Christy Potter's Blog, page 15

Meet Roscoe, the VID from my upcoming debut novel “Oh Brother”

Note from Christy: Over the next few weeks, I will be hosting guest posts from some of the characters in my upcoming novel, “Oh Brother.” Every Friday, between now and the book’s September 1 release date, they will each have a turn to introduce themselves, giving you the opportunity to get to know them a bit before you read the book. You’ve already met the main character, Ariel, her husband, Sanford, Sandy’s brother (and Ariel’s ex-husband), Ralph, and her father, Earl. Today’s guest post is by someone who watched everything unfolding but never took sides or offered an opinion, unless you count thumping his tail on the floor.

Greetings, one and all, my name is Roscoe. My human parents, Ariel and Sandy, adopted me from the animal shelter several years ago. You may be surprised at this guest post from me, not because I’m a dog but because you are probably accustomed to the way animal-speak has been portrayed on the Internet. Please. I’m an old dog, I’ve been knocked through the ropes many times and I’ve experienced more than most animals ever will, so you can rest assured I’m smart enough to spell “has” without a “z” and form complete sentences. Hey, I ordered this Bark-to-English translation software using Dad’s credit card and he still hasn’t noticed.

So as I was saying, Mom and Dad adopted me from a shelter. I had been there for close to two years, after the family I had lived with since I was a puppy moved to another state and decided they couldn’t keep me. I still don’t know why they couldn’t, but of course I had no say in the matter, so there I was, stuck in a cage – which did nothing to help my arthritic hips – listening to the incessant mewling of the cats in the other cages. I don’t mind cats, per se, but they can be insufferable when they aren’t happy.

I made friends with the dog in the next cage, a Jack Russell named Digger, and when he got adopted I thought for sure I’d die alone. I mean, I was 10 years old already. That’s pretty old for a dog, especially a Labrador. And what with my bad hips and the fact that I’m blind in one eye (courtesy of a rubber band shot from the finger of one of the kids I used to live with), I figured I’d be a lifer in that cage.

But Mom and Dad are different. They seemed to like me when they first saw me, and when Mom found out about my bad hips and partial blindness, it actually sealed the deal for her. I went home with them the same day. I’ve heard people say she’s weird, and it makes me want to throw them around like a chew toy and then bury them in the yard. She’s my angel.

I knew there was going to be trouble when that guy Ralph moved in with us. I didn’t know who he was until I heard Mom complain to Dad about him, but then I understood why she was so upset all the time. I never saw him do anything bad to her (if I had, you better believe I’d have gone all Rottweiler on his ass in a heartbeat), but I could see for myself what it was doing to her. I’m the only one who saw what she would do when she got up in the middle of the night, or when no one else was home. I knew it wasn’t good, but I didn’t know how to help. All I could do was stay close beside her.

Her friend Lem always seems to calm her down and make her happy, so I was glad whenever she called or showed up. But eventually she had her own situation to deal with, so it was back to just Mom and me. It got worse before it got better, but we survived, and ultimately Mom found out what I’d already learned for myself: no cage can hold you forever.

Loyally,

Roscoe

“Our life is frittered away by detail. Simplify, simpify.” Thoreau

It was beautiful autumn afternoon, the day I almost cracked in two. I was overwhelmed, overloaded and on the brink of bursting into tears or hiding under my bed, or both.

The worst part was there was nothing specific that had gone wrong – that would have been better. Instead it was a thousand little things that had piled up, demands and worries and problems, until I teetered on the edge, unsure of how to fix it since I really didn’t know what was broken.

The next day, after a fitful night’s sleep, I got up early and went for a long walk. A nature trail near my house offers the cool shelter of trees, which is why I often cut through it when I’m out for a run, but now I lingered, noticing the small streams, the fresh, damp smell of morning, and the soothing sounds of insects and birdsong. I sat on a flat rock and leaned back against a tree. Through the mounting chaos in my mind, the words of Thoreau found me:  “Our life is frittered away by detail. Simplify, simplify.”

