends.  

I know now—I was just an introvert trying to build one-to-one relationships in a world of group settings. 

We didn’t talk about “feelings” in my family, so I had to figure my own way around it. One day I realized that if I changed my perspective, I could be much more comfortable in crowds. 

So . . . I became an observer. 

I began watching and listening, trying to find my place in the world as I attempted to understand why people did what they did.

The truth is: Sometimes human behavior still catches me completely off guard. I ask myself “Why did they do that?” on a regular basis—only I don’t just ask the question. I literally try to puzzle out an answer.

Say a friend comes to me. They’re irritated because so-and-so did such-and-such—again.

My reaction: “Hmmm. I can think of a few reasons why so-and-so might do such-and-such. Have you ever met their family? What kind of job do they have? They seem really kind. Do you think they’re deliberately trying to upset you? And why? I once knew someone who did such-and-such because of blah-diddy-blah.”

I’m sure my reaction is sometimes annoying to my friends and family, but nobody ever calls me out on it. I suppose they think I’m working on character personalities. 

For example, Symphony Weber is growing up in a family where she feels like an outsider. She has a gift that keeps her from fitting in with the kids at school, so she finds a way to get rid of the gift so she can feel normal. Does losing her gift have the desired result? You’ll have to read Symphony of Dreams to find out.  

Throughout Pinky Harper’s childhood, her schizophrenic father won’t stay on his meds. When her mother has had enough, she throws Dad out, and Pinky leaves her last semester of college to come home and look out for him. In Switch, we find Pinky in a situation where it’s imperative that she believe her dad, but she can’t. She’s convinced he’s gone off his meds again—that he’s hallucinating.  

Sister Minnie Chance lost her mother in childhood. Her father was a major league baseball pitcher who injured his shoulder and was forced to retire at the height of his career. After that, he began to drink. Minnie joined a convent shortly after high school. Fifteen years later, in Dangerous Habit, she begins to question that important decision after someone tries to kill her on her way home one night.  

All my characters have issues, just like we do. 

They have to find ways of coping. 

Sometimes they make bad decisions. 

Sometimes they hurt. 

Sometimes they triumph, just like the rest of us.  

I love being able to make the best thing happen. Even if it’s just part of a story. 

And that is one of the reasons I keep writing. 

Please keep reading.  

FINGERS CROSSED

[image error]

2020 was tough. It has justifiably become our first numeric cuss word. 

For my family 2020 began a few weeks early when we lost my grandson just before Christmas.

He was a beautiful young man who made everybody smile, but he was experimenting. A huge risk took him away from his life and from us. 

Then, COVID came along when we needed each other the most. Navigating our loss during a pandemic has been really hard. But, we made it through a year. We miss him—especially his mom and sister who lived with his love, laughter, and antics daily.

I know ours is not the only story of loss out there. Some of you lost loved ones last year too. Some of you have lost acquaintances, people you work with, the lady down the hall who always has a smile for you, the old guy raking his yard who changes your perspective with a story, the homeless man you buy coffee for, your friend on chemo, your pet who has been part of the family forever. . . 

It’s all loss and it all sucks and I’m sorry. I know how painful it can be. 

These days, many of us have been working from home.

If you have school-age kids, you are probably leaning heavily on your patience and multi-tasking skills. You definitely deserve a raise. 

If you live alone you might feel as though you’re disappearing from the minds of the people you used to spend time with. Try not to tell yourself that story. Your friends haven’t forgotten you. They’ve just temporarily lost the connection. 

Many of my friends are extroverts. I can only imagine how hard staying home has been for them. I think being an introvert has made it a little easier for me. I’m thankful for my writing. Because I’ve been doing it for so long, it’s been a solid link to normalcy.  

The last year has given me a brand-new mystery series about Minnie Chance, a nun whose life is changing and, as it does, she discovers that the world is not a very safe place. I hope you’ll join Minnie (Dangerous Habit released January 2021) as she begins to find herself—stumbling into one mystery after another. 

I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a better year—for all of us. But it’s hard to type with my fingers crossed, so I was hoping you’d cross your fingers too. And maybe your toes. 

Not your eyes. That won’t help anyone. 

Be well. 

And remember, you are loved and valued more than you know. 

Please keep reading. 

Two Good Things

Two really good things happened in 2020—and that’s saying a lot.

I’m so excited.

