Sense Memory

Autumn.

Pumpkin spice everything, leaves, Halloween candy, and the cozy clothes we all packed away in the spring. Except for you Florida folks as you have neither spring nor fall. The time of year when we all pick up a few pounds because the food is so good and so plentiful at the same time the weather becomes less friendly. It's so much easier to curl up on the couch.

So I took my dog for an extra long walk the last few days. We went a few blocks farther, exploring new streets. B loves it. SO many new smells, new neighborhood dogs, new squirrels, new places bunnies might hide. I also like exploring new places and feeling less guilty about the cookies I had instead of a real breakfast. (They were freshly baked and warm and hey - am I made of stone? Clearly not.)

Earlier this year, I spent a semester working with the wonderful Jennifer Vanderbes.  She encouraged the use of particular details to tie a scene to reality for the reader. A color or some other sensory image that gives the reader enough to fill in their own imagination around it without doubting the scene's authenticity. For me, the sensory detail isn't the beautiful colors, although they are breathtaking. I've included some images so my Florida friends can follow along since this is completely foreign.

Right?  So this is breathtaking and all, but it's not my detail of choice. This weekend, my neighbors were out in their yards raking leaves, mulching, getting in one last lawn mow, and edging before winter comes. (I really need to do all that stuff too, better get on that) Anyway, one of my favorite smells is freshly cut grass.  The grass here and the soil it grows in smell completely different from anywhere else I've lived. There's the damp earth, with a little clay, and the wild onions that permeate the lawn. I am reminded of my childhood years here, of basements and their exterior access steps with iron railings, of brick houses, of Japanese maples, of flagstone patios, and of my grandparents.

It's distinct and rich and immediate.

Florida grass is completely different, although also pleasant. The grass is often the very coarse St. Augustine, springy and dense, and excellent cover for ants. It surrounds the swimming pools of my youth and brings to mind summer (nine months of the year), the smell of chlorine, the breezes on screened porches, and citrus and pine trees.

North Carolina has rich red clay, the smell of Lake Gaston which is always mixed with a bit of boat engine exhaust (not as unpleasant as it might seem, it reminds of summers water skiing, and lazy afternoons sipping wine on the pontoon boat in a slow tour of the lake), horseshoe pits, and barbecue chicken, ever so slightly overcooked.

Back to Maryland. At the first hint of chilly weather, the scent of wood burning fireplaces joins the symphony of outdoor aromas. Cinnamon brooms and pine cones decorate, apple and cranberry candles burn, my neighbors and I bake as it is now cool enough to justify the oven time, and we are just breaths from the scent of Christmas trees.

So as I wrap up the final chapters of my WIP knowing that I will just start again at the beginning to refine, solidify, rearrange, and complete with those sensory details, I think about which details bring my own world to life so that I can gift that same richness to my characters.

May your holiday season be full of rich, sensory details of your own. May you be able to transport back to this season with warm, nostalgic feelings tied to tastes sweet and savory, delicious aromas, the textures worn, the beautiful leaves and seasonal decorations, and the sounds of close friends and family unique to your experience.

Happy Holidays!

Sex and the Single Girl

I'm no Helen Gurley Brown - not even a Natalie Wood for those of you who saw the film, but I have spent many years navigating relationships, both real and fictional, as a single woman. And I've written about relationships for single female characters.  The writing part is just as hard as the  real-life dating part. And, if you can believe it, sometimes way more awkward. So I decided to do some research.

My MFA program requires a third term essay - twenty five pages on some aspect of craft that should assist my literary efforts. I chose as my title Characters Behaving Badly: Writing Uncomfortable Scenes of Sex and Violence.  Right?  Sex scenes are difficult to write well. They just sound awkward or cheesy or just awful. I refer you to the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy if you doubt me, with all of Anastasia's inner goddess moments. (I will say, however, that in spite of the  book's flaws - and there are so, so many - that they sparked so much healthy conversation about sex, what's considered normal or erotic or out of bounds, along with a generous dose of curiosity, that I can't hate on them too much. Plus, the movie trailer looks hot.)

There were fewer resources for writing good sex scenes than scenes of violence, and the ones I did find were not really academic in nature. When you boil it down, though, the advice for writing both were more or less the same. In most cases, less is more, although you want to evoke a reaction. Clearly not the same reaction, but inspiring an emotional response with words is what we writers strive for. Also, how a character (or a human, single woman) deals with crime or fear or injustice tells as much as how they would interact with lovers or friends or spouses. Are they comfortable talking about it? Are they natural reactions to stress? For writers like me who tell crime stories, talking about violence is a necessity. And characters exposed to violence are likely to seek out human connection as a method for dealing with that violence, especially if there is looming danger. Carpe diem and all. So I have to practice until it becomes a skill, just like any other.

