The Claddagh Ring

Resolutions

2012-01-15T10:01:00.000-08:00

I have a difficulties managing my time. I have so many things, human and not, pulling at me. I feel sometimes like that rag on the rope in the middle of a game of tug of war.  I am pulled left, then right. I hover for a bit as each team struggles for traction and then the jostling begins again.

I had such great plans four years ago when I wrote my novel. I was going to find an agent who loved it and it would become an instant bestseller. I would be able to walk into my local Boarders and see my name on the shelf besides Jodi Picoult and JK Rowling. However, getting a book published it not all that easy, and after a lot of time, stamps, manila envelopes and rejection letters, I put my novel in a drawer (with a back up in my safety deposit box) and succumed to the pull of the other parts of my life.

In the meantime I started working on a memior.  I was a 36 year old medical student with a husband, two children, a dog and a mortgage. I thought my struggles balancing my academic experiences with being a wife and mother made for an interesting story. And it is. However, again life interviened and I lost momentum. The memior is about 3/4 finished. The rest should be easy and, if I could get it published, there could be a sequel of my days in residency.

I really don't know what is keeping me from my writing. I mean afterall, I only have a full time medical practice, three grandchildren who I adore, and a desire to travel before I get too old and decrepit to go. There is also the rejection which is a difficult thing for me to handle. I think part of the reason I stopped writing was the cool reception my novel and my memior received at the last writer's conference.

But this is a new year and a new world. I am going to look into the various options for epublishing my novel. My Borders store is gone with a lot of other brick-and-mortar stores. I believe that epublishing is the way of the future.  I love my Kindle. I am also going to explore self-publishing because I still dream of seeing my name on the cover of a book.

I am going to finish my memior. This is going to take some sacrifice. I am going to have to give up the hours I am wasting on Facebook. I am going to have to use my free time more thoughtfully and not give into the push and pull of life. So the new year starts here.

The Winter of our Discontent

2012-01-14T20:01:00.000-08:00

Discontent is a Pacific Northwest winter—grey and chill. The sun barely rises over the horizon. On dark and gloomy days, it seems to never appear at all. Those days are without hope of light and warmth. I have often felt my life would lie in that dank fog forever, moss covered and mildew ravaged.

If you Google the word discontent there is a picture of me. My mother said I could always find the fly in the ointment. Therapists have said I have low grade depression. I think of myself as the human equivalent of AA Milne’s Eeyore. I can always see the bad in any situation.

I have found happiness to be a fleeting thing. There is a chemical rush, a steady flow of serotonin and norepinephrin coursing through the brain making everything vividly colored and dazzling. A new love, a new possession, a trip to a new place, or a career change can do it, but when the rush is over there is nothing left in its place but discontent.

It is not like I enjoy my negativity. All my life I have been looking for something positive and uplifting. The problem is that I haven’t been able to pinpoint what that something is, so the search has been frustrating, leading to many deadends and disappointments. I have sought faith, only to become disenchanted with religion. I have sought my passion for medicine only to be stymied in my ability to provide it by bureaucracy. I have tried on relationships, only to find imperfections in the people I love.

Not that I have had many relationships. Men are visual creatures and I was not born possessed of beauty. I was teased and bullied over my lack of looks and my mother, the one person who should have thought me beautiful, found fault with me at every turn. Because I believed I was unattractive and unlovable, I made poor decisions. Instead of valuing my assets, I ignored them. I became a quiet, grey mouse relegated to lurking in corners and grabbing at whatever tidbits would fall within my reach. I was not content with the scraps, but I didn’t think myself worthy of better.

When I left for college I thought I would meet men who would value my brains since I was not disposed of beauty. By my senior year I was fast becoming an old maid. I hadn’t dated in four years of college. And then Tom came along.

My mother didn’t like him. One night she asked why I was wasting my time with him. I answered her honestly; there was no one else to waste time with. So in the end I married him. I was unhappy for over 30 years. The relationship was unrewarding. He took credit for everything I did, including going to medical school. I was supposed to make him look good, while in the privacy of our home he treated me as dispassionately as he did the furniture. I told myself to be content with the neglect of my husband because he was incapable of giving more. I subjected myself to a life of grey, dull discontent. For years I made excuses for him, while quietly hating him. Then one day I had enough. I could no longer be content with his coldness. I moved out.