Easy for Thoreau to say, he lived in woods like these. He didn’t have demanding editors and money worries and a wobbly washing machine. Instead of finding his often-quoted words calming at that moment, I found them irritating. Life in Thoreau’s day already was simpler. But as I headed home, I started to wonder if he was right. Perhaps all this stress was self-imposed. In a world of instant everything, of constant upgrades and a non-stop flow of information and over-sharing and reality television, could I really find a way to simplify? I determined right then and there that I was going to try.

Before I did anything else, I sat down with a pencil and paper and listed the most important things in my life, and it turned out there were only six: my writing, my husband/family, my spiritual well-being, my physical health, balanced and healthy relationships, and giving back. Once I saw them in writing, I was startled how much easier it was to see where I could simplify.

For starters, I ruthlessly cut down on the amount of time I spend online. As a writer, much of my life is spent on e-mail, which connects me not only to my editors but to incoming assignments, which in turn pay the bills. Even so, there is no need for me to check it five times in an hour. I set aside three times a day – in the morning, after lunch, and just before I log off at night – to check e-mail. I let my editors know if they need me urgently, they should call.

The even bigger time vacuums for me were online news sites and social media. The moment I realized I’d just looked at the news for the fifth time without seeing anything different was the moment I realized I had a problem. Facebook and Twitter also constantly drew me in. Not only did I log on to “just check” several times a day, sometimes I’d be scrolling through my feed without even really looking at it. And I may have 500 friends on Facebook, but the constant arguing and pontificating about social and political issues made me realize maybe I have about 498 friends too many. I cut back to only checking in twice a day, then once. Now there are days I don’t even think to check at all. Not so coincidentally, those are the days my blood pressure doesn’t spike up and I never hear myself say “Are you KIDDING ME with that?”

I moved on to facing the other issues that were clogging up my life. I weeded out all my toxic, one-sided relationships. Promising to “get together sometime” with someone who makes me feel bad about myself or uncomfortable in his or her presence was more hurtful to both of us in the long run. I stopped making those promises and began to focus on the positive, enriching relationships I have. When a demand on my time or mental energy arose, I’d hold it up against my list of Things That Mattered. If it didn’t fit in, I said no.

Decluttering also took on a literal meaning as I went through my house and reorganized or purged things I didn’t need or that caused me unnecessary stress. I shouldn’t have to dump everything out of my kitchen drawers just to find the scissors.

It’s a work in progress, this business of simplifying, but I reap the benefits every day. I make time to exercise, to shop for healthy food, to read, to meditate, to reach inward, to be alone with my thoughts and listen to what they’re trying to tell me. There’s a peace in me now that starts inside and radiates out. It makes me wonder why I ever thought I could find it externally and make it radiate in.

Now, when I head to the nature trail where it all began, I always stop, among the thousands of bits of beauty all around me, and I find my place within that beauty, within the peace of a simpler life. With a clearer head and a calmer heart, I’ve found the truth in Thoreau’s words.

Meet Earl, Ariel’s father, from my upcoming novel “Oh Brother”

Note from Christy: Over the next few weeks, I will be hosting guest posts from some of the characters in my upcoming novel, “Oh Brother.” Every Friday, between now and the book’s September 1 release date, they will each have a turn to introduce themselves, giving you the opportunity to get to know them a bit before you read the book. You’ve already met the main character, Ariel, her husband, Sanford, and Sandy’s brother (and Ariel’s ex-husband), Ralph. Today we’re hearing from Ariel’s father, Earl Carson.

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be writing here, or what this is all about. I’m not all that up on current technology (although I do have a cordless telephone and a microwave), but Ariel said I had to do this, so here I am. I’m Earl Carson, Ariel’s dad, as I guess you know. I think I come across a little bit like a mean old dad in this book, at least in the beginning, but I just chalk that up to the fact that Ariel never really knew the whole story.

Let me back up. When Ariel was six, her mother left us. I came home from work to find Ariel pacing worriedly around the kitchen, and all she could say was “Mommy’s gone.” It took me a long time to calm her down enough to get some details out of her. She said her mother had put out her usual after-school snack, then just left.

