S.E. Reichert's Blog, page 6

Big, Weird News

Well, shit. I don’t know how to say this but, I sort of did a thing. A thing I’m not sure if I’ll regret or not. Or if it will destroy my life, my writing and my sanity. But… remember last week’s post? No? Go back and read it, I’ll wait….

Okay, so now that we’ve established that the heart is a weird and dumb critter who regularly drives us off of cliffs, the big, weird news is that I went ahead and veered my Studebaker straight off the cliff into taking over the Director position and ownership of Writing Heights Writers Association. Yep. I’m soon to be in a position of authority and that’s…the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of.

But the fact is, my heart did it. Because I love this group. I love it’s members and its potential, and the things it can do for writers, in their struggles and grief and in their times of triumph. Because I believe in writing and I believe in writers. And I couldn’t see it fizzle and die out. And I’m definitely not guaranteeing it will thrive or even survive, but I made the choice based on a tenement I hold pretty close to my heart. It comes down to something I spoke of last weekend at the RMFW Colorado Gold Conference (I hope you made it) about Fear.

I have to credit a good friend with a phrase I heard in one of his lectures. Safety is not a place we learn anything. You could keep your Studebaker on the road, safely from one point to the next, never look around, never make a pitstop, and be the same damn person you were when you left as when you arrive. It is by throwing ourselves into the stupid and weird, and impossible that we grow. That we learn. That we discover. And what in the hell is life for, if not to discover?

I can’t run it the same way anyone else did before me. I’m not a smooth operator, I don’t have vast amounts of clout or money, or talent for that matter, (haha). But I’ve got this jabberwocky heart of mine. That’s a little wild, and a little goofy, and all about joy and puppy-like enthusiasm. All gnashing of teeth and snickering of snacks. Too full of love to ever make exactly the right decision. Sometimes it can’t even make the most practical one. But safety is not a place we learn anything. Practicality is a tether we’re given to remain docile.

So in the coming months I’m going to be gearing up to take over (starting officially in January). I’ll be trying to learn about processes, current issues facing writers, networking, and taxes and community building and all that wonderful and horrible stuff that nobody taking classes or going on retreats will have to think about. I’m going to think of my writers and my amazing team first, and my comfort second. I’m going to do my best to keep the heart of this thing wild, but filled with enough love and compassion to be reliable. I may be reaching out to some of the amazing and beautiful people I know to ask for advice and warnings. I’ll probably need to lean on friends until I find my balance.

All I really need to do now, is to make sure there are some good plotters on my side, to keep me from pantsing this thing into the ground. Stay tuned, and we’ll go on this ride together. Maybe we’ll even learn something.

Poetry 9-26-2024

Y’all, I’m busier than a one-legged lady in an ass kickin’ contest. So, here’s a little rerun. Because, lord knows the Heart is a Terrible driver sometimes. But we still let her take the wheel. After all, what is life for but to be messy and in love?

The Heart is A Terrible Driver

I am the owner of a body in the trunk
the forgotten musty trunk
in recesses of my memory
muffled and tied up
speechless to the ways my heart fell

Hearts do what they do
and mine
she is so big
so eloquent a speaker
so deviously soft and swaying…

she convinced me that
she was the only one
who could drive the beast of me
through life, and it would all
work out

while my brain
sat in the back seat,
shaking her head and looking at me
in the rearview mirror
mouthing the words

You know better
Your gonna hate yourself for letting her drive

Brain was right
Heart took us off a fucking cliff
the first chance she got
giggling with the thrill
the free fall of Love
drunk on its chemical cocktail

all the way down
Brain stayed silent,
arms crossed over her chest
as if to say

nothing I tell you will matter anyway
We were already over your head
the minute you gave her the keys

the carnage at the base of the canyon
was ruinous
the destruction,
complete
Heart took the hardest hit
split down the middle in two ragged
pieces of desiccated meat
devoid of reason, or rhythm

Head pulled her from the car, drug her through
the sharp pebbles and burning metal
shook with disappointment and
carried her to a lesser used path
and I followed complacently
my own wounds stinging

Brain barely spoke,
in all of those tender months-turned-years
up from rock bottom
winding on trails
of drunken malestorms
and pious sobriety
We are a heavy load

Heart sometimes regains consciousness
and clings to the brush, on the side of the trail
striking out with bloody, broken hands
against the pull
trying always trying to get back
to the wreckage
to somehow make it all work out
make that car and joyous ride
run again

Brain cuffs her, hard
Sometimes it’s just easier to knock her out
and keep her from making any decisions
then to try and reason
with her stitched up pieces

from here on out,
my heart must remain bound and gagged,
the body in the trunk

we won’t survive another crash like that

Just For Today…

Hello writers, readers, and fellow stardust-filled meat suits,

This is a friendly and short reminder that this is the only day you have.

Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow is not promised. Today is what we get. This day, this hour, this minute, this breath. I hope you are up, ready to face it with a sense of calm purpose. What will you do today?

Not sure where to start? Here’s how I do:

Move your body: Go for a walk, do a little yoga, take a run or a bike ride, lift something heavy, find the quiet repetition of a lap pool, beat the hell out of a boxing bag. Whatever the motion, be grateful for the body you’ve been given and love it.Write something. Anything. A grocery list, 2000 words on your next novel, a poem, an essay, a letter to your mom…a lunch box note. Put hand to paper (or keys) and share a bit of your soul out into the world.Read something. Take in a few new ideas, challenge your knowledge, tease your curiosity. Learn something new, then sit for a minute and think about that something new. Can you related it to something you knew or thought before. Breathe. Slowly. In and out. Do nothing but breathe, for at least three breaths, at least three times a day.Eat good food. Whatever that means for you. I’m not talking latest diet fads or what you ‘should’ eat. But what’s good to you, your soul, your happiness, and your sense of fulfillment. If its green and leafy all the better, if its all crunch and salt, so be it. But let it bring you joy.Devote time to your purpose. Maybe that’s writing. So sit down and write. Maybe that’s your current job, buckle down and find gratitude in the work. Maybe that’s taking care of someone else, find fulfillment in that. But give focused time to your passion, and your goals.Do one thing…anything, not for yourself. Help a neighbor, take a grocery cart back, help a coworker with a project, give a ‘yes’ to something that lightens the load of another. Send a note, donate to charity, drop off food at the food bank, hold the damn door, offer a compliment. Say thank you and please. It really takes so little to be kind. So do that. In any way, big or small, that you can.Rest. Maybe it’s a moment to stare off into space, or to do a puzzle, or to lay down with your snoring dog for twenty minutes. But rest. We’re not machines and its in those quiet times that our brain processes all the stuff we’re doing.Tell someone you love them, or appreciate them, are rooting for them, or that they are important to you. Whatever and to whomever…tell them now. This is your only day.Spend time with the people and places you love the most. At least a little time. Be present with them. Make a memory. Make it count. Make them laugh.Laugh. The greatest punchline to human existence is that, despite all of our struggling, our toiling and effort, none of it really matters. We are an absurd little glitch in a vast and uncaring, infinite universe. We are ridiculous and short-lived, so find humor in all that you can. Because laughter is a bit of a middle finger to the whole pointless play, and at least by laughing, you’re enjoying the flash-in-pan ride.Love. You can chose a lot of things in life. You can choose to get ahead, you can choose to keep it simple, you can choose to pull back or spring forward, you can make choices for your life and your goals. You can choose to hate someone and extend that. You can choose to love. It is our greatest power and our greatest folly that we get to choose how we radiate into the world. I ask that you choose love. Love your fellow humans. Love your planet and your world. Extend grace. Live compassionately as though that was an unending resource (it is). Forgive. Let go. This is your only day, so just for today, choose to love.

Try the list, then go to bed. And then…when and if (and I hope it’s when and not if) you wake up in the morning, be excited and ready because you get to do it all over again. Just for today.

Writing with Purpose

Good morning, loves. I’ve been trying to read more lately. Everything from scientific studies on stress response, to the humor of philosophy, to the life and struggles of Van Gough, to a naughty Priest with a BDSM kink…ahem. I’m well rounded like that? And I find the more curious I am of all these very different genres, the more I start to think about my own writing.

It’s not uncommon for humans (writerly ones or not) to start to feel deflated, stuck, and more going through motions than genuinely living. We, especially in the corporation that is America, are caught up in a terrible kind of rat race (including plagues, famines, lack of health care, underpaid and overworked) and it can feel that most of our days are spent drudging through. From one task to the next, one have-to to another. Its universal in our culture.

So, because I’m an absolute book dragon, I am also reading an interesting book from the 1950s called “Words to Live By”. I’d found it in my grandparents cabin last year and have taken to reading a ‘chapter’ here and again when I’m feeling stuck. The caveat of course is that this is an old book, with some entries being incredibly biased, a little too religious, and some conforming painfully to the unhealthy standards of the time. But, because I’m an information whore, I like to read them and filter out what’s good about them.

The one I recently read was about purpose. And how we can get caught up living a very drab, unfulfilled life. The trick, the author wrote, was to live as if one of your heroes/heroines was watching. To live in such a way that the people coming after you had something to look up to, to aspire to. And I kind of think this is brilliant, because it doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to do something great or large or be someone well-known or famous. It could just mean that you are a living example. You create a set of standards. You are influential to both good and bad ends. And you never know, who will be watching.