I have a new home, which I chose, surrounded by my books and music. I have given up chasing after happiness. I no long desire its ups and downs. Today I am only seeking contentment. I want to be comfortable within my own skin.

I am still working on finding the positives in life rather than being overcome by the negatives. I may still be that quiet grey mouse but that is an asset rather than a liability. I do not have to settle for tidbits. I know I am capable of getting what I want. Someday I hope to be able to look in the mirror and see my true self. I my only desire is to move away from the cold, bleak winter of discontent. I want to see the beautiful reds and golds of the autumn of my life and enjoy their beauty in peace.

Rhiannon

2011-11-13T09:32:00.000-08:00

Music has always been a big part of my life. My daughter says you can always tell what CD I am listening to by the tunes I sing when I think no one else is listening. Sometimes a song gets a hold of me, winds itself around my soul and causes me to make a change in my life.

Several years ago, I was partner in a small medical group. I had been out of the office for some surgery and behind my back the other three partners decided to sell out to a large hospital group. I felt betrayed by these men I thought were my friends. As we got closer to the merger, my anger became over powering.

One night I was watching a concert on PBS by the rock band Fleetwood Mac. While watching the concert I realized that this was the same great music I had enjoyed so much while eating pizza and drinking beer in college. I couldn’t believe the music was actually the product of this one group, but then again they had three different vocalists. I went out the following day and bought their greatest hits album.

When I buy a CD, I put it in the car and it can stay there for weeks. Fleetwood Mac’s ballads of love and betrayal began to throb in my head. The pounding rhythms of The Chain and Go Your Own Way spoke to me. One morning after a particularly ugly meeting, I got in my little blue Z-3. I turned the CD to the song Rhiannon. The raspy growl of lead singer Stevie Nicks, mirrored the frustration and anger I was feeling. I drove from Tacoma to Federal Way at 75 miles an hour, screaming the words of the song.

“Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night, and wouldn’t you love to love her. She rules her life like a bird in flight, and who will be her lover? All your life you’ve never seen a woman, taken by the wind. What would you say if she promised you heaven? Will you ever win?”

During those dark and difficult days, Rhiannon became a real person to me. She looked a bit like Stevie Nicks, her long blond hair blown by unseen tempests. Rhiannon wore a long black dress, fitted at the waist. Tassels hung from the sleeves. The dress floated as she twirled. Rhiannon was a strong woman, who knew her own mind. She became my mentor and I emulated her. I would be assertive in this unhappy situation. I would allow myself to use the power of my anger, but I would not let my anger become me.

With this image of Rhiannon I began to tell myself a story. It was a love story between this strong, assured older woman and the handsome young man who would become her secret lover. The story moved from my imagination to my computer, and to escape the trials of my work place, I began to write their story. Within months I had written a novel .

While I wrote about Rhiannon, something changed within me. As first novelists often do, Rhiannon was imbued with parts of me. I began to glory in those strengths, and by the time the book was finished, I had made a decision. I couldn’t care for people properly if I was feeling angry all the time. I would leave the big hospital group. Their brand of cover your ass medicine with 7.5 minute office visits was never going to work for me. I decided I would open my own practice, where I could care for patients the way I felt they deserved to be treated. But I had no idea where to start.

I was driving down the street one day, with Rhiannon still playing in my CD player. I saw a real estate sign at an office park and something told me to call the man whose name was on it. Soon we were looking at office space. Then, over lunch one day, I ran into a woman who used to work for us. She had been involved in the healthcare industry for a long time. She told me how to start getting insurance contracts set up and helped me apply to the government plans. She put me in touch with people who knew insurance billing and computers.

I went back to counseling and my counselor gave me the name of her attorney. The attorney told me how to get out of my non-compete clause and helped me get a state business license. She gave me the name of an accountant. When I wasn’t working or writing, I spent all my free time making phone calls, and right after New Year’s in 2006, I handed my resignation to my employer. Three months later I opened my own practice.