I've been blessed with great writing mentors, especially in this program, but finding mentors for one's real life is so much harder. I've mentioned in an earlier blog post that following advice from sources like Cosmopolitan or - God help you - HBO leads nowhere but disaster. Seriously. Friends might be helpful, but in the U.S. we aren't so great about communicating or educating about sex. There's Google - good luck with that. We tend to rely upon experience, so that's a lottery we might win or lose. We also tend to have completely skewed ideas about what other people are doing or know or consider normal or kinky or off limits. Finding one's way requires some trust, some courage, some luck, and some help. Please don't rely entirely on 50 Shades! Instead, take a look at this series of youtube videos that both answer way more questions than you thought you had and also can provide some insight for characters who may have different experiences, needs, issues, or assumptions from your own. Let your characters be their own people with believable critical detail. Because that critical detail is what makes the scene, no matter what  story you are telling.

Sexplanations - Bring Your Sexy Back

On a side note - I'm not terribly prudey. I think more knowledge is better than less in most cases. I think questions are usually a good idea although please see my note about context and consent below.  If you are not comfortable with sex, don't have it. If you aren't comfortable writing about it, don't do it unless it furthers your story. Don't add it for the sake of a writing checklist. And, although I understand sex as a natural expression of emotion or intimacy or release of tension between real people, I also understand that this has to be case for both parties. Consent is real and should extend to others being okay with even the discussion of sex, especially out of context. So don't assume it's fine with your coworker or your friend or even your date to launch into detail about what you do or don't do in the bedroom or on the dining room table while having coffee or lunch or even drinks in a bar. Know your audience people! On the other hand, it's hard for people to talk about it, so if someone comes to you for information, for guidance, even if the topic is uncomfortable (this could apply to so many topics), please consider speaking frankly and with understanding if you can. People are driven to desperate acts in the absence of support and information. Sometimes listening without judgment is the best help out there. Try and remember that we are all stupid and crazy and blind and brave and afraid when in love. Don't shortchange yourselves or the characters you write from the same richness of experience.

Happy writing, and if you are out there in the dating pool - best of luck to you! If you are a writer and looking for a good program, check out University of Tampa's low residency program here.

Fear of Commitment and Storybook Endings

My phobia list, although short, is pretty well-known in my circle. Bees, bears, and commitment. Yeah. The first two are self-explanatory (and TOTALLY understandable), but the last one is misinterpreted all the time. It's not about relationships. It's not fear of marriage or boyfriends or dating. It's about choosing a road and staying on it to the end when turning around isn't really an option. It's why I don't have a tattoo. I'd never be able to choose one and commit to it for life. Plus - ouch!

Sometimes, my heart moves too fast for my head to react and I  - oh, I don't know - quit my job and move to another state. But usually, I tend to make decisions carefully. I made color boards and surveyed coworkers and friends before choosing the samples I would paint all over my house, months before I needed a decision. I wanted to make sure I saw them in all light. So, yeah - committing to a paint color for my living room took months.

But it means that when I choose, I've probably weighed it out. Thought it through. I'm sure.

Or I've just made a wild ass guess.

Which brings me to storybook endings. Because it's time for me to choose one. For my book.

I've had an inkling about how I wanted to wrap things up for awhile. By inkling, I mean I knew who I was going to make the villain (no spoilers!) but I hadn't really worked out the details. I haven't committed to an ending.

But it's time. I am working through my last chapters and I am forced to choose, to make resolutions, to tie up loose ends I threw in, sometimes by picking from my crazy idea board. (see previous related post) Committing to an ending seems like a big deal, not only because I really don't want to fuck this all up after all the work I've done, but because it's the ending.   Not 'happily ever after' exactly, but I want it to satisfy. I want it to work.

Writers catch a lot of flak about revising things to death. We tend not to be satisfied with our own work, so we tweak it over and over and over. In a way, I'm blessed with some laziness, so the neverending loop of rewrites isn't really on my radar, because that would be exhausting. Of course, that means that I occasionally find errors way after I print or publish or submit, but so it goes.

But choosing an ending is big. And I'm too lazy to write five and see how I feel about them all over the next three months, so this one might come down to a wild ass guess.  Wish me luck!

Memory lane has been digitized

I updated my iPhone's software this week and was surprised when I synched it back to my laptop to see that I was using most of the memory for stuff other than music. So over the last few days, I started looking through my photo files and deleting the duplicates, the accidents, the blurry takes, and the pics I won't need again - like the snap of the schedule for last week's faculty meetings so I could figure out where to go.

