Susan Hunter's Blog, page 11

Born to be friends

Sisters

The other day I asked someone how her sister was doing. I was surprised—no make that stunned—when she said she didn’t know, because she hadn’t talked to her in months. They’re not quarreling, there’s been no falling out, they just don’t communicate much.

It’s hard for me to imagine not talking with a sister for months, and not feeling somewhat bereft. And in thinking about sisters, I decided that today my post will not whine about how hard it is to write, or how disappointing my vacation was, nor detail my many misadventures with clothing. Instead, I am going to celebrate my good fortune in having sisters. I have four of them, which is perfect for an introvert like me. They expand my social circle, but require me to attend almost no formal social functions.

My sisters have the qualities I look for in friends: they are smart, funny, thoughtful, truthful, reliable, and almost always up for dessert. But there is something about sisters that transcends even the strongest friendships. Maybe it’s that in my experience, there’s nothing you can say or do in the sister relationship from which there is no coming back. And that there’s nothing you can’t ask, no time you can’t call, no crisis you can’t share, and no honest answer you won’t get.

If you ask a sister “Do my fat rolls show in this dress?” she will not waste time telling you that you don’t have fat rolls. She will just say “Yes. Try this one.” And you know that her response is practical, not judgmental.

If you’re in emotional crisis, and it’s 2 o’clock in the morning, and you’ve already tearfully repeated to everyone you know, as well as to several startled strangers, the entire story of the unhappy unraveling of a relationship, you can still call a sister and say it all over again, and she will listen. And if you have more than one sister, they will pass you back and forth until you settle down.

If you are an adult sharing a house with your sister and you run out of clean underwear, you can take hers out of the dryer and wear it, and she won’t get mad.

If you have an ethical dilemma, a sister will listen to you pro and con and equivocate, then be the moral compass that sets you on the right path.

If you are so hungry for chocolate chip cookies, but so lazy you can’t get off the couch, she will go to the kitchen and make you some.

If you need to hear something you’d rather not, your sister is brave enough to say the words, and strong enough to deal with your anger, and steadfast enough to forgive the unforgivable things you might say in hurt response.

When we were growing up there was much fighting, stealing of pantyhose, unsanctioned borrowing of clothes, and occasional mean-spirited teasing. Our dad, who had long imagined the joys of a big family, would sometimes say more in sorrow than in anger, “Why can’t you kids just get along?” To which whoever was involved in the battle of the moment would likely callously answer: “Because I hate her.”

I’m happy that he lived long enough to know that we grew into the relationships he always hoped we’d have. And that among the best gifts our parents gave us were each other. That of course includes my two brothers as well, who are worthy of a post of their own, but not today. Today I celebrate my sisters, and all sisters.

For there is no friend like a sister, in calm or stormy weather … Christina Rosetti 

 

 

 

 

Where are my ruby slippers?

There’s no place like home

In the beginning it sounded rather promising, even to someone whose favorite place is her couch in front of the fire. A four-week vacation in the western part of the country, where the days are sunny and the temperatures in the high 60s and 70s.

But the promise was unfortunately not fulfilled. When we stepped off the plane we were met not with a sunny 65, but with snow and a wind chill in the 20s. It was colder at our vacation destination than it was in Michigan. The snow, wind and cold temperatures were highly unusual for that part of the country in February, and yet, there they were.

Upon checking in at our vacation rental, we discovered it was not quite the oasis we had anticipated. We were but one of four couples in residence; including the owner, there were nine people on site. We occupied a small one-bedroom unit on one side of a large home. Above us was a two-bedroom apartment and in the main house were two additional guest suites, and all available space was rented. In essence we were vacationing in an upscale commune.

My “Danger, danger Will Robinson,” signal immediately activated. The proximity of so many people gave my extrovert husband far too much scope to set up things like evening drinks, morning coffees or even group dinners. I had to maintain constant vigilance to preserve the boundaries of Introvert Island. I did catch a break when Gary went to the shared backyard patio and found an elderly gentleman sunning himself, wearing nothing but his underwear. Since he made a habit of the practice, it was awkward enough to  cut down somewhat on the potential for backyard socializing.

In addition to many people, there were also many cars present. The inching and angling back and forth required to avoid hitting another car, scraping the garage door or bumping into a vehicle parked in the driveway made each departure a driving adventure.