“She is like a cat in the dark, and then she is the darkness. She rules her life like a fine skylark, and when the sky is starless. All your life you’ve never seen a woman, taken by the wind. What would you say if she promised you heaven? Will you ever win?”

Rhiannon the song led to Rhiannon the mentor who morphed into part of me. The song lived in my CD player for the better part of a year, and the words still sustain me with their authority and hope.

Success

2011-10-08T08:39:00.001-07:00

The summer was growing short and my chance of going to medical school was diminishing. A distraction arrived when my mother and aunt came to stay for the 4th of July holiday. The three of us had just arrived home from shopping when the phone rang.

“Hello,” I said juggling a bag of groceries.

“May I speak to Debra Kraft?”

“Speaking.” I shuffled the bag onto the kitchen counter.

“This is Dagmar Coperhaver from the University of Nevada, School of Medicine. We have had an opening for the upcoming class and wanted to know if you were still interested.”

“Oh, my God! Yes! Yes, I am still interested. I had almost given up. Oh, my God. What do I have to do?”

Dagmar laughed. “Well, orientation starts August thirtieth and we recommend you come a week early to get your housing, financial aid, and other details taken care of. You won’t have time once classes start. So, can we expect you? Or do you need to give it some thought?”

I thought for thirty seconds. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Great! I will send you out financial aid materials and an orientation packet. Call me if you need anything. Oh, and, by the way, congratulations.”

“Thank you, thank you, oh my God, thank you,” I screamed into the phone.

My hand was shaking so hard I could barely get the phone back in the cradle. I turned around. My mother, aunt, and the girls were all staring at me. I am sure they thought I had taken leave of my senses. I grabbed the girls and danced them all over the kitchen. I had no idea how I was going to get in Reno in six weeks and at that moment I did not care.

I was still flying high when Tom came home from work. I grabbed him by the shoulders as he came through the door. “I got accepted at the University of Nevada. I have to be there the end of August. Isn’t it great!”

He looked at me with an empty, flat expression. “Well, I just can’t do this right now. Can’t you call and tell them you will have to wait until next year or do it by correspondence or something? I can’t leave.”

I dropped my arms to my sides. “If I don’t go now I’ll lose my position and I have to start all over again.”

Without another word he took the newspaper and walked downstairs. We didn’t speak again for many weeks.

I spent that time trying to figure out how I was going to get to Reno with a reluctant husband, two kids, a dog, a rabbit, and a guinea pig. I considered many options. I could leave them all behind and move into graduate student housing for a year in hopes Tom would come to his senses. I could rent an apartment for the kids and the animals and leave Tom in Pocatello. We could sell our house and buy a new one in Reno and try to act like we had a normal life. After communications resumed, we decided on the latter.

We flew to Reno and saw twenty-four houses in two days. We looked at places which should have been demolished. We looked at houses which violated every building code known to my engineer husband. All we wanted was a house in our price range which had decent paint and kitchen tiles which weren’t smashed out by sledge hammers.

There were some nice neighborhoods, but we couldn’t afford them. There was one house on the edge of the neighboring town of Sparks which was a possibility, but it cost too much and the wall paper and carpets were hideous. We left town without making an offer.

I began to panic. I needed to be in Reno in two weeks and I still had nowhere to live. I started thinking about campus housing again, but the medical school started a few weeks before the rest of the university. I would have to find somewhere to stay until I could move into the dorms. It was then that I had an idea.

We had purchased a small tent trailer when we moved to Pocatello. I would park it in an RV park until I could move to campus. It was warm enough in Reno and the trailer had a propane heater if it did get chilly. I could cook simple meals on the stove. I had light and a table to study on and most importantly a bed. Besides, it would just be for a couple of weeks.

Two weeks later, I loaded the car with all the things I would need to become a full time student once again. I hooked up the trailer, and drove Sarah, Robin, our pets and plants to my mother’s house. That night my mother told me she thought I was crazy, but at long last she acknowledged my dream. She said she would do whatever it took to support me. I stayed the night and left for Reno the following day.