I haven't gotten all the way through the pics, but I did go through voicemails once I realized that I never delete those. They aren't kept for any good reason. It's not like I'm going to hunt back for a random missed call recording. I deleted almost all of them Almost all. I kept a few from people I may not hear much from anymore. For the sound of their voices. Which leads me to the text messages.

Another area I never deleted. Until today. I saved my messages from only two people. Most of the others were "hey, I'm outside" or "Meet you at 6" or things like that, so it's no disrespect to the authors that freed up that space. But the other two are different. One is starting to battle a serious illness and she is frightened. I send her messages regularly, mostly silly things meant only as a distraction and to let her know that I care. What else can I do?

The other is the entire chat history between me and a friend I met a little over a year ago. Every message between us since May 2013. I read them all today all the way back to the beginning and remembered how I felt sending them, receiving them. The entire human experience is there - our whole relationship as it unfolded. These are not messages coordinating rides or dinner plans. This is the digital history of the last year of my life. They are playful at times, concerned, angry, affectionate, sad, compassionate, informative, and kind. They are human - real. And they contain my history as much as they do for my friend. What we worried over late at night, what we did, where we went, what was going on in our lives that peripheral to the relationship with each other. There are favors and concessions, laughter and genuine caring. I read these today and remembered. Especially the kindnesses. Because what else is more worth remembering? What else could be more important?

When communication breaks down, when we lose touch with one another, or we let past differences or misunderstandings divide us from those we love, or when we lose dear ones to circumstances beyond our control, I am grateful for the ability to go back and remember when we believed each other to be special, extraordinary, to remember the kindnesses both given and received. My kindnesses were genuinely and freely given without expectation and those memories are healing in a world that moves too fast without regard for our plans or desires.

Some people will pass in and out of our lives and some will linger. I hope the ones who might be on the fence about sticking around can also remember the kindnesses they shared. I am a better person for knowing them. And anyone who inspires others to be their best deserves a place at the table for many years to come.

Songs, Psychology, Sorrow, and Taking it Slow

What started as a creative exercise last fall - a challenge to see if I could write cohesive lyrics that might fit a song - turned into a distraction, even an obsession, that occupied my evening hours in fits and starts since. I found a way to channel what can only be described as an overflow of feelings into something that felt intellectual, creative, and less intense than my life. When I showed these scribblings to friends, their responses were not what I expected. They blushed like they'd been caught with my diary. Even though I explained that these were inspired by what I was feeling - overfeeling, really - I just took that as a concept and I tried to build it into something separate from my personal life, something that could stand on its own. Still, in a year of loss, most of these songs were about longing, dashed hopes, missed opportunities, and the uncertainties of a murky future. Here's a snippet of one I called My Friends:

Disappointment I have met before

I’ve been let down, I’ve watched the door

Honey, you sure can be sweet,

But I’m going to need so much more

Yeah, kind of a downer, right? I probably wrote 15 - 20 of these until I started to feel like Lili Taylor's character in Say Anything with her 63 songs about Joe, so I stopped.  Just stopped altogether. I had  and have plenty of other things I should be focusing on anyway. I have a book to finish, reading for school which seems nearly endless, and there are always projects around the house. Throw in a new puppy and the song notebook is all but forgotten.

And then...

Life doesn't care whether you are ready or if you can handle it - you get what you get. I had a couple of swift reminders that I should not take any of this for granted because it can end in a second. So, while I was at my residency, all juiced up on creativity, writing like a fiend all outside of my comfort zone, I wrote another one called Muscle Memory and passed it along to a couple of musically oriented fellow students. It came to me out of the blue, the title from a poem in our required readings. After all the time that passed since my last lyrics and all my efforts to focus my attention elsewhere, this song reads back just as intensely personal as any I had written before.

I read back through the glut of songs in various stages of completion when I returned home. Most of them are really awful. True, heartfelt, but terrible. But not all.  I sent another one over to my friends and we'll see if anything comes of it. I have three more started, though I don't know if they will go anywhere. So why do I continue?  Maybe it is like my diary, only not really mine, because I really don't write them about me in a literal sense. I start with a feeling or a concept and build it into something that is no longer mine. Maybe it's my way of working through this overflow. Because I feel overwhelmed most days. And there's no sign that the universe is going to slow its roll anytime soon. I find that I have to think about my days one at a time. Like they tell people in AA. One day at a time. Don't hang too many hopes on tomorrow, just do what you can today. I am a battered-by-life optimist who is struggling to temper my expectations of others and myself.