And then the plague came. My theory is that extroverts are the patient zero of most epidemics, because they’re the ones who are out and about hither and yon, leaving germs in their wake, while introverts self-quarantine and thus avoid spreading illness. Gary caught a really bad cold that he shared with me and we spent the better part of a week sneezing, coughing, counter-coughing and downing over-the-counter remedies. Mine eventually retreated, but Gary’s hung on so long that he finally agreed under extreme protest to go to Urgent Care. Where he was diagnosed with mild pneumonia.

At the end of his round of antibiotics, when he was once again free to roam,  a new contingent of renters arrived at our hostel. And for once, introvert and extrovert were of a single mind. We looked at each other, looked at the available flights home and rebooked our return for a week earlier than planned. We had a great flight back and when we arrived the weather was sunny and warm. And even though we were hit with a major snowstorm this week, there’s no place like home. Especially when it includes a comfortable couch and a cozy fire.

 

Let the writing begin

Into the blue

Today I am stuck. I am in the early stages of writing the third Leah Nash mystery, and I know what the two main threads of the story are, I know how they will come together, I know who died and why.

I’ve got a large 3-ring binder full of research, I’ve got confirmation from an expert that a key item I’m hinging the plot on is actually possible in real life, and yet I’m hesitating. My ability to generate excuses for not actually writing is boundless. I need more research. I need a more detailed outline. I need more notebook tabs. I need more colored markers. I have to pack for a trip. I have to clean my closet. (That last one shows the level of my urge to procrastinate).

It’s the same thing each time I start a book. I’m excited to move into a world that is familiar, but different from mine. I’m eager to once again inhabit the mind of a character who is not me, but part of me. But like a skydiver before she leaps out of the plane, I am paused on the precipice of unknown outcomes. Will I land safely in the drop zone, or will I get caught in the metaphorical branches of a miscalculated plot line, or even worse will I crash to the ground in a tangle of poorly conceived characters and improbable clues?

The journey into the unknown is always daunting for me, as I am not an adventurous type by nature. In fact, on a scale of 1-10, with 10 being Marco Polo and 1 being Emily Dickinson, I’m probably hovering at about 2.5. I always have to fight the urge to stay in a perceived safe place, in life and in writing. After all, if you don’t risk starting, you don’t risk failing. But in my heart I know that what I have to do is face the fear of failure and push on.

To launch myself into unknown territory, I sometimes refer to the lines from a childhood poem, The Lobster Quadrille, in which an exuberant fish urges a cautious snail to set off on an exciting journey that will take him to a happy new place.

There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.

The further off from England, the nearer is to France—

Then turn not pail, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.

Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?

Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?

Regardless of how this next work comes out, I know it’s time to join the dance in earnest, leap from the plane with abandon, set out for the farther shore, and trust that all will unfold as it should. I’ll keep you posted on how the adventure is going.

 

 

Fatal Fashion

Fashion can be deadly

On Mondays I usually have dinner and a movie night with one of my sisters. Recently the movie we watched involved a scene in which a character’s attempt to trounce some villains was thwarted by the pocket of his pants catching on a doorknob, causing him to take a pratfall instead of leap on the bad guy.

We both found this funny, not because we’re particular fans of slapstick, but because we’ve both been hurt, or least seriously let down, by our clothing on multiple occasions. And I’m not talking about the outfit that is just a bad idea from the get go—the one that causes your waitress to inquire if you’re a member of a religious organization, or random strangers to ask you what aisle the baby products are in. I’m talking about actively malevolent clothing that puts you in some very bad situations.

After we finished the movie, my sister and I played a treacherous fashion game of “Can You Top This?” and I’m sad to say, I believe I emerged the winner.

I opened the bidding with my tale of the time I was at work, seated at my desk and wearing a dress with a long, full skirt. I scooted on my chair to the filing cabinet near my desk to retrieve a file. But on my return scoot, the chair came to an abrupt halt. My skirt was caught in the casters. Not only could I not propel myself forward, I couldn’t even stand up. My dress with its billowy swath of material had become so entangled it forced me into a half-crouch, from which I tried to lift the chair to free the hem the wheels held in a death grip.

It was even more awkward and harder than it sounds. I managed to free enough of it to allow me to sit down beside the chair to work the rest of the dress out. I didn’t manage a dignified response when a colleague spotted me through my half-open office door and asked what I was doing. Just before she started laughing uncontrollably.