My website has gone through a complete overhaul. It’s new and updated and beautiful. (Thank you, Erica.) If you haven’t seen it, please take a few minutes to look it over. Or, get a cup of coffee or tea, maybe a donut, or a slice of pie, or your lunch, and stay a while. 

So . . . That’s one of the really good things. 

The second is . . . wait for it . . . I got a puppy!!!

When I brought her home on September 20th, she was just barely 8 weeks old and weighed about three-and-a-half pounds—so tiny we weighed her in the basket of a food scale. 

Her already-pregnant mom had been found living on the streets in Mexico and someone brought her home to Northern California where she rapidly produced 3 puppies. 

My friend, who was fostering the puppies, posted her picture on Facebook. When I saw those eyes, I fell in love. But when I met her, I knew I had to take her home. 

She’s now bounding toward four months old and last I heard, she was almost nine pounds. So . . . she’s tiny. Well, she may be tiny, but she is mighty, and she still has those infamous razor-sharp puppy teeth. 

Now, let me just say, I forgot how much work puppies are at the beginning. For the last few months, my productivity has been lower than I had hoped. The puppy was definitely eating my novel. 

She may have gotten a few chapters but, as of the last two weeks, I’m back on track. 

Pokey—short for Poquito—who has been trapped in my office with me for months, has finally bonded with her sister dog, Sadie (my nine-year-old corgi), and is now allowed to hang out in other parts of the house. (It doesn’t hurt that she’s proven herself to be potty trained, too.)

I’m back and I’m working on the novel full speed ahead.

But I try to keep the noise down. I get more done when Pokey’s napping. 

Seriously, check out the new website. I love it. 

Be well. 

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I Hate When That Happens

Remember that scene in 2001 A Space Odyssey? Hal 9000, the computer—in an act of self-preservation—refuses to open the pod bay doors and let Dave return to the ship.

[image error]“I’m sorry, Dave, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

We trust technology just like Dave trusted Hal. But an electronic device can change your life in a micro-second if you don’t show it who’s boss.

It was a gorgeous morning, not a cloud in the sky. I got to the office, threw the curtains open, and started to work. I’d been there for about 10 minutes when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

The man on the line said, “Look out your front window”

There were four policemen with their guns drawn.

“What’s happening?”

“Come out of the building slowly and keep your hands where we can see them at all times.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Come outside, Ma’am.”

“Were you the only one in the building?”

“Yes.”

“We received a panic call from this location. Did you place that call?”

“No.”

“Do you have an alarm?”  [image error]

Oh man. I must have pushed the panic button on accident.

I hate when that happens

Two officers searched the premises. I stood there, aching arms held out to my sides, wondering what they’d put in their reports. They’d probably call it operator error, but they’d be thinking, “What an idiot.”

I’m surprised the police didn’t remember me from a few years earlier when the kids gave me my first ipod. Do you realize how hard it is to hear an alarm going off when you’re listening to music through your earbuds.

Electronics! They just don’t fight fair.

How many of you have a GPS? [image error]

Does yours yell at you? Mine does and that’s humiliating when you have a car full of people.

I call my GPS Ammie. It’s short for American English. Ammie tells you three times that a turn is coming. She gives you every opportunity to do the right thing. So, if you miss the street or there’s construction she doesn’t know about, she gets a little ticked off. As a mother, I get that.

The first time I used Ammie, I missed the turn. “Recalculating.”

I corrected by going around the block. I turned right. “Recalculating.”

Turned again. “Recalculating.”

And again. “Recalculating”

When I was finally back on track and needed her advice, she refused. She claimed she’d lost satellite reception. Yeah right, you…you…you…Hal 9000.

I hate it when that happens.

[image error]When I got my first iphone, I felt so modern.   But my kids and grandkids had to teach me how to use it. Whenever my grandkids were around, my phone always disappeared. “What are you doing?” I’d ask. “Nothing.” (Giggle, giggle, giggle) One week, I was out of town for a class. I sat down for lunch at a table with 11 total strangers. When I pulled my phone out of my back pocket, I must have held the button down too long because all of the sudden, Siri said, “I’m sorry, Big old booty, I didn’t hear that.”

Wait. Big old what?

Everyone at that table stopped and stared.

“My grandkids think it’s funny to change my name in the phone.”

I was mortified. When I told the kids, they were embarrassed too. But did it stop them from pranking my phone? Right now, if you ask Siri who I am, she’ll say, “Your name is Cynthia, but because we’re friends I get to call you “You’re annoying.”