As writers, I hope that we approach our purpose in two ways. One, that we stay true to what we write. Meaning, we write what we love and we don’t cater or cow to the demands of the market. Also, this means that we invest in our writing by constantly questioning it and striving for the best possible book/poem/essay/article we can write and genuinely care about its quality.

And two, that we use our voices to entertain, educate, encourage, and uplift. Our words matter. Even if in a hundred years we’ll all be gone, our words will survive beyond us. So make them good words. Make them loving and careful words. Make them beautiful and true. Make them words that someone reading your book 75 years later doesn’t have to mentally edit or dismiss for lack of understanding and compassion. Do your best. When you learn something new or know better than you did, do better than you did. Find purpose in the fact that your hero/heroine is watching you, (even if its just your parent, or a teacher, or your kids) and make your writing and your regular life, worth admiring.

What’s Up This Month?

Wow, I’m so glad you asked. I’d love to say, I’ll be doing a lot of fall gardening, hiking to my heart’s content, writing in hoodies with hot tea and snuggling into the fall. Unfortunately, its still hot as balls here, and a writer’s work is never done. So none of that will transpire (though I may sneak away for a hike). Below are some links on where I’ll be, what I’ll be doing, and some cool books, events and classes I hope you’ll check out. Not to sound altruistic, but its not all about me here…

One of my favorite people in the whole world is releasing his first novel today (September 5th). William Missouri Downs is a delightful, ingenious writer. He’s been a play and screen writer for many years and this is his first foray into fiction. And let me tell you…its fucking brilliant. If you like humor, philosophy, and quick, fun, laugh-out-loud scenes, you won’t be disappointed. You can get your own copy of it here: 5 Minutes From Chaos

My first Youth Writer’s meeting happens on September 14th. The group meets once a month but in the next year we’ll be bringing in some stellar guest speakers and doing a lot more to help the members get writing time in and promote their work. If you know of a youth (12-18) who loves to write but who’s creativity is constantly being smooshed flat by diagraming sentences in English class, send them my way. Nothing but uneducated, free-wheeling writing going on here. It’s in person and virtual and FREE. Check it out here: Youth Writing WHWA

I’m taking my oldest daughter on a college visit to New York state. I don’t want to pressure her, but I’m really hoping she likes The University of New York Fredonia, because one of my bestest friends works there in the English department. I’ll actually get to see her while I’m in town, and this lady Rebecca Cuthbert, is a writer you should get to know. Her work is brilliant, dark, smart, delicious and spine tingling. I just love it. Her newest books and releases can be found here: Rebecca Cuthbert

I’ll be helping to host some of the events with Writing Heights Writer’s Association, so if you want more information on a great group that will help you better your writing skill and offer you a wonderful support system of other writers who really get it, check them out here: WHWA

Finally, I’ll be attending the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writer’s Colorado Gold Conference at the end of the month and I’m all atwitter over it. Nervoucited? Excitous? I’ll be teaching the classes shown below at the event and trying to cram going to as many more as I can. The presenters are amazing, the content offered is awesome and I’m just gearing up to writer-geek out. Here’s the link if you want to register, because I would LOVE to see you there: RMFW Gold Conference.

Well, that’s it (as though all of this isn’t going to run me ragged) I hope that you find something cool to do with the month and I hope I get to see you sometime. Take care!

Backstory: The Sum of Our Parts

Hey kids! Today I thought I’d settle back into a little bit of craft. For those of you who are beginning writers, I hope this will be of use. For those of you who are super-sonic, advanced, best-selling writers…what in the hell are you doing reading my blog? Don’t you have launch parties to go to and movie studios to schmooze? As I consider myself a perpetual beginner in all things, I will continue as if this is something you still need work on, because I do.

Backstory…ah yes, all the shit that happened to your character before they land on the page of your novel. All of those pesky details that readers don’t necessarily need to sift through (100000 words or so?) but that are essential to why your character behaves the way they do, why they are where they are, and what fatal flaw we are hoping they fix. So how do we, as writers, weave the important details in without dumping large, boring, sagas of backstory on our readers? Here’s a fine bullet list:

WRITE IT OUT, BUT DON’T PUT IT IN: One of the best practices you can do is write out all those long, sweeping, historical scenes in a separate document. It helps you get to know your character better and to be able to write them from a place true to their history. That document doesn’t have to be seen by anyone else, think of it as writing an entry on your character in wikipedia to be able to better write them authentically on the page. Backstory details will have an easier and more organic presence that way.CONSIDER YOUR GENRE: Some genres (Literary, YA, Regency Romance) tend to have more personal historical details, and if the main goal of the genre is a transition from the past to the present or future (coming of age, hero’s journey) then the past will play a bigger role and more time can be devoted to it. Readers in these genres expect as much.MOTIVATION: Everybody has a WHY. If the motivation is obvious (he’s a cop because he believes in justice) it requires no backstory. If, however, they’re in a role or position that seems to clash with their personality or values we need to know a bit about how and why they got there. (She’s a cop because her father was killed on the job by a dirty partner and now she wants to ferret out the current Commissioner). BE SELECTIVE TO ENHANCE THE FLAWS: If your main character arc is about how a closed down hunk learns to love again, then we need to know why they closed down in the first place. You don’t need to know he was the captain of the rugby team unless his heart was broken by a fellow player. Stick to the details that caused their flaw, or reveal something important about their values and personality that are essential for their evolution, or are the defining handicaps that keep them failing.BE BRIEF: In this case, a hint is as good as a paragraph/chapter. Some of the best backstory is the kind that is interwoven, seamlessly within a paragraph. Related to the current events but powerful in its small punch. “When he asked if she wanted a peppermint mocha she scrunched up her nose. She hadn’t liked the scent since her grandmother had insisted she rub peppermint lotion on her feet every night. ‘No thanks, just a latte,” she said.” Here we see that she had to take care of her grandmother and it wasn’t pleasant. Young people in positions like that have a heavy sense of duty and often resentment. We learn this from one line about grandma feet.If you struggle with how to shrink it down, see the above bullets for the most important details and boil those down further. Ultimately it’s about practice and thinking about how your own brain works; how certain smells can bring up memories, or being in a car reminds you of a trauma, etc.IF IT’S GOT TO BE LONG: Okay, I get it, sometimes exposition is too important to the motivation, character flaw, and story to get cut down. So here’s some rules of thumb, if it has to be longer:It better be full of gasp-worthy events Write it in beautiful sweeping prose and be addressing a literary audience that doesn’t mind a good wander.Make it hilariously funny

Well, there you go. I hope this helped give you a little boost on how to interweave backstory into your work. Good luck on your writing and next week I’ll have some announcements about the big ol’ month of September and what fun things are going down.

The Past Holds on in Dark Places

I’ve been debating, but I think this post just has to happen.

It’s been a heavy weight on my heart for almost two years now, and I’m ready to move on…to healthier spaces, to new horizons. But I can’t fully do that, when this shadow has been living in my peripheral. Because, sometimes trauma thrives in dark places. And I need to shine a light on it, even if no one is paying attention. Because otherwise it will continue to tendril itself to my ankles like a weight, an anchor solidly planted in the black of the ocean’s floor, and never let me be completely free. The only way to get loose, to get back to the light, to be free…is to get a knife and start cutting. But I can’t do that, until I shed light on the chains. Even if it risks losing a limb.

Imagine, for a moment, being in this place with me. See if you feel caught in the same chains. Feel your breath burning in your lungs, from the silence you keep.

Know you’re drowning.

Here’s a story, of something that happened. Not so long ago, but long enough that I feel safe in letting it go. So…here I go…

Suppose as a young mom, with very few friends and isolate from the world (not even admitting you’re a ‘writer’ yet) you stumble upon a martial arts school. You remember being in Kenpo in college and loving it. How it empowered you, gave you friends and community…so, being a mom of young women, you start your kids there. Because it seems to teach ideals and principles that you agree with. Self defense, discipline, respect, integrity. All good and decent. Your kids have fun, and you join the program, to be a part of their journey as well as to start your own. As time passes, they move on (as kids do) to new adventures. But you’ve found a home there. A real home. Friends, community, purpose. You love the art. You have plans for the future practicing this art.

Its inexplicable how deep in your bones you feel it. It’s like it was always there waiting for you to find. It might have even been something you always knew from eons ago, because it felt organic and made sense, and the way it taught you to move and use your power was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever had.

So not only do you want to continue to live in this world, but you want to teach others, you want to help kids, you want to encourage women in the art. So you work hard, nights and weekends, extra study and home and private lessons, and getting up early for weapons classes and staying late to help with questions. It is your life, and the family and friends you’ve made on the journey are as close to you as your own heart beating in your chest. You feel safe. You feel finally respected and equal as a woman, even in such a man’s world.

Then…one day…

A man you’ve worked with for almost ten years, who has always been like a big brother to you, completely platonic in your eyes, a family man to all who know him, your coach, your mentor, and someone you trust implicitly…starts to say things to you. Uncomfortable things. He starts sending them via messenger, non stop. From the moment you wake up in the morning until you try to sleep, he’s there…prompting, asking, demanding your attention.