It was a long drive across the brown sagebrush desert. I played music full blast to keep myself awake. I worried the car or trailer might breakdown. I was afraid my marriage was over and I had totally blasted my family apart.

I arrived in Reno late in the day and checked into the Shamrock RV Park. I hooked up the power and the water. I used the payphone to call Tom and my mother. I showered in the RV park common bathroom and cried myself to sleep. Little did I know this would be my home for another six weeks.

When I was twenty one, it was a lousy year

2011-09-21T10:29:00.001-07:00

I stepped off the elevator and into the cool, semi-darkness of the SUB study lounge. I was wearing jeans and an ISU sweatshirt I had picked up on line. I hoped no one would notice that it was one not available in the bookstore in this decade. In my hand was the Starbuck’s chai latte I meant to throw out before coming here. Starbucks existed in this time but only in Seattle. I hoped no one noticed.

As I expected, Debi Molesworth was sitting in the large leather chair in the corner. She was dressed in bell-bottom jeans and a peasant shirt she had embroidered herself. Around her hair she wore a blue bandana and a thin necklace of love beads adorned her neck. A battered book bag stood beside her and a bright pink pop can sat on the side table. She was reading a textbook with a yellow marker in her hand. Every now and then she would look up and gaze out the windows across the way.

I strolled across the room experiencing déjà vu. This place held so many memories. The good and the bad. I took the seat next to her. “Hi, Debi. My name is Dr. Debra Kraft,” I whispered.

“Hi,” she said. She looked around the room for an explanation. “Do I know you?” She must have mistaken me for a faculty member.

“Debi, this is going to sound strange, but I am your future self.”

“Right.” she said sarcastically. “And this is Candid Camera. Listen I am really busy and …”

I raised my hand to interrupt her. “I know it sounds strange but I have come to share with you some wisdom I have learned along with way.”

“Okay, joke’s over.” She turned her back to me and opened her book.

“I know what you carved on the top of your dresser.” Her head swiveled around. “I know about Donnie. And Cynthia.” Her mouth fell open. “And I know what is going to happen to you in the future.”

She picked up her Tab cola, took a sip and gazed at me suspiciously. “If you really are my future self, how did you get here? I mean isn’t there some rule on Star Trek about not changing the past. And what about the space-time continuum? I mean, this is cool and all, but I don’t think you ought to be here.”

I set my Starbucks cup on the mahogany end table between us. Her blue grey eyes took in the unfamiliar logo. “I think in the latest Star Trek movie Spock proved you can meet past versions of yourself without causing a universal cataclysm,” I said. “I came here to share with you some universal truths I have learned over the years.”

Debi began scribbling flowers and mandalas on her yellow spiral notebook. We always did this when we were bored in lectures. “Before you start, I want to ask you a question,” she said. “How old are you?”

“Fifty-six.”

“Man! I always thought I would be dead before the end of the century. Am I really going to look like you? I mean, your hair isn’t even grey.”

“And I am probably a lot fatter than you thought you would ever be,” I said smiling at her bluntness. Debi blushed and started a new drawing. I changed the subject. “I know you are struggling and you feel lost about your future. I am here to let you know that you survived.”

“How do you know what I think?” she asked, her face a mask of defiance.

“Because 35 years ago I sat alone in this study lounge wondering if any of it was worth it. I wondered why I was stuck taking rinky dink classes in a major I didn’t want. I wondered what happened to my dreams. I was directionless and thinking I should just kill myself and get it over with. I have come to give you some advice and some hope.”

“Why do you care? No one gives a shit about me,” Debi said, her eyes filling with tears. “Mom doesn’t care about anything I want. Dad just doesn’t care. And Tom…I don’t know about Tom. I mean the Krafts are a great old family and they have all the culture and stuff I want, but I haven’t heard from him in weeks.” Debi rubbed her reddened watery eyes. “Damn contacts. They keep floating off.”

I want to hug her and tell her everything would turn out alright, but that is a lie. “So, first piece of advice. Listen to your gut. If something inside you is screaming, no, listen to that voice. It is the genuine you telling you the right thing to do.”

“But If I do that people might get mad. I don’t want to make anyone mad.” Tears continued to flow. I handed her one of the tissues I had packed in my overstuffed pockets.