I fight to stay positive for my friends who face unimaginable sorrow, frightening disease, and all manner of daily stresses. My flood of emotion pales in comparison to their bravery and hurt. Right now they need me to be their friend. And I try to move forward, knowing it's what my friends want for me. I try. They are watching me closely though, because they sense that this is not what I want. It feels like lying. And so, one day at a time. I'm balancing between what I feel I should do and what I know I should do. And my heart, it has muscle memory - still. For now, Lili Taylor is my sister. For now. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

Life is a beach...if you are lucky

I had a birthday this weekend. Those numbers are creeping up there and I'm surprised at how little it seems to relate to me. I traveled over the holiday with a friend I've known since we were twelve years old. We've seen each other at our most awkward, at our most beautiful, through the loss of loved ones, through triumph and failure, and all sorts of change. What hasn't changed is that we continue to build a shared story, one that is a near unending source of material for ribbing each other. I tease her about cats, shopping, and her ability to get injured in the most benign of places. I swear she could have an accident in a pillow store. She teases me about the stupid machine in casinos that pushes quarters toward a ledge in gravity defying dance of frustration, my irrational fear of bears, and my weakness for balding men. (I have a theory about extra brain cells crowding out hair follicles and I can't resist a brainy man, especially if he has a sense of humor and appreciates mine.)

Our birthdays are three weeks apart, hers first, then mine, so I get to go on about being younger every May and I do. I'll probably continue until we are ancient because now it's expected, it's tradition. I have no doubt that we will still be friends. Some years, we wait to celebrate our birthdays until we are together, as we did this year. Usually, I go for the smartass card or any that I find about cats. My friend has a wide array of things to tease me about, but this year, she chose sincerity. I've had a difficult year and I'm afraid it shows, like it does when I'm happy or angry or amused. I've never been good at poker.

I am grateful for my friends - all of them. Sometimes you just know instantly that you click and sometimes it creeps up, but I've been fortunate to know some extraordinary people and I am the better for it. I used to be much more cavalier about the people flowing in and out of my life. I was proud of my independence. I worked hard not to get too attached. I actually believed the crap in Cosmopolitan. God help the girls who hope to live life like Sex in the City. The truth is that human connection is all that we have. Even when it doesn't work out like we hope.

I spent the weekend chatting up fellow travelers of all backgrounds, temperaments, economic strata, and cultures and it was invigorating. It was sunny, the water was that exquisite range of turquoise to mallard blues, there were rummy frozen drinks, and food every two hours. I worked on my tan. I wore a bikini and was photographed in it without shame. I read three novels. Still, I caught myself thinking about how much a recent friend would enjoy it, how much fun his daughter would have, how exciting it would be to see a place so different from home, and how much I would have enjoyed being part of that. But I can't fall into the what-if game. And I can't go back, it seems, to my cavalier youth where there was comfort in the superficial. I've been reminded too often lately that every moment must be appreciated, savored, shared. I no longer have the luxury of ignorance or denial.

So, I will engage. I will meet and greet. Without looking for anything, I will chat up strangers again, make connections, make new friends, enrich an already bounteous circle and maybe someday, one of them will choose to follow me to white sands and aqua seas. And maybe I'll be okay with that.

Little Ms Fix-it

I was a project manager even before I was one in any recognized sense. I have always thrived when tackling a large challenge, breaking it down into manageable pieces, setting a sequence, looking for opportunities along the way - you must know people like me. We are the ones who plan vacations, help with weddings, are good in a crisis, whatever.  Our houses are a mess if that's any consolation.

Perhaps you are thinking that this skill must come in handy as a writer - not so much. I can't seem to manage my own things as well, except for my home improvement projects. My novel still has generous amounts of panic, despair, and obscene amounts of caffeine fueling it on its way to haphazard completion.

Anyway, the thoughts that keep me up at night are almost always crazy plans for how I could fix problems. Most of those problems are imagined, by the way - but they might happen and so, I ponder while watching the ceiling fan do laps. These internal conversations start in one of the following ways:

What if I... (called, introduced, emailed, bought, and so on)
Would it be weird if I.... (it only gets stranger)
I guess I could...(for the way-out-there stuff)

In case you are wondering what kind of stuff floats around inside my cranium, here is a doozy from last year. When someone dear to me was concerned about losing his house, I was thinking "not while I have an extra kidney and there is a black market" so you see, it's not always rational.

It's no coincidence that my better ideas often come to me just as I am trying to sleep. My mind really works when I am forced to decide if I should turn on the light (or not) and get the notebook from the nightstand. That notebook has all sorts of random thoughts, some poetry, some story ideas, and some stern admonitions to myself. Their readability often depends on whether I skipped the light. The message from last night:

I have to squelch my problem solving instincts. I can't fix this.