When I went into our bedroom, I could see that her half of the closet, all her jewelry, everything was just gone. I remember sitting down on the bed and feeling like I’d just been punched in the throat. I had to keep myself together so I wouldn’t make Ariel feel any worse, but I honestly thought the pain might kill me. Anyway, we never saw her again. I spent days and weeks and months and years trying to figure out what happened. Well, actually, I knew what happened, I just couldn’t figure out how I’d let it happen.

Ariel is a good girl. I know now that my regimented parenting methods were probably not a good idea, but she grew up safe and warm and sheltered, and I do love her. I’m just not a demonstrative person. Neither of my parents were, so I guess I’ve got them to thank. Ariel always had a flair for art, and when she was really little was comically dramatic, like little girls sometimes are, but in the years after her mother left, she grew much more quiet and serious. She kept to herself a lot. It didn’t seem normal to me, but I honestly didn’t know what to do to help. I’m not good with women, I never have been. I dreaded the whole getting her first period thing, but I guess it came and went and she figured it out. She never mentioned it. I suppose they taught her in school what to do.

I was so proud of her when she got into UCLA but then she dropped out and went to live in that God-forsaken commune. I still can’t figure out what happened there. She went back to school later, but she almost gave me heart failure with that. She still has some of those weird hippie ideals, and that friend of hers, Lemon something-or-other… don’t even get me started.

The thing is, I didn’t have much growing up. We were a big family – I’m one of nine kids – and my parents were both alcoholics who never owned a home, never had anything really to call their own, and I’d say that at least we had each other, but we didn’t. We were like strangers that fate had shoved together. It was just kind of every man for himself in our house. To this day I don’t know where any of my siblings are. When I left for college, I promised myself that when I had my own family, they would never have to live such a haphazard, unsettled kind of life. Unfortunately, it backfired on me. In a big way. But, like any parent, all I can do now is tell you that I did the best I could.

Sincerely,

Earl Carson

A Little Girl and Her Big Dream Hit Middle Age

Hey, thanks to all of you who have supported my Indiegogo campaign by pre-ordering a copy of the book I’ve just started writing, or by helping me spread the word.

We are down to the last two weeks and while it hasn’t gone as well as I’d hoped it might, or anywhere near as well as I’d been assured it would, I am still grateful to those who have taken part, and those who are still planning to before the campaign ends on August 13.

This has been an interesting adventure for me, this crowdfunding thing. I’ve watched many others try it and succeed spectacularly, and others try it and do just okay. But since all fundraising efforts are not nearly as easy as they used to be, I’d say any success is great. It’s hard, asking people to help you with what you’re doing, which is why it took me so long to agree to try it.

What I like about Indiegogo and Kickstarter is the fact that you’re not just forking over money to someone who has their hand out (and I’ve donated to those people – not knocking it). In these kinds of campaigns, you’re truly investing in someone’s business venture. For me, it’s writing a book. I am raising funds to help me cover the various expenses involved, including hiring an editor, a cover designer, printing, shipping… even self-publishing a book costs money. I’ve been a community journalist for 23 years and if you think that made me rich, well… yeah. About that.

So yes, part of the funds I’m raising will go to help me cover my day-to-day expenses so I can let go a few of the side gigs that are taking up a lot of my writing time. And the book I’ve just started writing is going to take some real nose-to-the-grindstone work, a lot of research, and as much time as I can give it. But the final product, I can already tell you, is going to be more than worth the wait. This is my life’s work. This is my opus. By pre-ordering a copy through this campaign, or by helping me spread the word via social media or email, you’re letting me know you’re looking forward to reading it as much as I’m looking forward to having you read it.

Meet Ralph, Ariel’s ex-husband, from my upcoming novel “Oh Brother”

Note from Christy: Over the next few weeks, I will be hosting guest posts from some of the characters in my upcoming novel, “Oh Brother.” Every Friday, between now and the book’s September 1 release date, they will each have a turn to introduce themselves, giving you the opportunity to get to know them a bit before you read the book. You’ve already met the main character, Ariel, and her husband, Sanford. Today we’re hearing from Ralph, who is Sandy’s brother and Ariel’s ex-husband.

