Susan Hunter's Blog, page 13

What Lies Beneath

   by  nme421 

I am a firm believer that beneath the conscious mind with which we move through the day making choices and taking action, there is a vast subconscious reservoir of wisdom, memories, experiences, fears and desires. It’s the source of what people often refer to as intuition, or gut instincts.For some, the voice that springs from their subconscious communicates in a clear and timely way. “Yes, take that promotion.” “No, don’t buy that house.” “Yes, join the Peace Corps.” But for me, it appears, my subconscious is much more lackadaisical, and I have ample evidence that it just doesn’t place that much value on timely advice.

For example, it once caused me to sit up in bed at 3 a.m. with the certainty that I had listed the wrong polling place and time for a local election in the news story I’d written. And it was absolutely right. But at that point, the paper was already printed and on its way to distribution points throughout the county. There was no website on which to issue a correction, no way to change the misinformation. Clearly my laid-back subconscious had registered the error at the time my deadline-driven conscious mind committed it. But it didn’t rouse itself to tell me until 10 hours later, when it was way too late to rectify the mistake.

Fortunately not all my ill-conceived actions are played out as publicly as on the front page of a newspaper. And yet even in the small arena of my personal life, my subconscious regularly fails to sound the alarm when it sees something amiss. After I’ve already put a batch of cookies into the oven, it sends a very clear message. “Hey, you forgot the baking soda.” Or when I’m 100 miles from home and heavy rain is predicted it mentions, “You didn’t shut the windows.”

To which I say, why tell me now? If you’re not going to spring into action before the disaster, then just be quiet.

It’s true that on occasion my subconscious has provided creative help, thrusting into my conscious mind a good lead for a newspaper story, or a tagline for an ad, or the perfect solution to a murder (fictional, of course). But most often when I am struggling with pros and cons in the real world, it doesn’t weigh in. It’s only after I’ve quit college, married someone I barely know and hitch-hiked to Nova Scotia that it pops in to say, “That way madness lies.”

A friend told me that my subconscious is talking, I’m just not listening. That could well be true, I suppose. But I know I’d be better able to hear that still, small voice if just once it said, “Don’t send that email,” before I hit reply all. Thus sharing snarky comments intended for just one friend with the entire group of people on the email list. Although maybe I should work more on not making snarky comments at all. Regardless, I will continue to be a believer in the concept of the unconscious, but a skeptic about my ability to tap into the wisdom that lies beneath conscious thought.

Make the sale

Some people are born for the sweet delight of sales, and some are born for the endless night of commissions unearned, raffle tickets unsold, and fund-raiser candy bars unsuccessfully unloaded. I belong to the latter group. In a movie from the early 90s, Glengarry Glen Ross, the uber-salesman portrayed by Alec Baldwin attempts to goad, intimidate and motivate a floundering group of salesman to close the deal on sites in a housing development. The mantra he urges on them is ABC: Always Be Closing.

In contrast, my mantra is:  DBA.  Don’t Bother Anybody.  Thus I am the worst book promoter ever. Dozens of articles and blogs written by encouraging, chatty, successful self-published authors exhort new writers to: post on Facebook; ask for reviews; use Twitter; set up a hashtag discussion; create a video book trailer; build a website; write a blog; use LinkedIn; try Pinterest; engage with other authors; set up guest posts on their blogs. All while you are writing your next book.

So far I have managed to set up a website, write an occasional blog that links to my Facebook page, and I have been known to beg for reviews. The rest is pretty much beyond my ken,  at least right now. I am as awkward about trying to sell my book as I was at trying to sell Holy Childhood Stamps to neighbors. Despite the fabulous prizes of books, rosaries, medals and plastic Virgin Mary statues, which I coveted as only fellow Catholic school alumni will understand, my sales numbers were pitiful, netting me at most, a consolation Holy Card.

And yet, promote my book I must. I have found a fairly painless method. A number of book sites designed to help showcase new ebooks for readers also offer their visitors the chance to opt-in to a daily email that notifies them about books in genres the reader likes. Most such sites require a fee from the author, as well as a deep discount to advertise a book on its email list. So this week, I’m promoting, yes, I said it, I’m promoting, Dangerous Habits in the Kindle format for .99.