My sister countered with a treacherous garment story of her own. One day, alone at work and wearing a very slim pencil skirt, she pushed back from her desk—which was located in an open office configuration, separated from visitors only by a counter. Her chair flipped backward, leaving her staring at the ceiling with her lower limbs straight up in the air, imprisoned by the taut grip of her skirt. Urgently trying to right herself before anyone came in, she discovered that her straight skirt gave her no mobility. She couldn’t lower her legs. Only by bracing her arms, heaving her hips and flinging her body to the side was she able to get out of the dead bug position. From there, her skirt hiked far higher than anything Sister Romana would have approved, she emerged upright but shaken. But no one was the wiser. Until now.

But I had the winning entry with my tale of a city commission candidate, a pair of slippery shoes and again, a desk. (Perhaps it’s not the clothing, but the combination of office fashions and office furniture that lies at the heart of our tales of woe.)

As managing editor I had invited all the candidates for interviews in my office at the newspaper. I was newly in the position and eager to project professionalism, confidence and tough-minded reporting. I chose a more business-like outfit than usual, careful to avoid flowing skirts or impractical shoes. When the first candidate arrived I ushered him into my office, seated him and ducked behind my desk to grab my notebook and start the interview. It was then that my cruel shoes let me down. Abruptly and literally.

My slippery soles caused my feet to slide straight out from under me. Before I knew what was happening, I was lying on my back, looking up at the underside of my desk. I don’t know who was more astonished at my sudden disappearance from view, me, or the would be commissioner. I scrambled out from under as quickly as I could, but I’d lost both my dignity and my ability to conduct a serious interview. Plus my toe really hurt. He was kind enough never to speak of it again. I voted for him.

There are, sadly, more such stories involving car doors slamming on trench coat belts, scarves caught in drawers and swing coats causing unfortunate accidents on stairs. I will not go into them here. I will, however, say that I am seriously considering titling my next book Dangerous Clothing. Not compelling at first glance perhaps, but it would be a darker tale than one might think.

Words that should go unspoken

One day last summer I was staring out the window watching the river when a heron caught my eye. He was walking along the bank with that odd mixture of elegance and awkwardness that the breed exhibits on land. After a minute, I realized he wasn’t walking. He was stalking, heading toward the nesting site of some red-winged blackbirds in the reeds.

As I watched he moved forward, leading with his head down low, taking slow deliberate strides as the smaller birds began to call in distress and dive at him, wings flapping wildly. But the ending was preordained. When he reached the nest, he dipped down just out of my sight, then came up with something that looked horribly like a baby bird in its beak and flew away. The defenders of the nest gave chase for some distance, but the heron paid them no mind. The red winged blackbirds returned, agitated and defeated.

For awhile, I felt incredibly angry at the heron. He had no place on “my” riverbank. In my mind he was no longer a graceful, mesmerizing creature. He was a calculating, single-minded bird of prey bent on killing.

That was ridiculous, of course. The heron was both: a thing of beauty, and a destructive force. It’s possible to hold more than one characteristic at the same time—for man and for bird. And for someone like me, who is far too prone to judge other people, it’s important to be reminded of that.

I’m way too quick to assess someone’s character based on extremely limited knowledge. “What? He did that? He’s a jerk.” Based on similarly scant evidence, I may also decide that another person is a sweetheart. Only to be surprised later by actions from the same people that seem to say each is the exact opposite of my initial ruling. And that’s the key, “seem.”

The truth is people are never just one thing. We all carry within us the dark and the light, the petty and the generous, the selfish and the selfless. To sacrifice someone’s feelings for the sake of a witty remark doesn’t mean that we are never thoughtful. And performing a random gesture of kindness doesn’t make us Mother Teresa. We’re all a mix of characteristics, and few of us would come out well if evaluated on the basis of isolated actions.

As the year winds down and another one is ready to begin, I will vow once again to be less judgmental, more tolerant, and to think before I speak. To remember that it’s easy for me to see the comic, but I can’t always see the cruel. I’m going to attempt to follow the advice of Thumper’s mother–and my own. If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.

I’m hopeful, though, that I’ll get some points just for trying, because past experience says I’m not likely to win the match. I may more often resist the urge to pass judgment, but it will be harder not to say the funny thing I really shouldn’t. Still, baby steps, right?

 

 

Some Weeks Are Worse Than Others

There are some weeks, and we all have them (at least I hope we all do, I’d hate to be the only one) when nothing goes right. The last seven days comprise just such a period of time. I thank you in advance for the free therapy session I’m getting as I recount it.