You don’t respond, you deflect, you laugh it off. You ask him to stop.

Because he’s a man of this art–this art of integrity and discipline–and a family man, your coach, your mentor, you think he must just be confused, or teasing, or…joking? And when you tell him its uncomfortable and you don’t like it, he should respect that you’re not interested. And stop. He should…right?

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t stop.

You block him. He tries to manipulate your friends and co-workers at the dojo into getting you to talk to him, feigns depression, sobs into your messenger, leaves depressing posts all over social media. Everyone is very concerned for him. But you are confused. Because you feel like you did something wrong. When all you asked for, respectfully, was for him to back off.

Why would someone, who was like a brother to you, act that way? Why wasn’t your no enough? You’ve blocked him, you’ve asked him not to work with you on the floor, you don’t speak to him. You won’t take classes with him. He tells your collective friends that you’re being stubborn and unreasonable. He leaves the school in an emotional outburst. You stay. Because this is your home, and your sanctuary. And you have children to teach who are the very beat in your heart and you cannot abandon them.

Only soon, it doesn’t feel like a sanctuary because two weeks later, he comes back, starts requesting classes, starts saying that his mental health is at stake. He starts leaving typed notes in your employee box, tucked into books for you…telling you that you’re denying the truth of your own feelings (as though he knows your feelings better than you do?) He gushes that he loves you. That you belong together, that you’re fated for one another… You bring it to the head of the school. Because now it’s happening at work, and it’s gotten scary. This isn’t some passerby.

This is a man who outranks you, who could kill someone with his bare hands. And he’s made your workplace hostile.

And by hostile it means– you shake every time you pull up in the parking lot to teach. Your stomach is ulcering, you’re not sleeping. You hope, every night, that he doesn’t show up. Every time the bells ring on the doors into the dojo you cringe and look for the next higher rank. But it doesn’t help. Because no one knows.

Because your boss doesn’t want to ruin the man’s reputation. He doesn’t want to put a ‘stain’ on his school. Even though its more than just an inconvenience or a stain to you. It’s a dark and frightening world that’s closing in on you everyday. The man starts taking more classes, which means you take less. Your training suffers, you fall behind on your hopes of a higher degree and becoming a Sensei. Because you can’t be on the floor with him and you worry one day he’ll step onto the mats with you and do real, physical damage. You’re afraid it would lead him on if were nice out of fear, or even just in being near you, even if you ignored him completely. Because even when you gave a clear no, he only heard yes. You don’t feel safe.

You finally tell your boss, you can’t do this anymore. He tells you that you need to work with the man, to heal and get over it. That the man is depressed and they can’t possibly make him leave…what about his mental health? Can’t you two crazy kids just work it out? You tell him that there are laws against this sort of thing. He says he’ll think about it.

But you don’t need to think anymore. You can’t stay someplace that’s not safe, and the family that you thought you had is just a hierarchy of men looking to protect themselves, and any form of behavior they want to engage in. They are fine calling you their token female to promote a ‘family friendly’ atmosphere and boost female students to sign up, but you better not speak out for your actual rights to be safe, or against a higher-ranking belt, because that would make them look bad.

So you quit. A lawsuit is an option. But it also means an upheaval for the students, the kids and adults who find comfort in the art and in the community. It means years of litigation and strain on your own family, including financial weight you cannot afford. It means having to defend your ‘no’ to a bunch of men, who like the others before, don’t believe you.

So, you send in your resignation. The head of the school says he’s asked the man to never come back to any of their properties (out of fear of litigation, not out of a sense of what is right). They hope you’ll come back when you’re ‘feeling better’. They tell everyone you left to pursue a ‘book deal’. They don’t say that you left because you were being harassed.

You hope that you can feel better…you hope it will be safe again and your wounds will heal and you can move on and get back into the world and the practice and the teaching you love. 9 months pass. You start to take a couple of classes in different schools. You start to feel…buoyant, supported, you laugh on the floor again and you haven’t done that in over a year. You find an instructor you trust. You can hug people again and not feel…strange. You agree to cover a couple of classes to help them out. You sign up for an all-school event. Knowing you’ll have to prep for it, knowing its a big step, but feeling that you’re ready. And you’re excited at the challenge and at getting to practice again, and at being part of your family… Oh my God…how you’ve missed it, the motion, the science, the beauty…

But then…you feel the anchor on your foot, cutting into your ankle when someone pulls you aside and says, hey…he’ll be there you know? He’ll be there. At the event. They’ve let him register. He’s coming. He’s coming back. Just as you are. And your guts turn and you throw up and you can’t eat or sleep for days and you can’t not cry. It’s a cruel torture tactic, giving someone hope, for escape and freedom, only to shackle them down at the last second…

So you pull out your knife and you stare down at your foot and you know that you’ve only got one real choice if you want to survive.