If you haven’t read the book yet, or you know someone who might enjoy it, at less than $1, it’s not much of a risk. You can click here to go directly to the Amazon sales page.  Please pass the word. The sale lasts through March 8. Just remember my credo: Don’t Bother Anybody. And that is my Willie Loman hard-sell of the day, the week, and the month. At least.

Preventable Moments

A typical Preventable Moment

Recently, while working on my next book with a very full cup of hot tea sitting very close to my computer, I had a near brush with disaster. Both my computer and the tea survived. Sadly, such unnerving experiences are not rare in my life. But now I understand why they happen, thanks to a friend who labeled such disasters Preventable Moments.

It’s easier to illustrate by example than to explain.

So, the oatmeal is in a big, cylindrical Quaker Oats box on the top shelf of the cupboard. I stretch really far and can just touch the bottom of it with my fingertips. Do I think, “Oh, wait, I’ll get the step stool, so I can reach it easily and get a good grip on it?”

  No. I poke at the box with my fingers. I tap and claw at it, trying to jiggle it to the edge where it will tilt forward and I can catch it as it falls. That does not happen.  I tip the container, but it tilts forward so fast I can’t grab it. The box plummets to the floor, the top flies off and oatmeal spews on the tile, under the refrigerator, under the dishwasher and basically into every hard-to-get-to-place in the kitchen.

That, my friends, is a preventable moment. Had I just taken the extra five seconds to get the stool, I would have saved 15 minutes of kitchen cleanup and a big dose of frustration. I could have prevented the moment that led to disaster.

Though I understand the concept, I know I haven’t truly embraced it, because I just bought a purse with a shoulder strap. Experience tells me shoulder bags are fraught with danger for me. Shoulder straps hook on doorknobs as you are leaving a room. They catch on drawer handles and yank you unceremoniously back into your chair. And if you are in a hurry and hold your bag like a clutch purse, trailing the strap behind you, they can be deadly. Another illustration from my case files.

I am late for a meeting. I grab my purse and dash through the office, the shoulder strap hanging down and bouncing on the floor as I swing my arms to gain speed. Somehow, my heel catches in the looping strap. I do a lurching hopscotch across the office, trying to free my foot, flailing my arms for balance and flinging the contents of my purse hither and yon. A combination of profanity and pleading seems to work, and I do not land on my butt, but my dignity is badly damaged. Happily, there are no witnesses. But I know what I have done. I have ignored the principle of the preventable moment.

Why do I keep doing this? Because sometimes it works. Sometimes I climb the stairs carrying a full glass of iced tea in one hand, balancing a stack of books anchored by my chin in my other arm, while dangling a heavy plastic grocery bag painfully off my little finger. And nothing falls or spills, nor do I land sprawling in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. That one positive reinforcement of my poor judgment is enough to bring out the optimist in me. Buoyed by success, I gamble that I can beat the odds again and ignore the next dozen preventable moments with predictably bad results.

Will I ever stop positioning my beverage too close to my computer, stacking books higher than gravity allows, overestimating my ability to avoid tripping on bottom drawers I’ve left open? Probably not. But at least I’ll know that I’m not a victim of random bad luck. It’s all about the preventable moment.

 

Make the call

[image error]

friendship maintenance

I am not the best person at staying in touch. At every job I’ve ever worked there have been people who made difficult days easier, interminable meetings shorter, and unbearable bosses tolerable. When I’ve left, or they’ve left, I’ve always meant it when I said “Keep in touch.” But it takes work to maintain a friendship and I’m sorry to say that I exhibit a lot of laziness in this area.

New job demands, the next family crisis, or sometimes the introvert’s concern about intruding on another person can make me hesitate to get in touch. Then before I know it, so much time has passed that calling an old acquaintance starts to feel awkward. I worry about interrupting, or being an unwelcome bother, or sometimes — if it’s been long enough — if the person I remember so fondly will even remember my name.

Extroverts like my husband do not wrestle with such questions. For Gary, to think is to do. As soon as a friend he hasn’t talked to in a while crosses his mind, he puts action to thought and picks up the phone. He has the extrovert’s confidence that everyone will be delighted to see or hear from him, anytime. And they always are. Sometimes, when I think he is taking a quick nap, or balancing the checkbook, or working in the yard, I’ll discover that he’s been on the phone with an old acquaintance, checking to see how they’ve been for the last week, or month, or decade. If he is in an enforced period of solitude, as he was during recent recovery from some minor surgery, he’s good for three or four outreach calls a day. Thus he maintains a roster of friends that numbers in the thousands — or so it seems to me. At any rate, it’s a way longer list than mine.