I can’t believe they actually gave me a turn at writing a post. I honestly didn’t think they would. I’m the bad guy here, right? That’s what Ariel is going to have you thinking before you’ve even finished the first chapter of this book.

Yeah, I know I wasn’t Husband of the Year. Looking back now, there were a lot of things I could have done better, or at least different. But Ariel’s not easy to live with. She’s just kind of weird, if I’m being honest about it. She collects all this stuff she calls “creature comforts.” Personally, I always thought she was on the verge of being a hoarder. I like things clean and sparse and uncluttered, and our house was anything but. She’s not dirty, that’s not what I mean, but there was always just stuff everywhere. Books and camera equipment and sketchpads and mismatched candleholders and little figurines and sheet music… sheet music! We didn’t even own a piano. Most days I’d come home from work and find a half-finished wood sculpture sitting on top of eight pounds of wood shavings, and she’d be in a different room making something else out of clay. For someone who was used to the way his mother kept house, this was a huge shock to my system. It’s not like I expected her to do all the cleaning, but whenever I’d try to straighten up a little, she’d call me an “OCD-overloaded control freak.” That’s actually one of the nicer things she’s called me over the years.

Anyway, we didn’t get along. We really just didn’t. I had a good job, I’d bought her one of those gorgeous Painted Lady townhouses in San Francisco – you know, like the “Full House” house – for a wedding present, but she just didn’t seem to care. Nothing I did impressed her or seemed to make her happy. All she cared about was sculpting and eating those stupid … oh hang on, I was told not to tell you about that yet.

She says I’d constantly pick fights with her and maybe I did, but she was always just shutting me out when I’d try to talk to her about anything that was bothering me. She’d clam up and ignore me until I’d finally start yelling just to get a reaction out of her. Sounds childish, I know, and it was. But at the time it just seemed like another facet of our weird, impossible life together. And don’t even get me started on her friend Lem. She makes Ariel look normal.

I didn’t take it well when she divorced me. I was hurt and pissed that she’d just throw in the towel like that, without even trying to work it out. She’ll tell you I’m the one who first said I didn’t want to be married anymore, and I did. I just didn’t think she’d take me seriously. I was just trying to wake her up and make her deal with our problems. Although again, in hindsight, I know I really didn’t want to be married anymore. It was just a slap in the face when she actually left.

I punched a giant hole in the wall when I found out a few months later she’d started dating my brother. I mean, good God, who wants to go around being known as the loser whose wife left him for his own brother? They both say there was nothing going on before we split up, and I’m still not sure if I believe it or not, but whatever. Spilled milk now.

I know Ariel thinks I moved in with them just to spite her, but I really was in a bad spot there for awhile, and Sandy IS my brother. He said I could stay with them, so I did. The fact that it made Ariel so mad, between you and me, was just gravy. I don’t know what it is about that woman that just makes me want to push her buttons.

I can’t tell you how things are at the moment between Ariel and me, because that would give away a big piece of the storyline, and I’d never hear the end of it. Let’s just say I don’t think anyone was as surprised as I was at how things turned out.

Later,

Ralph

Who were you born to be?

Thank you to everyone who has contributed to my campaign, “A Little Girl and Her Big Dream Hit Middle Age,” by pre-ordering a signed copy or an e-copy, or by helping me spread the word. Click on the banner at the top of this site for more information. The campaign ends August 13 and the status of the new book is now officially pen-to-paper.

Since I launched this effort a week and a half ago, I’ve gotten a lot of questions about my decision to change my career path now, when I’m well into my 40s and have spent the last 23 years as a journalist. The video you’ll see on the campaign homepage explains in more detail, but I’ll tell you now that I really did enjoy the time I spent as a newspaper journalist. The first few years in particular were some of the happiest I’ve ever known.

But life is an evolving, ever-shifting adventure, and you have to be willing to move with it or get left behind. I’m fortunate enough to have realized that the changing tides opened the door for me to finally do what I used to dream of doing when I was a kid. Not everyone is willing or able to reach back and seize that old dream, shake it out, and breathe new life into it. I’m one of the lucky ones.