It started with a deceptively happy event, as so many unfortunate occurences in my life do. The first shipment of paperback versions of Dangerous Mistakes arrived. It’s been available on Amazon for several weeks, but this order is for people who prefer not to order online. I opened the box, opened a book and gasped. I tried another book, and another book, and another book. All the same. The margins were off, and the books looked bad.

My sales/distribution team (aka my husband Gary), who is motivated always by the urge to cross things off his list, tried to talk me into thinking they looked all right. But no matter how I squinted, they didn’t. I called the publisher and arranged to send them back. I  was assured  that a reprint could be shipped out after the original order was returned and checked, and shipping would be expedited.

Disappointing, but not really a major frustration, right? Ah, but we’ve only just begun. Later that night, our LED television died. Readers of previous posts may recall that TV fills many a happy hour for me, so it was not a question of if we would replace it, but when. Gary, the man of action, had purchased and wall mounted a new television by the time I returned from lunch with a friend the next day. We did a test run, but after a few minutes, the picture and sound began to flash off, then on again. I tried my limited repertoire of  fixes for awhile — unplugging, switching cables, turning things on and off — to no avail.

So I went to the company’s website. I spent time in an online chat with Vishnu, who instructed me to do everything I’d already done, which still didn’t work, then sent me a link to request technical service, which ironically also didn’t work. I returned to the online chat and was connected with Shiva, who asked me to take all the steps I’d previously taken under Vishnu’s direction.

When the problem wasn’t resolved, he sent me the same link Vishnu had. But this time, I was able to enter the request for technical service and I was given an 800 number to call to confirm it. When I did, I was connected with Dawn, who requested all the information I’d already provided on the form and then asked me to go through all the steps I’d already gone through with Vishnu and Shiva. Nothing worked, so she agreed to connect me with a technician. But when she came back on the line, it was to tell me no one was available and I’d have to call back in two or three hours. Having already spent over three hours trying to fix the problem, I declined.

Instead we returned the television and decided to buy one online from a store that provides installation services. Once I made the purchase,  I received an email notice that the TV was backordered. I was offered the option of picking up the television at the nearest brick and mortar store that had the item in stock. So the next day, we drove two hours to get it. Once home again, we made an attempt to set it up ourselves, but when we ran into problems, I called to schedule installation by the experts.

Anita, the customer service rep I spoke with, had some sad news for me. Once I had decided to drive two hours to pick up the television, my request for installation was linked to that store, she explained. But because I was two hours away, I was outside the service area for that store. And I would have to go in person to another store (about an hour away) that served my area to request installation. The request couldn’t be made over the phone or by email, nor could Anita override the requirement that I appear in person at the store to make my request.

During many more minutes of conversation and consultation with Anita and a supervisor, I tried a firm demand for satisfaction, a placating plea for help and an empty threat to take my business elsewhere. They were not moved. I still couldn’t get anyone to come to my house unless I drove to the store first. I had just about reached the point where life without television seemed a viable option, when a friend of Gary’s stopped by to help him with his printer. He listened to our sad story, and diagnosed the problem as HDMI cables that were too long. And he was right and joy returned to the land. But not for long.

Then it was back to the book order awaiting reprinting and shipping. Having heard nothing from the publisher after several days, I called to be sure the returned books were there. They were, but the people in charge of resolving printing problems were not. No one would be able to check out the problem until Monday. Which seemed to make it unlikely I’d receive the new shipment by midweek as promised. On Monday evening, I hadn’t heard anything and emailed a query, but got no response.

On Wednesday, at the urging of my increasingly agitated sales team, who had orders he wanted to fulfill, I called again. The customer service representative told me the file hadn’t been looked at yet, but it should be soon. If I didn’t hear, I should contact them again. As of this writing the issue hasn’t been resolved and I’m not having a good feeling about this. I could go on with multiple other things that went wrong this week, but even I’m getting bored with the litany, so I can imagine how you feel. So I’ll just give you this last one.

There is no outside force to blame for the final calamity that rounds out my seven days of sorrow. I administered the blow to myself, though not intentionally. When new readers sign up for my Leah Nash Mysteries mailing list, I send an email thanking them. This week I had a batch of new names, and I decided to personalize the note so that it would open with “Dear Mary” or “Dear Mark” instead of a generic greeting. I wanted readers to know that I value them. It seemed pretty easy to do, I ran a test, and then I pushed the send button. I always include myself on the mailing, so I’ll know that it’s arrived.