Fortunately for me, I do have small circle of low maintenance friends. These are people I may not see, or talk to, or email for weeks, or months or sometimes even years. But whenever we do connect, there are no recriminations or apologies for lengthy gaps in communication. Instead, we slip right back into the easy camaraderie of common values and shared histories whether they stem from school, or college or work.

Last week I had lunch with a couple of people who fall into that category, and we talked well past the time when our waitress was hoping we would leave. We laughed, we confided a few worries and shared some disappointments, but mostly we had fun. It was the kind of connection that always makes me think, “I have to do this again, soon.”  But usually, I do not. However, I realize more fully as the years go by that we don’t have an infinite amount of time to connect. And an opportunity deferred may turn into an opportunity lost forever.

And so, though I have always depended on the kindness of low maintenance friends, I’m determined to put a little more effort into that maintenance. The next time I say “Let’s have lunch soon,” I won’t just mean it, I’ll actually make the call and do something about it.

 

 

This one’s for you, Aunt Helen

Aunt Helen’s tea

The holidays are a natural time for looking back, but I was struck today by how the unremarkable objects of everyday life can stir a flood of memories any day of the year.

Whenever I make a cup of tea and drop in an ice cube to bring it to drinkable temperature, I think of my husband’s Aunt Helen. For years I either scalded my throat with too-hot tea, or downed disgustingly tepid brews I’d set aside to cool, and then forgot. Until one day when I made a cup for Aunt Helen, and she asked me to put an ice cube in it. Sad, but true, that simple remedy had never occurred to me. But now whenever I use it, I think of Aunt Helen and remember not just her advice on tea, but her warmth, her laugh and the pleasure of her company.

The same holds true when I see a piece of chunky jewelry, particularly a bracelet with lots of beads and bangles. I immediately see my Aunt Barb, who liked to relax around the house in her night-time wear well into the afternoon, but always with her hair carefully coiffed, clip-on earrings in place and big, chunky jewelry on her wrist. And that leads me to remember not just her at-home fashion wear, but her extroverted personality, her wonderful cooking and her salty take on life.

The smell of paint and varnish takes me to my Dad’s garage, sitting on an overturned five gallon paint can, watching him refinish a piece of furniture, or repair a broken chair, or repurpose a discarded household object. He listened to me chatter, all the while working with large but gentle hands, preserving what was straight and true, smoothing out the rough spots, filling in the holes, creating something good that would be of use in the world. He did the same thing for all of his children, raising us with strength and kindness, helping us to see the value in things and in people, even when their surfaces are battered and broken. To me, paint and varnish still smell like love. 

On Christmas this year I ate a Santa Claus cookie made by my sister Barb, who bakes and decorates them just the way our mother used to. And of course I thought of Mom. How she painstakingly frosted the finely detailed cookie with an artist’s hand — dots of blue for the eyes, a smiling red mouth and bright spots of red for cheeks and nose, a white beard with a sprinkling of coconut. I remember how she always held back a few with plain frosting for my sister Tricia, who hated coconut, and in later years for my nephew Jake who dislikes it also. And I think of all the times Mom took the trouble to make things just right for each of us, in all kinds of ways and situations.

When I’m cooking, I never mince a clove of garlic without remembering my  friend Irene and how she cultivated everything — her vegetable garden, her flowers, her friendships, her family — with joy. I think of her gentle nature and her loving heart and I miss her. But I am so thankful that I had the happiness of knowing her.   

I hope this year to spend more time year building good memories for the people that I love. I hope you do, too. 

Irene’s garlic

  

Leave it to beaver

River Muse

I’ve reached the point in writing where nothing seems to work. My lead character is not being particularly helpful and the supporting characters aren’t behaving much better. Instead of moving the story along with smart insights and quick wit, Leah is meandering, talking too much, accomplishing too little and refusing to find a believable resolution to the current plot twist. Evan, the new publisher, is not working out. I may have to let him go.  Miguel seems somewhat off his game, and other minor players also seem to have lost their way. Clearly I have allowed my characters to lead me onto roads that are best left untraveled.