“Second piece of advice. As the song says, ‘You know you can’t please everyone, so you got to please yourself.’”

“You know that song?” Debi gave me a watery smile. “Garden Party, right?”

I nodded my head. “Ricky Nelson. 1972. It might sound trite but it is true. If you go around trying to make everyone else happy you will end up miserable because you are putting their needs before your own.” I watched her write Garden Party in the margin of her notebook.

“How am I supposed to get the things I want if I have no one to help me?” she asked.

“That is my third piece of advice. Life isn’t easy.”

“Well no shit!” she said loudly. She picked up the crumpled ball of tissue and threw it at me. Other students gave us a dirty look for disturbing their concentration.

“I know you are feeling frustrated and angry. You have every right to feel that way. You don’t know yet that it is life’s adversities that make us who we are. They are the furnace which tempers us and makes us stronger and more resilient.”

Debi leaned back in her chair crossing her arms and ankles. “Now you are talking in riddles. You sound like just like Gandalf talking to Frodo. I just want to know what is going to happen to me.”

I smiled at her. “Thanks for the compliment. Wait until you see the Peter Jackson version of Lord of the Rings. You are going to be blown away.” I took another sip of my latte, and wiped the foam from my upper lip. “I suppose wisdom does speak in riddles. I can’t give you specifics about the future. That would disturb the space-time continuum.” The corner of Debi’s mouth turned up, but she continued to sulk, so I leaned forward to catch her eye. “You need to know that you aren’t going to die from loneliness. Your life will eventually be what you want it to be even though the path is going to be difficult. You are a smart, talented, caring person. Surround yourself with people who support you. Those are the people who truly love you.”

Debi looked down at the battered watch she wore on a thick leather strap. “Is that all? I have cell bio lab to get to.” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “God, I hate that class.”

“I know. You get an incomplete and have to take it again.”

Debi’s grew wide with horror. “Really! I have never done anything like that in my whole life!”

“See you are a bit of a rebel.”

“Far out!” she said, smiling broadly. Another student shushed us from a corner. Debi gave him a dirty look. I was amazed at how her feelings showed so fully on her face and in her body language. I thought about my own carefully controlled emotions. I too had things to learn.

“Well,” I said, clearing the lump in my throat. “That brings us to my next bit of advice. It comes from a book which is not yet written but I think you need to hear it anyway. Have you got your pen? The author says, “Never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.” She gave me a blank look. “It means you will never fill the hole in your soul with someone else. Mom taught us to depend on other people for our happiness and, Debi,” I gently touched her hand noting the calluses on her fingertips and the chewed fingernails. “You can only find that happiness within yourself. Play your guitar. Read good books. Listen to great music. Find the things which truly make you happy and hold tight to them. Oh, and take ornithology next semester. You will fall in love with bird watching.”

She wrote BIRDS in capital letters in the corner of the notebook page and followed it with a question mark. She peeked at her watch again. “I really have to go.”

“Okay. Last piece of advice. This one comes from another wizard you are going to love. He said, ‘It does no good to dwell on dreams and forget to live’.” I stood up to take my leave remembering to take my Starbucks cup with me. “I am leaving you for now but remember to follow your gut, take care of yourself, don’t depend on others for your happiness, dream but do not get lost in those dreams, and most importantly, life isn’t fair. Now, off to class with you.” I walked back toward the elevator.

Debi grabbed her books and bag and chased after me. “But you didn’t tell me what I should do about school or Tom or anything.”

“That would disturb the space-time continuum, wouldn’t it? Terrible things have happened to wizards who mess around with time. Good luck!”

I gave Debi a wink and a wave and stepped into the elevator.

“Hey,” she called after me as the doors slid shut. “What did you say your name was?”

The Memory

2011-06-10T22:59:00.001-07:00

The smell of the place is a mixture of disinfectant, urine, and dust as old as time. I hear the hollow echo my black Mary Janes on a gray tiled floor. The grimy, metal barred windows are so high up, I cannot see out of them. It is winter outside; I remember the chill on my cheeks. The place has a creepy eeriness which raised the hair on my arms and set me shivering. A similar smell or empty hallway transports me easily back to that place. I always associate it with my grandmother.