And it isn’t to stay here, where this past, and this darkness, and this hurt is the weight keeping you under. You can’t possibly put your heart back into this water, now that the shark is circling. So you cut yourself free, and it must be complete. Through the bone, the limb can’t be saved. You won’t ever come back, there is no hope of it. You’ve lost a decade or more, of your life, of your passion, of the marrow in your bones. You’ve lost friends. Your family.

Because someone wouldn’t take no for an answer and someone else defended his ‘right’ to a yes.

So if you seem heartbroken in your posts and your correspondence, you hope its only temporary. You try to feign the idea that you’re ok. But when, for so much of your life, your safety, happiness, and well-being has, in one way or another, been snatched away by a man who thought he deserved your time and your light, its really hard to come back to ok.

I’ve been floating in the sea, bleeding, without a limb…fighting up, and away from the dark for a year and 6 months now… but there are days when I still feel like I haven’t breeched the surface yet. I want to shout out to the entire world, but I don’t think they’d listen. Because, I’ve merely become one of a couple hundred million women…who were told to stay silent, to not rock the boat, to be the anchor. The stability in status quo…

I’m not an anchor anymore. And its time to let go.

Thanks for listening. I know it won’t change anything and the damage is done. But half of my life’s goals, my passion, my love, was stolen from me and so if I have a hard time, sometimes, calling back, feeling happy, wearing fitted clothes, getting on and getting over, finding energy, finding confidence, trusting, coping with crowds… not looking over my shoulder when I hear bells ring… I hope you’ll understand. I hope you’ll give grace. To every woman.

A Little Something…

Hello friends, writers and readers.

I hope this week finds you getting back into the swing of things and finding a groove. Whether that’s winding down summer and getting ready for fall, or getting your kiddos back into school, I hope you’re finding some time to rebalance, and recenter. I’ve got a little teaser for a book I’ve been working on this year. I thought it might be a change from the poetry I normally offer and maybe a preview of a book that will hopefully be coming out within the next year.

Enjoy!

No Words After I Love You: Excerpt

““I’ve never believed in God, but I believe even less now. If there ever was a God, then it was her. My planets revolved around her and the world did not deserve the warmth of her star. None of us deserved her.” Don knows I mean him; the great idiot has to know. I hang my head, chance a glance at the crowd, blurred through eyes that are viciously crying, despite my resolution to be angry over sad. “God doesn’t deserve her either.”

That’s all. That’s all I can get out and not point my finger at Don and his treacherous heart. How dare he ruin the last testament to my wife, even if I didn’t want to be here. How dare he show up and mourn a woman who was mine? I sit down next to my father who clears his throat and in it, speaks a volume of reprimands.

Denouncing God in front of the entire church on such a sacred day such as this, Charles?

“Add it to my tab, Dad,” I whisper beneath my breath.

The flurry doesn’t stop, and I think I sign some paperwork, and I collect the ashes, which were to be separated and scattered, between New York and Georgia. Both urns come home to the apartment, where a good old-fashioned wake has been dictated by my late bride. A wake.

Wakes are for Catholics, I’d said. She shrugged in her robe and took my chin in her hand.
They always seem like fun, is what she had said.

Of her own funeral, she wanted it to…seem fun. She wanted wine and music and dancing and laughing. I have the wine. I think Meg did that. Meg ordered the food too…It’s all here, and so is the endless trail of well-wishers, face after face. Graceless, awkward patting of my shoulder from nearly all. Gina was the hugger. They are not sure what to do with me.

The only thing that’s not here is Meg and I look at every new face that enters the apartment, every milling sheep as though she’s snuck in. Where in the hell is that girl? Maybe it’s my brain, trying to distract from my grief, but it’s got me worried. I haven’t talked to her since that morning when she asked me where to put the flowers after the service. I said I didn’t care. She said she thought she could donate them…

I said God could shove them up his ass. She said she was too short to reach, but she’d see what she could do…I unexpectedly smile in the middle of someone else’s story.

Where is Meg? Did she get left at the church? Left by the people she loved, once more? Orphaned again?
Two hours into the malicious and introvert nightmare, and the endless parade of people (thankfully Don must have taken my not-so-subtle hint and had the mind to stay away) is starting to quiet.

Meg walks in. I watch, from the kitchen as she sneaks through the front door, as if she’s trying to slip in without opening another wound. Her nose is pink and her eyes are watery from the cold. Or maybe its the grief.