Unfortunately, there is no GPS for rerouting literary detours. As a result I’ve been hung up on the same chapter for more than a week, trying to get things headed in the right direction. My only comfort is the memory of being in a very similar position while working on my first book in the Leah Nash series. I found my way out of plot tangles by taking a break, and engaging in some river watching. I decided to apply the same method again.

The beaver I spotted last week playing on the ice swam back and forth in front of my window all morning. The river is open now, thanks to unseasonably warm temperatures, so he’s had nowhere nearby to land. A flock of diving ducks, mergansers, has been doing what looks like well choreographed water ballet, criss-crossing each other, diving sometimes in unison, sometimes solo, moving all the while in a widening pattern that has taken them from one side of the river to the other. This afternoon a huge flock of geese (I stopped counting at 100) zoomed in for a mass water landing and then at some secret signal all began honking and flapping their way back into the air, headed somewhere up river.

There’s an amazing variety of wildlife on the river, right within the city limits. I’ve captured photos of eagles, herons, egrets, otters, turtles, muskrats, woodchucks, five varieties of ducks, and multiple species of birds, and it’s very easy to pass the time just looking out the window. I recently put some of the photos together in a story book for Quinn, my grand-niece. It was a fun project and easy to do, much easier than writing a murder mystery. If you like you can check it out by clicking this link.

And so now I’m hoping that the beaver will become my new muse. The theory is that while I’m focused on watching him and his river neighbors, my unconscious will be busily sorting out my writing challenges. The next time I sit down with the intention of seriously moving ahead, all systems will be go. In the meantime I think I’ll catch a few more sunsets.

On leaving your comfort zone

Comfort zone

On any given night, particularly as the weather has grown colder and the darkness comes earlier, you can find me in my pajamas wrapped in a blanket on the couch, often by 6 p.m. and definitely no later than 7. However, in deference to my need to try and get my book “out there” and to get some traction in a very competitive world, I happily agreed some weeks ago to attend a book club in Troy, Michigan as the featured author.

Like many things I agree to that involve being dressed, sociable and away from home after 6 p.m., this seemed like a fine idea at the time. When the day actually came, I had second thoughts. Especially as the snowy weather and slippery roads promised a treacherous drive to Troy. Still, I had promised and I try to subscribe to the Horton Hears A Who credo in my life “I meant what I said, and I said what I meant. An elephant faithful, 100 percent.” So I went. To my delight and surprise it was almost more fun than sitting at home on the couch reading. I have to say almost because to an introvert like me, nothing will ever surpass a quiet evening at home.

Nine women left the comfort of hearth and home and braved  snow-covered streets to attend the Troy Newcomers Book Club. I was a little anxious that my contribution to the evening wasn’t sufficient to reward their efforts to get there. However, when I saw the desserts laid out for the meeting I felt better. I have found that really good refreshments can go a long way to make up for the minor disappointments of life. As for me, the entire evening exceeded my expectations.

It was a little odd, but very gratifying, to hear serious readers talk seriously about a book that I’d written. I loved that these intelligent, articulate women had engaged enough with the characters in my make believe world to love them, or hate them, or in some cases love to hate them. It was fun to hear different takes on situations and plot points in the novel, and I got some ideas I may put to use in the next book in the series. What I enjoyed most were the times when discussion of something in the book branched out into discussions of happenings in their own lives, or led to seeing parallels between book characters or events with “real world” happenings.

I realize that were I not there, some of the discussion might have focused more on the shortcomings of my book. But hey, I’m insecure enough to enjoy hearing only kind words, and all the members were very kind.

I enjoyed the evening very much. And it was a good reminder that sometimes when you do things that are a little outside of your comfort zone, it can actually be fun. Of course, not as fun as sitting on your couch. In your pajamas. With a book. And a bowl of mint chip ice cream. But still, a very good time.

Our travels now are ended

My husband Gary and I recently finished two long car trips, one to Wisconsin the other to New Jersey, separated by only a week or so. As a result I have come to know something about myself. To wit:  I like being someplace a lot more than I like going someplace.

The drive to Wisconsin was about eight hours long. To New Jersey, about 13 — though with some negotiating, we agreed on a two-day split for our East Coast journey. My maximum sell-by date during a car trip is about six hours. As the minutes ticked past the six-hour mark, Gary was subjected to increasingly bad-tempered commentary on how to drive, which turn to take, and queries as to why is it so hot? when are we going to eat? and are we ever getting there? I can combine the tenacious whininess of a 3-year-old with the verbal skill of an adult. Believe me, that is not a travel companion you want on the seat next to you.