Ahh, the larger problems in life! I have had to continually remind myself that I have to let a few things go - even if they didn't work out like I wanted, even if I was sure that I was right, or if I had a workable plan (probably conceived late a night while watching the ceiling fan spin lazily), and even if I believe for the moment that if I could just (fill in the blank), that my life would be perfect, I would be happy, and maybe Diane Lane would play me in the movie of my life.

I have found that if I can divert my attention to other things (please, let that be my novel!!! Or cleaning my house - that would work too) that life has a way of evening out. Today's crisis is tomorrow's conversation point. Or plot point. Or both. But I can't armchair manage the planet, so I do the best I can.

Until it's time to let go.

Fear, Anxiety, Writing, and Life

I'm not sure that I react to fear in a healthy way.  It's usually with anger, even rage. All of my "fuck you" instincts tend to rush to the surface when I'm frightened. I'm not a "cower in the corner" kind of girl. I'm much more likely to veer toward rash action.

This makes me the LAST person you might want to throw a surprise party for, as I might accidentally punch you in the face before I register that this is supposed to be a celebration, not a home invasion. For sure, I'm going to be pissed. And not in a fun, hey-we-got-you kind of way. More like you're-an-asshole-and-I-don't-like-you-anymore. Proceed at your own risk.

But fear is a real part of life. My top three phobias - bees, bears, and commitment - don't tend to impact my day to day all that much, except in the summertime when I mow the grass, and stuff is blooming, and the pollen is everywhere, the shrubs and grass hum...

Excuse me while I shudder with my whole body.

I've learned to live with these little distractions. But the things we don't see coming, the things that no one prepares for, are what tend to drive fight or flight response. Like the sudden death of a friend or family member. Or a serious illness out of nowhere that devastates a family or changes any plans for the future that might have previously been someone's sanity life raft. I don't tend to have many long term plans in the best of circumstances, but even I feel the pressure, the fear, when bad things appear to threaten whatever future I envisioned. I tend to seize the moment. And the ice cream.

So last year, a scary, scary time, I put on 20 pounds. I could blame Ben and Jerry, but it was my saying fuck you to eating healthy (which did not seem to serve my friend all that well - cancer could care less if you were a pescetarian and did yoga) when there was pleasure to be had in the form of frozen dairy deliciousness. Happily, I have shed that, but the attitude remains. I've never been inclined to tolerate much bullshit and I'm even less likely to exercise patience with people who are loose with the truth or incapable of being genuine. I half-jokingly told my boss earlier this evening that I hoped this wasn't professionally debilitating. The fact that I would even have that conversation with my boss makes my point.

I try to live as well as I can, as real as I can, since I know that at any time, I could fall victim to brain tumors, or leukemia, or random acts of Baltimore violence, or bear attack, or whatever. I tend not to worry about small anxieties too much. I was in a car with someone not that long ago, and he made a self-deprecating remark about his appearance. He tried to make it a joke, but I could tell that this really was a sore subject. I was stunned, both because I find this man to be more than passably attractive and because it is so pointless to fret about physical characteristics we can't control. Like the shape of an ear or a nose or how feet look or whatever. In fact, I think it's the imperfections about others that are the details we grow to love. The things that are distinctly theirs separate them from the sea of humanity. Own your differences, don't let them give you ulcers. Plenty of other ways the universe can screw you up, no need to help it along.

I have found my nervousness level to be a good barometer when I'm not sure what to do. If I'm a little afraid that I can't do it - that is absolutely the direction I choose. If it's too safe, I'm bored before I start. This is true of jobs, of creative projects, and certainly of men. It's not the bad boys - it's the ones that make us feel a little uncertain that we can cope or keep up or understand.  Maybe we aren't smart enough or cool enough or talented enough - maybe it could all go horribly wrong. Job or man or project - I'm in. Kryptonite. But it's paid off with experiences I could never have planned for including time as an Imagineer (life changing opportunity to work with and know some of the most creative people in the universe), travel opportunities (sailing on a tall ship in the Caribbean), and the boldness to dare to be a novelist. It doesn't all work out. I fail big sometimes. Karaoke in Atlanta after moonshine might have been painful to hear and I can find ten ways to screw up a relationship (see phobia #3 above) but passion is not a bad approach compared to the alternative. I can't seem to be too passive about my life.   It seems an invitation for fate to snatch it away and fate will have to wrestle it out of my fingers if any nasty surprises come my way. I'm likely to punch fate in the face before I can determine if it's celebration or home invasion.

The Crazy Idea Board

I'm not a very effective outliner. I've tried, really I have, but the sticky notes and the color coded spreadsheets really only tell me where I've been. They have been moderately helpful with remembering what I called characters from chapters past, but no help whatsoever in working out where to go next.