My Grandmother Molesworth didn’t live on our family farm when I was very small. When people mentioned Grandma Katie they did it in hushed whispers. Their grown up words and their raised eyebrows successfully hid the secret for many years.

When I was seven, the conversations about Grandma became more frequent. One Saturday, Uncle Dale and my dad got in the old blue Chevy station wagon. They were gone over night and when they came home, they brought my grandmother with them. She was a squat gray haired woman in a brown gingham dress. Her thick stockings were rolled up above her knees. Her pale blue eyes showed no emotion behind the bent dirty glasses she wore. I couldn’t understand her when she talked. It seemed as though her large yellow teeth were glued together somehow although she opened her mouth fine when we sat down to eat dinner that day.

After that she was always at our house. The boys would drop her off early in the morning and then pick her up after the farm work was done. She would sit in the same chair all day staring at the black and white television, only coming to the kitchen for meals. She talked to herself through her clenched teeth and her mutterings frighten me. When my mother talked about Grandma she used words like “Thorazine” and “shock treatments”.

One day, Grandma was sitting in the kitchen and I was playing near her on the floor. Grandma said something to me and Mom translated. “She wants to see your doll.” I handed it to her and sat fascinated as she stroked the long ponytail of my classic Barbie. “She likes blond hair,” my mother said. I thought about my own blond hair and wondered why Grandma didn’t like me.

And then I knew. Grandma was a blue-eyed blond. She and my quiet, sad Uncle Howard were the only ones in the family who resembled me. Whatever was wrong with them was going to happen to me, too. I became afraid of my own thoughts. When I played with my imaginary friends, I was ashamed and I played as far from the house as I could, so no one would know my secret.

One spring night I heard my mother talking in a loud voice. “I am sick of being stuck here with her all day. She hates me, you know. She thinks I am her sister Etta. I didn’t get married to babysit your mother.” I couldn’t hear my father’s answer. “Okay then. After school is out I am taking Debra to Lewiston, and I am not coming back until you get rid of her. Do you hear me, Bob?”

When we came back that fall, my grandmother was gone. My dad and the boys had found her a place in a nursing home. I rarely visited. The smell of the place gave me such an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, I would flee for the car after only a few minutes.

One afternoon when I was about thirteen, my Aunt Jeanne came to visit. She was upset that her husband, my dad’s youngest brother, didn’t want more children. Mom pored ice tea and we went to sit in the front yard. I sat on the tire swing, listening intently.

Mom began to talk. “Well, you know about their mom and dad, don’t you?” Jeanne shook her head. “Well, their father committed suicide. Hung himself from his own tie. In a hotel in Twin Falls.” Tears started to leak from Jeanne’s over made up eyes. “And their mother, well,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “She tried to castrate Don with a butcher knife when he was a baby.” Jeanne covered her mouth with her hands. My mother went on. “They kept her at home after it happened. Their dad died a few years later and Howard took over the housekeeping. After the war, Dale and Bob took her to Blackfoot. She was there until the hospital kicked out all the chronic patients.”

Grandma died when I was in college. She had lived over thirty years of her life in institutions. The day of her funeral was the only time I ever saw my father weep. He called her “A saint.”

During my third year of medical school, I was assigned to the Nevada Mental Health Institute. When I walked into the grey tiled hallway with its barred windows and that sickly hospital smell, the déjà vu struck me once again. I knew I must have visited my Grandmother at State Hospital South when I was very small. I spent the month there walking crab-like down the hallways, protecting my back against my memories and fears.

One day I told my mother about my memory. She said it never happened.

The Boys' House

2011-05-14T23:31:00.000-07:00

At least once a week in the summer, I would be sent on an errand to my uncles’ house. My uncles’ house stood at the end of a long dusty rutted driveway. They had lived in this house all their lives, and I didn’t like going there.