Part of my dislike for long car trips is simply impatience with the close confines of a car, the frustration of road construction and the terror caused by other drivers, often in large trucks, who seem bent on testing my defensive driving skills. But mostly it’s that when I sit in a car for a long trip, I can see what I choose to ignore during my every day routine. As the miles slip away, time slips away and every curve in the road we leave behind, every hill we crest, every road we choose not to take are reminders of the way life changes and we move on – or get left behind. It’s not the length of the journey, it’s the shortness of life that bothers me.

Which is probably why I like getting home so much, where I can slip back into the routines that shape my day and fall back into the illusion that I hold time in my grasp, and not the other way around.

And so now that I’m home, am I making productive use of my time? Well, I’ve started seriously cranking out pages in the next Leah Nash mystery – tentatively titled and always subject to change, Dangerous Secrets. My self-assigned requirement is five pages a day – which doesn’t sound like much, I know. And truly some days it isn’t, and I blow right past that number. But then there are the bad days, when I spend six hours at the computer, barely eke out my allotted five pages, and most of them aren’t very good.

For me, starting a book requires a period of thinking and imagining and some research into whether what I’ve come up with is actually possible in real life. Then I let the ideas percolate in my subconscious for awhile, before I kick them around with family and friends. That stage of writing is pretty fun because it’s all brainstorming and possibilities. It might go something like me saying  “Ok, so and so gets killed, and then blah, blah, blah, someone’s dad is in an accident and blah, blah, blah,  and then it turns out that the killer is really the mayor, and blah, blah, blah, and in the end he can save himself or confess and save his wife.”

The really hard part comes when I have to fill in the gaps between my big picture ideas and the details I need to link story lines together. And that’s where I am now. And it’s way harder for me to write actual, plausible words and action then it is to say “blah, blah, blah.” But, I’m committed to doing the hard stuff. Unless, of course, someone distracts me with the offer of a road trip. At this stage in the process, six hours in front of a blank computer screen can actually make six hours in the car seem appealing.

 

When bad things happen, start swimming

Last week I had  a day when nothing went right, and everything took way longer than it should.  I tried three times to complete an online insurance form, only to have the website shut down each time. Then I spent half an hour on the phone with the company trying to get an answer, but was cast repeatedly into an automated phone attendant loop, like an escapee from Groundhog Day. Next I spent an hour, not the 20 minutes I’d allocated, getting a flu shot at a local pharmacy. And on and on the day went in a series of frustrations large and small to which I responded with neither grace nor equanimity.

It didn’t help – because I’m not a very nice person – that my husband was having a very happy, productive day where everything he touched fell into place and all obstacles were lifted from his path. Instead of rejoicing in his good fortune, I just got crabbier. At 4:30 I realized that I had not worked for even 10 minutes on what I had gotten out of bed early that morning planning to do.

So I stopped trying. I put away all thoughts of book writing and turned to a photo project that I’ve been working on for a few months. I started looking through the pictures I had and when I came to the one below, it reminded me of the river drama that had unfolded the day I took it.

I’d been sitting at my desk staring out the window (not all my unproductive days are the result of external misfortune, some just spring from laziness). I saw a hawk land on the dock at the end of our backyard, and I jumped up and took this photo.

Right after I got the picture,  all hell broke loose.

With a lightning quick move the hawk launched into the air, then did an amazing high-speed, almost vertical drop, down to the river. He rose carrying a prize in his claws – a little bird that wriggled and writhed in what seemed like a doomed escape attempt. But as I watched, both fascinated and horrified, the bird twisted out of the hawk’s grasp and fell back into the water. I ran to the river’s edge. Just as I reached the bank I sensed something behind me. I turned to look in time to see an eagle swoop over my head, headed for the small bird. Something – maybe my sudden movement into the line of the eagle’s downward trajectory – threw him off his game. He veered away,  leaving his would-be prey to swim another day.

And swim she did, with an odd, herky-jerky style, in loopy circles, round and round for several minutes. Her day had definitely not gone as planned. I stayed on the bank watching her and taking pictures. Several times she attempted to climb up on some rocks, only to slip back into the water and flap about before making another wobbly approach to stable ground. On the fourth attempt she made it.