Isn't that always the way? Aren't we all trying to figure out what to do next? I have an idea about where my characters will end up eventually, but a whole lot of nothing about how to get them there and keep my readers along the way. So, I keep a "crazy idea board." On it, are things like (Spoiler alert):

Gina's mother shows up
Mark disappears
Assistant chef has secret past
Could Gina be adopted? 
Affair with former boss - baby?
Did Marisol's young lover return?

You get the idea. I threw a bunch of items from the crazy idea board into Chapter 11 as the hook to get to Chapter 12.  When it came time to make sense of that mess, I had my work cut out for me! But, the beauty of fiction is that we don't want it to be too real, so I didn't over explain. And it's not only perfectly legitimate to hint at wild red herrings, it's expected, even necessary, so I may have gone a little crazy. I will have plenty of time to even out the cray cray once my draft is done.

The sad part is no matter how nuts I get in one chapter, the "what happens next" problem is back again when it's time to write the next one. If I throw the kitchen sink at every chapter, It will be all Dan Brown like, and not in the this author is a gazillionaire kind of way. In any case, demand is nearly always ahead of supply so I'm always looking for inspiration for the crazy idea board. My friends and coworkers are both hopeful and afraid that things that they say or do might end up in my stories. One office colleague even accused me of basing things entirely on a thinly veiled version of real people I know from work - an interesting thought since she has never read a word of my work and has no idea what it is about. It was a little fun to tell her that I write mysteries and figure out ways to kill (fictitious) people in ways that makes it hard to catch the killer. Enter awkward silence and nervous laughter...

Anywhoooo...I think the crazy idea board is a good idea for real life. It's not too difficult to get complacent, become too comfortable with the day to day and suddenly a year goes by, then two, then - holy crap! I've worked here eight years!  I've lived here nine years! I haven't seen/been to/tried/dared to (fill in the blank) in ages!

I'm not really a bucket list girl, at least not in any organized way, but I do believe that we should strive to make our short time here count - for ourselves and the ones we love. What's on my personal crazy ideas board? Here are a few things:

Speak better French (C'est tres bien!)
See the English countryside (land of the classic Bristish mystery)
Publish my own mystery novel
Write song lyrics that don't suck
Visit the Pacific Northwest/Yosemite/Grand Canyon/Alps
Visit France beyond Paris

You get the idea. This list is so much more important than the "Stuff I Did" board because it's about  tingly, scary, exciting possibilities.  Zing!  Sometimes stuff crops up that should have been on my crazy idea board only it happened before I had a chance to plan for it. That works! Make time and room for a little crazy now and then. Without it, life is bland - just time passing - and the soul stagnates. Who wants to read that story?

Lemons, Wellness, and Pie with Friends

I wrote a Facebook post last year (which I can't easily find, shouldn't they have a search function? Dammit - I might have been incredibly eloquent and now I can't find it!) in which I said that the phrase "Everything happens for a reason" or any of the religious or secular versions of this idea are all bullshit. I said that we tell ourselves this lie so that when bad things happen, we can give ourselves solace that it wasn't our fault, that everything will work out, that when God closes a door, he opens a window.  What? This thinking inevitably leads to living in the never-happened past, the "what if" world instead of dealing with the "right-now" one.

What difference does it make, really, when you are upset, or disappointed, or devastated, or tormented with grief, whether your circumstances makes sense to someone else? It seems a thin hope that you will look back one day and have some epiphany about how bad things or speed bumps forced changes that led you to new places.  Of course they did! But even good things - unexpected wonderful gifts - lead us into new frames of mind, make us see the world anew, make us smile more, treat each other with grace and kindness, because we are happy. And when we are happy, we want everyone to be happy too.  Even the assholes. Because if they spent a little more time in genuine joy, they spend a little less time irritating the rest of us. (Feel free to steal that Hallmark.) We are moving forward all the time, whether we think we are or not.

So, even though I understand this in concept, it doesn't mean that I live it like Buddha. None of us can, except maybe the Dalai Lama, but I bet even he gets a little cranky from time to time. (Another gem for the greeting card industry, you're welcome.)  I've applied for jobs I didn't get, hoped for promotions that didn't work out, submitted stories that did not get published, and the granddaddy of all disappointments, I've experienced that no-rules, alien planet, you-can't-do-anything-right thing called love. You'll learn nothing from me about that, though, so instead - I want to tell you about what I've learned from others around me who are living it and inspiring me to be better.