Later in the day, I spotted it in my email, clicked it open and read:  Dear *|FIRSTNAME|*.

Yes, I’d managed to make my personalized email as impersonal as possible. Aarrgghh! I went back in, figured out what I’d done, and sent a short and abashed note apologizing for the impersonal nature of my personal communication.

As far as I know, that went all right, and so maybe this is the end of my string of disasters for awhile. In the meantime, dear FIRST NAME readers out there, may your days be error free, as well as shiny and bright this holiday season.

 

 

As Seen on TV

I like television. Network, PBS, cable, premium channels, streaming video, whatever. I like it for its mind-numbing as well as its mind-expanding qualities, and which program I choose depends on the state of my psyche. I know there are people who passionately believe that television in all its forms is lowering our collective IQ. And I have to admit to the loss of at least a few brain cells from watching too many HGTV shows featuring whiny 20-something couples complaining about the lack of “wow factor” in the homes they’re viewing for purchase. (And seriously, how did they get enough money to buy a $600,000 house at that stage in their lives? I want one of those jobs.) But on the other hand, I’ve learned a lot of things from my TV viewing.

For instance, thanks to more than my share of Lifetime movies, I know that if a deranged stalker kidnaps you, and wants you to put on this really beautiful red dress he bought you, and asks you to sit down to a candlelit dinner with him in the abandoned house he’s stashed you in, just say yes and tell him how nice he looks. Don’t yell and tell him he’s crazy, because you think you were in trouble before? Boy, you’re really in for it now. Just be quiet and buy yourself some time.

Or, if a psychotic killer has broken into your house, don’t run upstairs and hide in the closet. Run out the front door, get outside onto the street, and start yelling and screaming. Do not run into the bathroom, where the lock won’t hold, and all you can do is crouch in the corner and whimper. But, oh yeah, don’t forget, if you do get mixed up and do that, use the lid of the toilet tank to smash him in the head after he beats down the door.

From a million cop shows I’ve learned that if you’re the crazed killer, or are ever suspected of being one, you don’t have to go downtown when the police come to question you. Not unless they arrest you. And remember, always lawyer up, no matter how nice the cop seems to be or how innocent you are. You’ll regret it if you don’t.

Thanks to a fondness for PBS, I’m pretty sure I could function in early 20th century British society—upstairs or downstairs. Though I still have a few tips to pick up about being a midwife in 1950s East London, or a detective in World War II Sussex. But I’m definitely up on my British slang enough to know when someone dodgy is taking the piss, and that I’m completely knackered after a bout of binge-watching.

I will probably never forgo my fondness for passive entertainment–if you build a couch, I will come–but I do know that there comes a time to take a break. That was brought home to me a few years ago.  A friend and I were sitting on the porch swing (another favorite low energy past time). We noticed two teenagers emerge from a parked van up the street, and begin going door-to-door. We immediately linked the activity to a news story we’d both read about con artists who lure kids, often runaways with no resources, into canvassing neighborhoods collecting for fake charities. The young recruits are exploited, their pay is withheld, they’re housed in terrible conditions, but they’re too brainwashed and/or despairing to  get out. We discussed whether or not we needed to intervene. Then at the same moment it hit us both. We weren’t recalling a news story. We were outlining the plot of a Law & Order episode.

Well, that did give me pause and I retreated to a place I often go. It requires slightly more engagement, but it’s even better at offering relief from present day anxieties, stress, irritations, worries, boredom or myriad other conditions, as well as scope for the imagination. There’s nothing like a good book. Not even television.

 

It’s finally done and for sale

Available Now!

Ok, finally and for real, the second book in the Leah Nash Mysteries series, Dangerous Mistakes, is live here on Amazon in Kindle format. The paperback version will be available on Amazon shortly. Here’s what the book is about.

It’s hard to find a killer, when no one believes there’s a crime

Reporter Leah Nash knows how to get answers. But when small town surgeon Garrett Whiting kills himself, there aren’t many questions. Except from his distraught daughter, who refuses to accept that he committed suicide. She begs Leah to uncover a murder no one else believes happened. Leah, a skeptical journalist with a weakness for lost causes, agrees.

  But as she investigates, leads evaporate, sources lie, and theories don’t pan out. Everyone she talks to is hiding something, and every turn she takes hits a dead end. Until a second death signals the killer’s first mistake, and Leah discovers there’s much more at stake than she realized.  Racing to find answers in a maze of deception, Leah makes some mistakes of her own. Dangerous mistakes, that put her at risk and could prove fatal to someone she loves.