When I was five, I started telling people I was a writer. They cooed and laughed… Isn’t that cute? She wants to be a writer someday.

I didn’t get it. “What are they talking about?” I thought. “I’m a writer now.”

To prove my point, I wrote and illustrated, with my best Crayons, my first book, “The Pig Who Hated Mud.” It had it all – strong main character, plot, conflict… the pig hated mud, you see.  Anyway, I punched holes along the left side of the pages and threaded them together with red yarn. Self-publishing at its very finest. I showed it to everyone, validating what I’d been saying all along. I was a writer.

I kept writing books as I got older, usually to the accompaniment of the chunk chunk chunk PING of my grandmother’s old Royal typewriter. I considered myself a writer, an author, and when I was a teenager, I referred to myself as a novelist, not because I’d actually written a novel but because I was going to.

Then life came along, carrying with it a big bag of doubts labeled with my name. People started telling me that if I wasn’t Danielle Steele or Stephen King, I wasn’t going to be able to make enough money writing books to support myself. They told me I couldn’t get published without an agent, and I couldn’t get an agent until I was published.

I wasn’t worried – I knew there were plenty of ways to make money as a writer, so I got a degree in journalism and spent the next 23 years as a newspaper reporter. I saw myself as Lois Lane, as Brenda Starr, out to save the world in my never-ending pursuit of truth, justice, and a great headline.

During that time, I worked in various aspects of journalism, always with the same determined, almost fanatical, devotion. I covered council meetings, boards of education, local events, small-time scandals, big-time scandals, parades, speeches, funerals. I always had a long, narrow reporter’s notebook in my bag or my hip pocket, I always had my “nose for news” to the ground, I loved that when people saw me, they’d say, “Uh oh… here comes the press.”

I wrote a weekly column that ran for many years in different papers that allowed me a bit more creative freedom than standard news writing.

I loved deadlines, the hum of the newsroom around me as I pounded out a story, keeping one eye on the clock as my editor waited to put the paper to bed. I sometimes worked late into the night when my friends were out unwinding at the local bar after their own long days at work. It was different for me. Journalism wasn’t a job for me, it was me. I was never “off work” for the night because I carried it with me wherever I went. You never knew where news was going to happen, and I was ready for it. I loved it. I loved all of it. I fit. I was happy.

But when I turned 40, I experienced that imperceptible shift that many people say happened to them as well. I no longer felt the passion for my career that I had in my 20s and 30s. I was working in journalism, but somewhere along the way, I’d stopped identifying myself as a “journalist” and begun calling myself a “writer.”

It was more than the changes I was seeing in the field of journalism that was making me feel this way. These were internal changes, not external. I spent a couple of years puzzling that one out, and during that time I continued to work as a journalist during the day, but in the early morning hours, at night, on the weekends, I found myself, once again, writing books. It still took me nearly a year, if you can believe that, to finally admit to myself I was following my heart.

And it was at that point that I asked myself the same question I’m going to ask you here today:

Who were you born to be?

When we’re kids, we have a million pictures in our minds of what we’ll become as adults, but the pictures were ever-shifting, like a kaleidoscope filled with colorful bits of potential.

What were your dreams? Have any of them come true?

Actually, that’s a bit of a misnomer, isn’t it? That dreams come true. It completely removes the one element critical to making your dreams come true: you. It can only be you. If your dreams necessitate someone else making them come true, you’ve got a problem.

Who were you born to be?

It’s easy, I’ve found, to lose yourself in what I call hamster-in-a-wheel days. Our whole life becomes a chaos of work and email and phone calls and meetings (so. many. meetings.) and running and promising and getting caught up on one thing only to realize now you’re behind on something else.

Who were you born to be?

Maybe the scenario I just described IS who you were born to be. Maybe you’re running your own company or deeply embedded in a job and a life you love. In that case, my hat’s off to you. More power to you and God bless.