We don't go through anything all alone. We are not on an island of one.  This isn't a whole "We're there for you" speech, what I mean is, all the things we do, feel, react to, fight against, affect those around us.  How do you explain to kids about cancer?  About divorce?  About depression or illness?  About getting fired or laid off?  How do we talk to our families, our friends? How do we unintentionally model for those who look to us for guidance on what being grown-up or professional or compassionate is all about? Because of us, will they believe that being an adult is awful, stressful, shouty, angry, or alone? Will our colleagues believe that if you have responsibility, your personal life is over or that you can't be funny, or human, or a mentor to others who might one day want your job? Or will they see us dealing with the tough stuff imperfectly, working through it, asking for help when we need it, and moving on? There are people in my life doing this right now, some of them with more than one terrible thing at the same time.  How much are they teaching us all about resilience, flexibility, resourcefulness, and wellness?

For my friends with kids/grandkids, I am in awe of your control, your generosity, your willingness to be human, and to teach your young ones that although life throws curve balls, they always have the ability to grow and learn, and to form and maintain healthy relationships and friendships that will support them for a lifetime.

My sister and I were raised by a single mother, not perfect by any means, but I remember her frustration when she felt overwhelmed turning into "let's give this a try."  She didn't wait to be saved, she rolled her sleeves up and got started even if the outcome was uncertain. She was also a fan of "Let's see where this road goes." Not too shabby as role models go, I think.

And I work with some exceptional people who are much better than I at handling the stress, the ridiculous, the absurd, the bullies, and the unfair.  Some have dealt with unimaginable hardship including the loss of a child, spouse or parent, heartbreaking diagnoses, and other challenges that might break those less strong. They move forward with grace.  I learn from them everyday. I am a better person for the example they set.

I spent a good chunk of time last week setting up a "Celebration of Life" honoring a close friend I lost last year. And I ventured out and met new people on Friday. The new don't replace the old, but each day, we are given the opportunity to make connections that might change our lives. My best friends were once strangers to me. Don't take that too lightly. You might be the inspired or the one inspiring or both.

So the point of this rambling - it's not enough to try and understand life and the "whys" of it all. I can only live it the best I can, as you can, for yourself and the ones around you. Be the one who doesn't let bitterness poison chances for happiness. Allow yourself to love again, even if it won't follow any script. Don't hide or fear or stay stuck, especially if you have small ones who look to you for how to live this crazy, confusing life. Try. Ask for help. Both are critical lessons. Take the lemons and find a way to use them. I'm more of an iced tea girl than lemonade, but find a way to use what you have MacGyver-style and move forward.   It's healthier for you and everyone around you. Recognize that you don't know it all - none of us do - so there's going to be some trial and error involved. Be okay with saying you're sorry when you mess up. Don't let fear of failure keep you from trying to make it work. Take care of the people in your life. Make the time for them. It's good for you, too. And bring pie. Everyone loves pie.

So my thanks to all of you who have helped to keep me in the present and moving forward. You inspire me everyday. I hope one day to return the favor.  :)

The Vernal Equinox and Banana Bread

So, the first day of spring...

The term "spring" used to mean something, most especially, that it was warm enough for the beach again, for bad spring break decisions, for my annual fruity frozen drink party with requisite slip-n-slide, and the banishment of the cadaverous winter pallor. Of course, this was in Florida. These days, in the cold-never-ends north, I guess it means that the daffodils start to peek out out their beds, either unaware that snow is called for again next week or - as I like to believe - because they say "Fuck it, we're sick of this winter crap, too, so WE'RE BLOOMING NOW." It's certainly not beach weather, nor is it likely to be for months and months. This is why people go a little crazy this time of year. We are all at the limits of our patience, done with the snow shoveling, the flu, being trapped in the house, the muddy lawns, and the static.

More industrious people probably channel their aggression in healthier ways than I choose. Those houses are probably spotless. Perhaps they spent the winter canning things or knitting things or whatever. I tend to be a bit more rash. I'm ready to burn out the underbrush around here. Clear away the deadwood. Throw some shit out. Make some changes that survive beyond the next wave of dust bunnies or smudgy windows.

So, yeah, I'll finish filling the boxes for Goodwill that I started before my remodel and clear those out. I'm going to tear out the awful, DIY closet crap (courtesy of the previous homeowner) that fills the center bedroom - which will then be my writing cave, and unfortunately, still my closet as the same crazy-ass previous owners put a tub in the master bedroom closet. Yeah, you read that right. A tub. In the closet. 

And I may do some literal brush burning. I am no gardener and my yard has grown into an absolute mess. I'm feeling inclined to tear out some grass, lay down some pavers, yank out the weeds, trim back the trees, get a big ol' fire pit and burn some stuff up. Already sounds more fun than shredding my junk mail. I can get some Adirondack chairs and it'll be like a backyard expansion of the wine porch. Might still need parkas for a bit, but the fire ought to help ward off frostbite until summer.