She hangs up her scarf and that old threadbare coat. She pauses to say hello to my father, as if he deserved her softness. She’s walking through, not a soul recognizing the plainness of her, the very un-Broadway nature of Meg, in her simple black dress, probably the only one she owns, and probably only because Gina helped her find it. She gives people that awkward, tight-lipped smile that one offers in these situations, perhaps a handshake or a fluttering pat on the shoulder. But no words are exchanged.

My God, but she’s given me something to focus on. Poetry in her plainness, an anchor in this stormy sea.
I can tell she doesn’t want to be here. I can tell she knows she doesn’t belong.

I feel like she might try to sneak out. Give me some awful excuse tomorrow, like she was there but missed me in the hustle bustle of it all. But I can’t let that happen. Because she needs to know…she’s not abandoned. Someone notices. Gina begged me to notice her. As she passes the kitchen I reach out and take her wrist in my hand. It’s small and just the act of wrapping fingers around her bones halts her world.

I always think Meg is so much bigger, but she pulls easily into my arms and I’m just as startled as she is. The kitchen is quiet and I’m not sure why I react like such a desperate man, thinking she might leave. I’m not sure what to do now, with Meg so close. I cannot account for the grief in me. I am desperate. For any normalcy. For someone not in the business. Someone who…knows me.

“Where have you been?” I hiss.

“The park?”

My heart shoots up into my throat. The smallness of her wrist and how easily I was able to kidnap her into the kitchen makes me overpour in worry.

“By yourself?”

“I couldn’t—” she pauses and looks into my face. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Didn’t think I’d notice? That you weren’t here?” Words come out of my mouth. I’ve been regulating all day. I can’t regulate with Meg.

“You’ve got a lot of people here and more socializing than I know you want to do. I didn’t want to be one more obligation for you.”

Martin, one of my favorite horn players from the pit of many a show-stopper, steps into the kitchen for another sandwich. He gives Meg an awkward, tight-lipped smile, and pats my shoulder lightly, before he leaves. My brain refocuses into the tired vulnerability, unguarded in her.

“Don’t leave me alone.”

“You’re not alone, everyone is here,” she points out.

“They’re here for her—” I ache. I look towards the sounds of laughter and stories in the next room over. In this sea, I am alone.

“I’m here for you,” Meg says and puts both of her hands on either side of my face. I look into her eyes, a quiet shore. I feel my face pinch up like I’m going to cry and that stupid girl, throws her arms around my waist and holds me. Buries her face in my chest, so I can cry and not be watched. She holds me so tight.
Like someone who loves you holds you. Without reserve, without any awkward pause, without worry for societal rules or false conclusions. I’m stunned into accepting. When was I last hugged? Hugged like a Midwestern girl hugs? Warm and close and like two hearts are trying to reach each other through the cage of ribs between. Never.

She smells like cold air and the traces of someone smoking on a park bench, and shampoo that’s soft and flowery. I could push her away and berate her for being stupid and sentimental. But my body sinks into the warmth. Fuck, I need a hug. A real one. Does she need it as badly as I do?

I put my arms around the smallness of her. I don’t know how tightly she needs this and I know I shouldn’t care, so I just hug her like I want to hug, and she shivers and I shiver back and I feel the tears welling up between us, a great lava flow started from an earthquake. I run my hands through her hair, and hold her tragic little brain next to my heart.

“My girl,” I whisper and catch myself.

Who’s girl? Which girl?

It demands an answer and I have to decide. “She was my girl.”

The grief flies its middle finger to my stoicism and Meg is so warm and close and just so…there…that I start to cry. And I don’t know what to do, so I just let it go. She’s whispering her anguish, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry over and over like Meg was responsible for the treacherous cells or the decade long affair, or the loss of everything I thought was true. As if she was putting that on her plainly dressed shoulders.

Comfort in her warmth starts to feel like betrayal. I think she feels it too. I sniff and pull away. I’m too confused to have her so close. I’m too far into the middle of my grief, I’m bound to make poor choices. I can’t look at her in case any part of this ache is still in my eyes. She tries to look at me but I pat her shoulder like Martin patted mine. Awkwardly. Boundaries thrown up in defiance. I need to get out of this kitchen. Into a crowd where I can be unseen again. I pause and hand her a box of Kleenex before I go. I hear her sniff and pull out a couple before blowing her nose in a very…moose-like manner.

The honking of it brings the first tickle of a laugh I’ve felt in days.”

The Simplicity of Practice

I can’t tell you how much of my life I overthink. From what a friend has said, to what the scowl my daughter is giving me means, to the side eye my dog throws at me and the head shaking the man in the car next to me offers when I’m belting out Blink-182 lyrics… I overthink it all. I overthink every decision (but if I have a bagel without the egg I’m going to be hungry, if I brush my teeth now they’ll just get dirty because I want one more cup of coffee, but if I don’t brush them now, it might not happen today…) You see what I mean?