Hey, that’s better than Big old booty.

I could tell you about the demonic timer on my sprinkler system that almost killed my brand new lawn this summer, or the time I texted something very personal that somehow ended up on my brother-in-law’s phone. My brother in law thought it was hilarious. My sister? Not so much. And don’t even get me started on autocorrect. I’m already a little short on dignity—and time.

So, let me leave you with this. If it’s electronic, it has a power button–or a kill switch as I like to call it.

But don’t say that out loud. You never know who or what is listening.

Benjamin Franklin once said, [image error]“Beware of the young doctor, the old barber, and the computer you’ve said bad things about.”

You know how I know Ben Franklin said that?

I saw it on Facebook.

And computers never lie.

Just ask Hal 9000.

. . . and other dangerous things.

Today, my stapler tried to kill me—twice.[image error]

It wasn’t just an ordinary stapler. This stapler was my friend, Red Swingline. And I had no idea she was pissed off—until it was too late.

I was trying to get billing ready, which requires Red’s assistance.

After all, it’s what I got her for.

Besides, if the billing doesn’t go out, no one knows what to pay, so they don’t pay anything, and none of us have a job.

So, all of us—the printer, the paper, the stapler, and me—work together to get the billing out.

You hear me, Red?

We work TOGETHER.

What I didn’t know, was that the person who does our purchasing had tried to save money on staples of all things.

And Red the stapler wasn’t happy about it.

The new staples were slippery and thinner than the staples Red was expecting.

Who knew?

I DIDN’T!

By the time I opened the new box of staples, the old ones were gone. I had nothing to compare them to.

I slid the new row of staples in place, closed the top, positioned the paper, and pushed.

Nothing happened.

I pushed again.

[image error]Wait. What? No holes in the paper, no tiny metal line holding the pages together.

What the heck?

I tried one more time.

Nothing but an imprint where the staple should be.

She was refusing to use the new staples.

I opened the top and Red broke that row of staples into tiny groups of staples and spit them right in my face. It’s a good thing I had glasses on.

I said something that started with the letter F.

I think it was “Forget this!” or something like that.

About that time, Red slammed the top down right on my hand. I opened it. She slammed it again. And again. And again. Until I was forced to say “Forget this” again.

That’s when I thought of the supply cabinet. There, I found six more boxes of staples. The same cheap staples that Red was rejecting.

I opened a new box and tried a row. I mean, maybe the first box was bad.

But, guess what?

The same thing happened. Only this time, the staples exploded out of Red. [image error]

They flew at my face and all over the room.

Where was her love, her loyalty?

I threw the cheap staples in the supply cabinet and went online to look for another “Forgetting” stapler.

I put Red in a closet where no one will ever see her again, despite her brilliant fiery color.

I do not need a stapler in my life that lacks loyalty.

No one does!

Tossing the Chimes

[image error]I used to sing. Years ago. But when I decided to have kids, I willingly gave it up. I wanted to be home with my girls. But I missed it. So sometimes I’d get the kids settled down (nap time, color time, Sesame Street) and I would go into my room, close the door and pull out the guitar.

The lyrics I wrote are in some notebook or another. The music is only in my head. I used to have a tape but it disappeared long ago.

Tonight, a cold wind is blowing outside. I hear it tossing the chimes around.

And I am singing one of my songs called The Storm.

The wind is only part of what’s bringing it up. Tonight, there is someone on my mind, someone who made me think of it.

The Storm

The wind is blowing, sky’s turning black.

Now that it’s coming, no turning back.

You said you’d ride on the wings of the storm tonight

Wanna fly so high

Better hold on tight.

While others run for shelter and candlelight, you’re gonna ride on the wings of the storm.

Me.

I’m a watcher.

Got a front row seat.

I don’t wanna get burned.

I just want to feel the heat.

And I have never been able to understand, how you can stand there and dare your life to end.

How can you burn your candle at both ends?

How can you ride on the wings of the storm?

Are you a seeker, just in it for the thrill?

Or are the watchers closing in for the kill?

Is it just for the excitement or is it that you feel like you’ve gotta keep doing what they expect you to do?

You knew it wouldn’t be easy living in others’ view.

About as easy as riding a storm.

About as easy as riding the storm.

This one’s for you. And maybe it was for you way back when I wrote it. Who knows.

Love.