But I’m willing to bet that somewhere inside you is a little piece of “what if.” An unfulfilled dream, a road not taken, something you always told yourself you’d love to do…someday. A hobby, a sport, an artistic endeavor. For me, it was returning to my lifelong love of writing books. Whatever it is for you, pull it out. Dust it off. Then do it. Do it. It’s your dream, it’s your life. Do it. And – and this is critical – don’t apologize for it. You’re allowed. Tell them Christy said you could. You’re allowed to step away from the computer, the phone, the myriad demands on you. You’re allowed to and you should. Look at it this way: if Michelangelo had owned a smart phone, the Sistine Chapel would have just another drop ceiling by now.

For me, this whole transition hasn’t been a big TA-DA as much as it’s been a quiet, comfortable move back to the place I started. It’s been less like getting dressed in a dazzling new outfit, and more like coming home at night and putting on my favorite slippers.

I’m still doing the occasional freelance journalism assignment, of course, if one comes along that sounds like fun. I enjoy it, and it’s good for me to get out and talk to people sometimes, socialize and circulate a little bit. Keeps me from turning into a crazy cat lady too soon.

But my focus is almost entirely on writing books now. And not just writing, but publishing and promoting, keeping track of sales, figuring out how to get my name out there, how to make it all work. So while the core of what I’m doing is familiar and wonderful, it’s also a total career change as well. There’s a lot to learn, and a lot to do.

Who were you born to be?

I won’t say it hasn’t been scary, finally stepping down from my life as a journalist. It has been scary. Just thinking about not getting that regular paycheck anymore would have been frightening enough, but for me, this was about more than the income. It was about changing who was into who I wanted to be. Who I was born to be.

So… who were you born to be?

Meet Sanford, Ariel’s husband, from my upcoming novel “Oh Brother”

Note from Christy: Before we get to today’s guest post, I want to take a moment to profusely and from the bottom of my heart thank all of you who have contributed to my fundraising project, either with a financial donation or by helping me spread the word via social media. It’s wonderful to find out just how many people out there support independent artists like me. The campaign runs through August 13. If you want to help, click on the banner at the top of this page. There’s a list of what you get in return for your help – don’t miss that part!

Now, on to the business at hand. Over the next few weeks, I will be hosting guest posts from some of the characters in my upcoming novel, “Oh Brother.” Every Friday, between now and the book’s September 1 release date, they will each have a turn to introduce themselves, giving you the opportunity to get to know them a bit before you read the book. Today’s post is from Sanford, the husband of main character Ariel, whom you met last week. 

Hi all, I’m Sanford Moreland. Everyone calls me Sandy except my mother. My wife, Ariel Carson, told you a little about me last week but, in true Ariel form, went off on a lot of other tangents. Man, I love that crazy woman.

I’m an artist – a painter, to be specific. I work in oil on canvas but as Ariel points out early in the book, I’ve been known to paint on other things when the mood strikes me, including one dandelion wine-fueled creative fit in which I painted a still life on an empty potato chip bag. Good times.

I also work at The Sommerfield, one of San Francisco’s top art galleries. It’s a great place to work and the owner, Mr. Sommerfield, has a place set up toward the back where I can paint when things are quiet. I started painting when I was really little, back before parents gave kids that weird paint that only works with water and only on paper. Where’s the fun in that? I can’t tell you how many rugs I ruined in the name of good art. I had my first show when I was a senior in high school, in a room at the local library, and they ran a picture of me in the paper and I was so excited I couldn’t sleep for days. I still think about that sometimes, and I try to recapture that feeling of excitement to help drive me forward when I’m in a creative slump. I love being an artist – I can’t imagine doing anything else.

The sad part is that when people ask what I do and I start talking about my art, they’re interested, you know, like you are or at least pretend to be when someone’s talking about their work. But it didn’t take me long to figure out what really gets people’s attention is when I tell them my wife used to be my sister-in-law. Ariel and I have been married so long now I barely think of it anymore, but whenever it comes up, people jump on it. When did my life become an episode of Jerry Springer?

Not that I regret marrying Ariel. Quite the opposite, actually. She’s the love of my life. Her marriage to my brother, Ralph, was miserable. They were both miserable, despite how he acted like the put-upon, abandoned husband. And we weren’t having an affair before they split up, regardless of what he said. He was just angry and lashing out. He didn’t mean anything by it. Anger and hurt make us sometimes say things we don’t mean. Like when Ariel lost her stuffing after I let Ralph move in with us. She was just acting out. She’s a good kid. He’s a good kid. They just weren’t meant to be married. But we’re all a family, and I think family and love and art are the only things that really matter.