I would walk the half mile between our homes, dragging my feet and kicking stones along the gravel road. When I got there I would stop in the wide front yard and pick a few pie cherries. They were so tart they would make my eyes water, but I always had to try them. Sometimes I would dawdle in Uncle Howard’s hen house. The chickens would fly around me, feathers and straw showering down as I searched their nests for warm, brown eggs. On my way back to the house I would stop and pick some of the wild hops which grew next to the wooden outhouse. I would rub the oily pods over my fingers, inhaling the tart beery aroma, wondering why they were there. But eventually I would have to complete my task.

The back pouch was the entry and there was a single concrete step leading into the house. The torn screen door had long lost its spring and when it was opened, it slammed against the peeling, white siding, pushed open by the relentless Southern Idaho winds. The porch itself was gloomy, lit by a single blub which turned on with a string. The walls were unadorned and the wooden floor was worn smooth from countless footsteps. Uncle Harold’s coveralls hung to the right of the door. The smell of sweat, manure, and neglect made the air too thick to breathe.

I would throw open the screen door letting it bang against the side of the house. Holding my breath, I would quickly open the lid of the white chest freezer blocking it so it wouldn’t fall on me. I would lean over digging rapidly through the hard, cold, packages searching for the proper one before my fingers froze. Once I had the prize in my hands, I would run for the safety of the road.

As I got older, I became braver. I started using my trips to explore the house. I could hurry through the porch to the kitchen and dining area. On the right was the small faded kitchen with its yellowed, peeling linoleum and red checkerboard shelf paper. In the dining room there stood an oak dining table covered with an ancient sheet of green oil cloth. My grandmother’s Singer sewing machine sat in front of the window. The table and the sewing machine were brought here from Missouri when she and my grandfather came west full of hopes and dreams. And it was in these rooms that all those dreams were shattered.

Through the dining room was the living area. Here the carpet was worn down to the backing and the floor leaned ominously downward. The windows were shaded with yellowed lace curtains, the only feminine touch in this house of bachelors. The room was filled to bursting with Craftsman style oak furniture. The green leather upholstery was split revealing the dry, crackly kapok padding.

The story was I had taken my first steps in this room. Uncle Dale was sitting in the arm chair and I was walking along his legs. When I got to his feet I just kept going. Across from the chair stood a green oil stove and behind it was a small narrow cabinet set into the wall. The cabinet held my Uncle Dale’s books. They were dry and dusty giving off that peculiar aroma of paper decay. His tidy bedroom stood off the living room. I remember spending a very sleepless night there when he was asked to babysit me. I was afraid of the house. There were phantoms there.

On another memorable visit, I crept up the forbidden stairs off the dining room. The stairs were steep and the treads were bowed by time and the passage of feet. My heart was pounding in my chest as I ascended the stairs, but it thudded to a standstill when I reached the top. A long faded carpet ran down the narrow hallway. In each bedroom, my uncles’ iron beds with their thin mattresses stood on bare wooden floors. Fuzz balls the size of grapefruits lie in the corners, and the dirt on the floor was like a thick layer of barroom sawdust.

I felt bad my uncles had to live in this decaying house with all their sad memories. I wanted to help so one day I decided to wash the years of grease and dirt from the windows. I took a bucket and sponge and filled it with hot water from the new bathroom they had added the year my grandmother came home from the state hospital. As I pulled the crackling blue and grey curtains away from the dining room window, the moisture of my wet hands disintegrated them. I wetted my sponge and took a swipe at the grimy panes. The water ran down into the peeling window casing.

From the cracks erupted a swarm of winged insects which surrounded me, brushing me with their wings as they went flying through the dining room. Spilling my bucket, I fled the house, terrified of the horde which I had unleashed. I was afraid all the ghosts who inhabited the house were coming after me. I didn’t want them to follow me into my life.

It was the last time I entered the house alone. The sights, the sounds, the smells and the stories chased me far way. When the boys moved out, the new owner of the property knocked the termite infested house down with one small shove of a caterpillar tractor, and he burned the remains. I would have liked to have witnessed that funeral pyre. Perhaps it would have cleansed me from the terror of its malevolent spirits.