So, the banana bread...

Snow forced yet another work-at-home day this week.  Some people probably buy bananas intending to make banana bread, but for me, it's what happens when I don't eat them fast enough. Overripe bananas make the best bread. Combine that with chopped walnuts from baking efforts over the holidays, and voila! Banana bread is clearing out the old stuff, just tastier. And the house smells amazing.

So, I'll be unloading some baggage, pruning the facebook list, and prioritizing, so some things can fall off my list. I need for some things to fall off my list. And if they don't want to go on their own, then I'll be breaking out the pruning shears. I need to make some room, so that I, too, can BLOOM NOW, no matter the weather.

What are we waiting for?

The last year or so has been all about living and dying. It just takes one good friend losing her battle with cancer to shake up all that I thought I understood. One minute here, one minute gone - no chance to catch up, fix mistakes, tackle the bucket list, explain to friends and family how much you love them - the list goes on and on.

Apart from the loss and the grief, and certainly the disbelief that this could have even happened, the side effect, for me, was to tackle everything, try everything, follow my heart. This netted mixed results, certainly. On the one hand, I went back to grad school - again - this time for my MFA. I'm still plugging along on that and should be able to finish up my novel in the next year or so. And it gets me out of the house for residencies, has forced me to meet new people, some of whom will be my friends forever, I'm certain. So good decision or bad, it meant movement.

Slightly less healthy pursuits led to a 20 pound weight gain last year, which - thankfully - I've lost again. No sense in denying one's self dessert, right? Anyway, glad that has evened out again.

And I went a little nuts fixing up the house. The disastrous projects that had been dragging on since fall of 2012, making me depressed, sending me through a seemingly endless series of incompetent or dishonest or unreliable contractors, finally started to come together in the middle of last year when my neighbor, after seeing me distressed in the yard surveying storm damage, gave me contact information for his brother - contractor number five. Actually, number six, since I had a completely different company fix the aforementioned storm damage, but I forget about them since I never met them. All correspondence happened over phone or email and the work was completed while I was at work.

So Anthony, (of Broccolina Brothers Construction, reachable at bbcconstruction@aol.com if you are looking for your own crazy remodel boondoggle), started with crown moulding, and door and window frames, really just wrapping up the loose ends of the previously unfinished work upstairs. He does great work. But, when the custom moulding was installed and I had painted it, I began to get a sense of what my house might look like.  For some context, I had pulled down ugly drop ceilings and removed horrifyingly ugly wall board. The walls underneath were a disaster and I had become used to ladders everywhere, dust, tools, and general clutter. After the first coat of new paint in my bedroom, I fell in love with my house - maybe for the first time. And I think I fell in love with being in love, because I got emotional over EVERYTHING. Love seemed like the opposite of dying. Appreciation was my way of being alive, of not taking anything for granted.

This led to new walls and ceiling in the living room, more moulding, replacement steps, and finally a new bathroom so beautiful, that newly-emotional-wreck me actually teared up over the tile. The tile made me cry. Yes. I have a mini day spa in my house now - at least that's how it makes me feel.

I've been selecting art for the walls. It's not like I can put the same old crap up. I picked up some nice work from Cindy Capehart - you can see her work here - and Alice Mullen, her Etsy site here. Cindy and I went to high school and art school together a million years ago and Alice and I were in one of the craziest, meanest writing workshops ever to be held in the dark woods of Virginia. Both are gifted and shall one day be famous. I'm happy to have gotten started while they are still affordable and talking to me.

And because I've been on a creative bender like I've never experienced before, and I apparently have little fear of failing at monumental level, I've been writing song lyrics - terrible ones - and trying to learn guitar. I may take up piano again. I'm aware that I sound like a lunatic and I'm okay with that.

Where do I go from here? I'm still plugging away with the writing and making some decent progress. I adopted a puppy and she keeps me busy. I'm trying to sort out what's real and what's not, what will be part of my future and what I will leave behind, and whether or not it's time again to break my routine, run away from home again. I need less and I need more. I probably need therapy, but for now, I'll just have to follow my instincts.

The one thing I can say for certain after this year of upheaval is that the risks, the fears, the stumbles, the emotions, as I made my way through have all been the right thing to do. I may have bruised my heart a little, but I used it this year. I felt again. I lived and I loved. I won and I lost. It will be pretty hard to settle for less after that. Don't wait for your own wake up call, go get what you want, love who you need (and tell them, for God's sake!), and stretch yourself too. I promise it will be worth the risk.