To be honest, part of the reason I said Ralph could stay with us after he lost his job and his apartment is that I wanted them to make peace. I know that ex-spouses are rarely going to end up the best of friends, but since our situation is a little different in that they’re kind of stuck with each other, I felt like they needed to be able to get past their past, and at least be civil. I don’t think Ariel meant it as a term of endearment when she called him “a pathetic little gnat’s ass.” They needed to mend their relationship as best they could. I can’t have discord in my family. I don’t like discord at all, actually. It messes with my head and totally derails my creativity.

So while some people who read the book may shake their heads at me and think I was being a callous, thoughtless husband when I let my wife’s ex-husband move in with us, I hope they’ll come to understand that I was motivated by nothing more than love.

Peace out,

Sandy

Fixing a Lousy Mood (a photo essay)

I woke up this morning in a lousy mood. (I know, I know… and all this time you thought I was perfect.) It was just a funk, the byproduct of a rough few weeks, that feeling that probably nothing is ever going to go right again so I might as well save myself the trouble and disappointment of hoping it will.

That mood.

So I was sitting here in the Writing Chair and I looked down and I saw this:

Synchronized lazing. It made me smile. I felt a tiny bit better. So I decided that even though it’s hot, I’d put on my running shoes and at least go for a walk – get a little fresh air and sunshine. Thank goodness for phones with cameras, because I started seeing things left and right that cheered me up.

Like this:

Best-dressed hydrant around.

 

And this:

 

And these:

 

And this:

Who knew Nancy was so much more of a big deal than Dave? Poor Dave.

 

And this:

 

And then I went home and had an amazing interview with English writer June Tate for my next podcast, and we laughed a lot, and she called me “darling” in that adorable British accent, and then I realized that things aren’t so bad after all. Now let’s all go laze in the sun. Carpe napem!

 

 

Be a part of my next novel… here’s how

The feedback I’ve gotten since Ariel’s guest post on Friday has been overwhelmingly, amazingly positive. A few people have asked what the “odd predilection” is she mentioned, but she said you’ll have to wait for the book to be published to find out. Here’s a hint, though: you’ll probably end up craving them.

Speaking of book publishing, I’ve learned a boatload of things since I began writing and publishing books a few years ago, and one of them is that it costs a lot more and is far more work than than I could have imagined. My first book, “The Shiksa’s Guide to Yiddish,” I did on a very limited basis, in hardback only. My second, “The World Was My Oyster But I Didn’t Know How to Cook” came out this spring. As I’ve mentioned, my debut novel “Oh Brother” will be out on September 1.

Now that my most recent book is in production, naturally I’m thinking about my next project. I have had an idea for a novel that I’ve been carrying around in my head for awhile, and I’ve decided it’s time to get started. It’s not going to be the kind of novel I can bang out in a few months, though. It’s going to take research and it’s going to take time. This is the book I’m meant to write. This is going to be my opus.

With that in mind, I’ve created a campaign on Indiegogo to help me raise funds to get this book done. I’ve resisted the idea of crowdfunding, as popular as it is, because I’m just weird like that. While I do share personal things in some of my writings, I’m a private person overall, and opening my work up to discussion before it’s finished, or in this case before it’s even started, isn’t something I’ve ever done. Fundraising is also not my forte – I don’t like asking for stuff.

In talking with some of my readers and other writer friends, I’ve come around. A few of them pointed out that many other writers have run similar fundraising campaigns, and people love them. Readers and supporters of the indie arts really like being able to participate, and be a part of a project they’re excited about. It’s heartening to me to hear that people are so willing to get behind the arts and give independent artists a little boost. And sometimes, that’s all we need.