And now, a moment of shameless self-promotion: If you read and enjoy the second installment of Leah’s adventures, please post a review on Amazon, it really helps to generate interest in readers who are not, like you, my friends. If posting on Amazon is not something you’re comfortable with, please consider posting a comment on your own Facebook page to let your friends know that you read a new book they might like. Of course, if you don’t like it, let’s just keep that between us. And finally, feel free to share this post with anyone you think might be interested.

Now I hope you all go forth and read and enjoy Dangerous Mistakes. I’m going forth to get the third Leah Nash mystery underway.

Are We There Yet?

I’m in the final throes of completing my second book, Dangerous Mistakes. I use “throes” with its connection to death struggles purposefully, because the process is killing me.

I finished the final editing of the manuscript several weeks ago, and that was painful enough, requiring the tossing out of not only awkward phrases and clunky dialogue, but also the cutting of sentences, scenes and even characters that I really liked, but that really didn’t fit.

But nothing equates to the torment of the last stages of book production—pulling together the cover, the final proof and the formatting. And when that is done, trying to remember how to resize photos, create clickable links, and update various places on the web where photos, descriptions and content for both books in the series lives.

I was smart enough last time to hire a professional to design my first book cover. I turned to her again to revise it and create a standard look for use throughout the whole series. (You can see what the new Dangerous Habits cover looks like by scrolling to the bottom of this blog and looking at the sidebar on the right) And to make the entire process go more smoothly, I also hired professional help for final proofing and formatting. But I neglected to factor in that each person brought into the process also has other projects and other deadlines, not just mine, to meet.

It turns out that I was wildly optimistic about the time it would take to bring all the pieces of the project together. Which is a little odd, because I don’t possess the most sunny of temperaments and in fact tend to lean toward the Eeyore side of the scale when predicting likely outcomes. But this time, I did not. I confidently announced that the second book in the Leah Nash Mysteries series would be published fall 2015–by which I meant late September to early October. While it’s true that fall doesn’t officially end until December 21st, the odd snowflake drifting by my window as I write this makes that seem like a technicality. The real answer to the question Are we there yet? is No, not yet. 

However, I can temper the reply  the same way my parents used to do on long journeys and say, Almost. If all goes well, Dangerous Mistakes will be available sometime in the next few weeks. But I hate missing deadlines, even self-imposed ones. So as I start on the third book, which I’ve been noodling around with in the back of my mind for a few weeks, I’m going to add a step to my preparation work.

I always set a general timeline for completing the first draft. This time I’m going to add a production timeline as well. And perhaps this third time will be the charm, and both the writing and the post-production schedule will come together as planned. I can but try.

 

 

Words are easy, communication is hard

Say it first, say it fast, say it funny was the way to break through the cacophony of seven kids in my family, all wanting to be heard. There were lively arguments and lots of laughter, and to this day no one can make me laugh more than my siblings on a roll.

My father was a warm and wise man with a dry sense of humor. He made us think and he made us laugh. He taught us by example about hard work and kindness, acceptance and endurance. He also drank too much. There were some times before he found AA that were pretty tough.  I learned that one way of coping was to mask all kinds of feelings with the funny. My siblings are the same way. To this day if the discussion gets too real, someone is sure to crack a joke, and we’re all sure to laugh.  I’m very comfortable with words. I’m sometimes less so with communication.

I know I’m not alone. Not everyone chooses humor to deflect painful emotions, but there isn’t anyone who doesn’t hide behind something—anger, insult, judgment, denial—at times, to avoid the scary vulnerability of honest conversation. We’re all programmed to protect our secret selves. Words are powerful. They can enrage, wound, obfuscate and separate. They can also calm, heal, clarify and unite.

Authentic communication, the kind that lets us really connect with each other, requires risk and a measure of trust. Neither of which I’m particularly good at. It’s too easy for me to substitute quips for compassion, and sarcastic remarks that override expressions of genuine feeling. I have resolved to work on it.

However, I know that a snark-free me is just not going to happen. It’s in the genes. I don’t want to take all the funny out. Should family gatherings suddenly become sticky puddles of  over sharing and supportive comments, I would find it more than a bit disconcerting. A touch of the “snarkastic”—my husband’s word combination of snark and sarcastic—among family and friends will always be welcome.

But I think it’s worth trying to  temper it a little, with some authentic communication, and run the risk, sometimes, of being vulnerable.