So when I’m given (or read, or listen to) writing advice, I tend to do the same. I over calculate how many chapters I should be writing a month to finish a book in a quarter. I’m diagraming the hell out of my character’s backstory (after a pantster first draft that feels too tepid). I’m getting lost looking at internet trends, publishing tips, and marketing plans… And so much of these grand ideas, sparked by advice to help in the long run (some don’t) but what they for sure do, is take up time. And invested time like that isn’t just the physical hours but the mental energy that it takes to process it all. Less mental energy means…less writing (or less quality in the writing?)

Recently, I read this great article on the timeless tidbit of: “just write”.

I mean, admittedly, it’s kind of a breath of fresh air. Simple. Not complicated. Correct. To be a writer, to finish your novel/story/project, you must actually write it. So…just write.

But it’s also oversimplified. If writing were just that easy, every person who’s ever come up to me and said “I’ve always wanted to write a book” or “I’ve started a novel but I can’t seem to finish it” would have oodles of books written. Wants made into dids. I mean, “just write” makes it sound like all we really have to do is sit down, the words will come, the knowledge will be there and the novel will march through beginning, middle, and end without fail or hiccup.

But writing isn’t simple. It’s akin to playing an instrument, and doing it well. Anyone can pluck the strings of a guitar. Anyone can thunk on the piano keys, but it takes more dedication, thought, and skill to actually play a song, none the less write one. But the practice is the road towards a better song.

So, as this pretty smart writer guy said, we should instead “Practice Writing.”

Practice Writing. It is better, no? You’re still doing the writing thing, but it comes with the lightened atmosphere of it being something continually tried and worked for, something offered, reworked, and perfected, but never perfect. Something we find joy in, while still being committed to the process of it.

And it helps me not over think it. Because every sentence, scene, poem, blog, or chapter I indulge in, is a practice, and a learning opportunity, but not a commitment to perfection. And just like an instrument, through trial and error, and time spent, we writers will get better and better. So, I beg you to go forth, and practice your writing today. Whether it’s 2000 words, or 20. Every plunking of the keys counts towards learning the complete song. Every word, every thought, every rambling blog post, is a writer in the making.

What’s The Deal, Brain?

I’m normally a prolific writer. Like…I can put down 2,000 words plus a day when I have time and am in the middle of the glorious magical lapse, where time ceases to exist and there is only writing. But of late, that space is hard to find.

Now, to be fair to myself, I did just get done with a big project for my writing organization as well as helping to put on a conference. The kids are home right now, and there have been a lot of to-do’s in life. All of those excuses aside, when I sit down to write, it’s less a raging waterfall and more a sad little trickle, if it happens at all.

At the beginning of this year, coming off a year of publishing five books, I told myself that the main goals of the year would be learning and teaching. I would take classes, I would teach classes and give my brain a break from the writing, and especially, editing aspect of what I do–at least in terms of publishing goals. But I think I did myself a disservice.

By not writing consistently, at least a little everyday on various projects, I think I’ve lost some neuro pathways. I’m having a hard time with my focus, with my word count, and with that magical blossoming of new ideas. But is that all? Because I’m pretty fucking loopy these days. Like can’t concentrate, I’m tired all the time, I’m crabby (granted the world is a shitfest currently), and often depressed.

This is where the post gets a little weird, but I encourage people (men, women, and everyone between and along the spectrum) to stick with it.

Let’s talk about perimenopause. (Ew! I know, but shut up and listen) Brain fog is real, ya’ll. It also means night sweats and if those don’t keep you awake, the random brain and body signals being sent will. Less sleep equals…even more brain fog. I’m struggling to find balance, and focus, even though I haven’t changed any of my normal dietary, exercise, or life practices. All this to say, sometimes, life and biology don’t work with us. Sometimes we have to find new pathways and methods to do what we love.

Right now I’m researching it. I’m trying to eat healthy, let myself rest when I’m tired, and (despite also still teaching and learning this year) I’ve started writing again. A small, simple and sweet little book that’s not requiring too much investment as of yet, because I need to keep practicing, but I also need to keep it enjoyable, and not too convoluted for the brain cells that are already fighting strange hormone dips and tricks.

I know I’ll get through this, I’m looking into therapies and other things that can be done. Because I’m committed to managing my health and I’m committed to my creativity. Even if that means (as a woman and isn’t it ALWAYS the case) I have to work a little harder to find that balance. I’ll keep writing, a little each day. I’d rather be stuck in the traffic going slowly in the right direction, then pull of the road and never get back on.

Take care out there kids, and bring a fan. It’s going to get hot randomly.