My campaign is called “A Little Girl and Her Big Dream Hit Middle Age” and you can find out more about it by clicking here. There’s a video, my story, and a list of perks you get if you choose to support me. If you are unable to support me financially, you can still be a part of my project by helping me spread the word about the campaign. There are buttons you can click to share my campaign on Facebook, Twitter and Google Plus. There’s also a link you can send to anyone you think may be interested.

This is an exciting project for me, and I’m so happy for the interest that’s already been shown in my campaign. The new banner at the top of this page will be in place until the campaign ends on August 13, and I’ll be posting periodic updates.

Thank you all for the love you’ve shown me in the six years since I started this blog, for buying and recommending my books, and for any support you can give me as I embark on the work that I know is going to be the one that makes my greatest writing dream come true.

Meet Ariel, the main character of my debut novel, “Oh Brother”

Note from Christy: Over the next eight weeks, I will be hosting guest posts from some of the characters in my upcoming novel, “Oh Brother.” Every Friday, between now and the book’s September 1 release date, they will each have a turn to introduce themselves, giving you the opportunity to get to know them a bit before you read the book. Today’s post is from Ariel, the main character. I will let her take it from here.

Hi, my name is Ariel Carson. I’m a sculptor. I live in San Francisco with my husband, Sanford. Sandy is a painter. Oil on canvas. He also works at an upscale art gallery. Wow, I didn’t realize how much this would sound like a “What I Did on My Summer Vacation” essay until I started writing it. Anyway, let’s see… what else can I tell you? I’m 46. Sandy is my second husband. We’ve been married for ten years, and before that, I was married to his brother, Ralph. Believe it or not, that’s not even the main storyline of the book. The big rub, the major kick in the face, is when Ralph loses his job and his apartment and moves in with us. Yeah, so that happened.

I sometimes think my life has basically been one big cartoon. My mother split on my father and me when I was six, and I mean split. I’ve never seen such a thorough disappearing act. She left me with few memories, a lot of questions, and one admittedly odd predilection.

My best friend is a girl I met when I dropped out of UCLA to move into a “human biosphere” (read: a commune) in Big Sur. Her name is Lisa Wentworth but she goes by Lem, short for Lemon Wax. (Long story.) Lem is a complete and total hippie. She is also sweet and fragile and kind of spacy, but you’ll get to know her more when she writes her guest post. I just wanted to warn you ahead of time that she’s a little… out there.

Not that I have much room to talk. While my marriage to Ralph was an absolute train wreck – which even he says now – after we got divorced, things took on a calm, even keel in my life. I’ll admit, I’m not the easiest person to be around. I like stuff, for one thing. Creature comforts. Knick-knacks, pillows, books, candles, tapestries, sheet music, cookbooks, fuzzy slippers … anything that makes me feel coddled. I tend to disconnect from the world around me when I’m stressed or upset or something’s bothering me, and I’ll hide out in my studio where I can leave it all behind and get lost in the feeling of clay in my hands.

Anyway, Sandy is pretty Zen about everything, fortunately. We get along great, we have an awesome, ancient rescue dog named Roscoe, a cute house with a little garden and a second bedroom I’ve made into a studio. I sit in there by the hour working on my sculpting. I mostly work in clay, as I mentioned, and sometimes in wood. I’ve been thinking about moving into stone and marble like my hero, Constantin Brancusi, but I find the idea of such hard materials kind of intimidating. I like things to have a little give to them.

So everything was good but then Ralph moved in and the world went to hell in a handbasket. My life started unraveling fast, and I found out the hard way that I had to come to grips with a lot of stuff I’d pushed aside if I ever wanted to be a functioning human being. It wasn’t easy. Everybody says they have baggage, it’s cool to say you have baggage now, but trust me – when push comes to shove and you have to start unpacking it, it’s not so cool anymore.

I know that everything that happened to me is for the best. I spent most of my life feeling like I was existing just above the surface of real life, close enough to see and be seen, but not close enough to get hurt. Not actually touching anyone or anything. The problem with building a bubble around yourself is that when it finally explodes, and it will, you’ve got an even bigger mess on your hands. That’s exactly what happened to me. So while “Oh Brother” is largely my story, you’ll see for yourself that in a lot of ways, it’s everyone’s story.

See you soon.

Love,

Ariel