I moved in to get another photo, but finally realized that my large human presence was probably even more alarming to her than the two predator birds that tried to make dinner of her had been. I left her in peace.                                                .

As I looked at the photos again yesterday, I thought about that bird, going about her daily bird rounds, when out of nowhere a hawk snatched her away from her happy bird life. She didn’t give up, even though the hawk was many times larger and stronger than her. She twisted and turned and gave it her best shot. Wonder of wonders, it worked.

But she didn’t even have time to recover, let alone celebrate, before an even bigger predator zeroed in on her. Now that’s having a bad day. When the danger unexpectedly passed, she started swimming again. Not in any particular direction at first, but she was moving. And really if you’re going to stay afloat in life, what else can you do?

Things large and small swoop down on us daily. Sometimes they come so fast they knock us right off course, sometimes they just bump us around a little. The solution for peace of mind is to remember that when things go wrong – things usually of far less consequence to me than the predator-prey drama I witnessed – just keep swimming. Sooner or later I’ll get back on course.

 

 

 

Eight Million Stories

This week I was reminded of something I first learned years ago when I was a reporter. Everybody has a story. Sometimes it’s a fun story – like the woman who met Paul Simon’s brother while she was wandering around a venue hours before the concert started, and got invited backstage. Sometimes it’s a  scary story, like the man who was camping alone in the Porcupine Mountains when a bear invaded his campsite. And sometimes it’s a really sad story, like the woman who was separated from her baby brother when she was 10, and spent a lifetime trying to find him.

My husband Gary is a man of many stories. He’s served in the Army, worked as a teacher, a school administrator, a firefighter, business manager at a university, traveled extensively and never met a person he didn’t enjoy talking to. He often doesn’t recall the exact details, but it never stops him from telling the tale. Not so long ago, we were watching an old movie from the 1940s. It prompted him to tell me a story that happened years before I knew him. He was on a plane seated next to a woman who “used to be really famous.”  Because he is almost completely devoid of interest in popular culture or bygone celebrities, he didn’t recognize her. She introduced herself and explained that she was flying to Michigan to be honored at an event and that she had retired and made only limited public appearances. They chatted and at the end of the flight she gave him her autograph. He tucked it in his pocket, forgot about it and at some point lost it or threw it away.

Watching the The Farmer’s Daughter  with me reminded him of the incident, because the female lead was the woman he’d met on the plane. “That’s who it was, Loretta Young. The woman on the plane.” Impressed, because I’m a fan of old movies, I grabbed his arm and said “You sat next to Loretta Young?!” He hesitated for just a fraction of a second before saying yes. But it was long enough for me to flash on other confidently told Gary stories that have a fact-based core, but often dubious supporting details.

Upon repeated questioning he gradually acknowledged that it might not have been Loretta Young, it may not have been on a flight to Michigan, but it was definitely someone famous. That I believe. But whether it was Loretta Young, Loretta Lynn or Coretta Scott King, is lost to the ages.

What got me started on this story train of thought was a visit this week with my dad’s favorite cousin. At 90 Lois is lovely and kind and lively. She still works part-time in the family business. And she has many stories to tell. Her husband was in the Air Force and she and their children lived with him and traveled in many parts of the world.

“I fell madly in love with John when I was in high school, and I was lucky enough to have him for more than 50 years. I don’t watch much television, but when I see a travel show sometimes I think, ‘Oh, we walked on that street,’ or ‘Oh, I’ve been to that spot before.’ We danced on the beach at Ipanema once. We had so much fun that night.”

What made that simple reminiscence so striking to me was the flash of insight it gave me into a Lois very different from the one I know. I saw her for an instant not as a settled, grounded person of my parents’ generation, but as a giddy young girl, and as woman with experiences and memories of romance and adventure. She’s still warm and steady Lois to me, but now she’ll also be the girl who fell madly in love, the happy wife who spent a romantic evening dancing on the beach. Our stories embody and enrich our lives and when we share them they can enrich the lives and insights of others as well.

A police procedural movie from the 1940s, later a TV show, The Naked City, closed with this line “There are eight million stories in the Naked City. This has been one of them.” This week I’m going to listen for a new story. I hope you do, too.