The Treasure Chest

2011-04-16T22:15:00.000-07:00

My mother’s Lane cedar chest always stood at the foot of her bed. She got it when she lived in Lewiston, Idaho and her sister, Irene, had one identical to it. I like to imagine them walking arm in arm, smoking cigarettes and talking excitedly about their upcoming weddings. They never could have guessed where their lives would take them.

My mother’s cedar chest was a beautiful piece of furniture when I was young. It was oak veneer and Mom always kept it polished and oiled. I loved it in the winter when she would open the lid and pull out the calf length fur coat which she always wore to midnight mass. I would lie on the fur side of the coat and rub my nose in the soft hair, inhaling the tart aroma of the cedar. I imagined wearing the coat when I became an adult. It would be the height of sophistication.

Another old fur lived in the treasure chest. It is one of those long narrow stoles with the tails and heads of the poor animals it was made from dangling from the ends. I found it frightening but intriguing. I used to believe that it belonged to my grandmother, but I learned recently from my cousin Leslie, it was probably Aunt Irene’s. The stole was used as dress-up clothes and was part of many a Halloween costume.

As much as I loved the smell and the glamour of the chest, inside it lay many mysteries. On the rare occasion I was left alone in the house, I would sneak into my parent’s room and carefully open the treasure chest. Most of the contents was boring; old linens and my old baby clothes. However, tucked in a corner was my mother’s old diary, kept in the years before she met my father. I tried to read it to try to understand her better but she was too crafty for me. She wrote the entries in Gregg shorthand, so even her diary’s contents was another mystery I never was able to decipher.

In the top drawer of the chest lay an unburned baptismal candle and a death certificate. I knew my sister had died shortly after birth. We visited her grave every Memorial Day. Along with my sister’s papers was a mysterious envelope which contained a copy of my birth certificate. I couldn’t understand why an attorney would be mailing my birth certificate to my parents. When I asked about it, Mom said, “You stay out of that trunk. The lid could fall and you would get locked in there and suffocate.”

Some of the items in the chest were my father’s. There was a small silk pillow case which he had purchased for his mother while he was stationed in England during the war. Some old cards to his mother were tucked inside the case. He had kept it all these years for my grandmother who had no use for it where she lived at the state mental hospital.

Over time I removed some of the items and made them my own. There was a wonderful calf-length wool pea-coat with military insignias on the sleeves and pockets. I pulled it out when I was in high school and wore it thinking myself very smart and John Lennon-like for protesting the Vietnam War by wearing it. Along with the coat there was a battered, brown box containing various military patches and buttons. These were a sacred relic to my mother. I believed for a long time they belonged to my father, but my dad hated war. He never talked about his experiences flying in bombers over Germany. Perhaps the box, like the coat belonged to my mother’s first husband, lost in the war.

When my mother died, the chest of treasures came to live with me. Time had changed the outside of the chest. Someone had let the water flow over a potted plant leaving a large ring in the shellac. Pieces of the veneer had been pulled away and lost. As I sadly sorted through it, most of the items in the chest were meaningless. The old clothes and linens had no history attached to them so they were sold at my mother’s estate sale. But the fur coat, which I still love to lie on and rub my nose against still resides within it. I am too large to wear the coat and the wearing of furs is no longer sophisticated or politically correct, but I keep it none the less. The old fur stole keeps it company in the bottom of the trunk.

The old linens have been replaced by two quilts my mother made for my daughters. They are young and have no interest in them for now, but I hope someday they will. My baby clothes have been replaced by my daughters’ favorite blankies. The cedar aroma cannot hide the smell of their soft babyhoods. My sister’s papers and candle still lay in the drawer next to the silk pillow meant for my grandmother, and my parent’s birth, marriage and death certificates lay beside them. But that age yellowed envelope containing my birth certificate still remains. I have removed it to a safety deposit box. The attorney’s name is the only clue I have to the past I am continually seeking.

As I get older I think perhaps the cedar chest is all I really need. The sight of it brings up memories of my mother and father and life on our farm. I no longer seek to know my mother better. She hardly knew herself. My life has moved forward making memories of my own. My daughters are women now with their own lives. Perhaps my grandchildren, the future of my DNA, will be drawn by the mysteries of my treasure chest and I will share with them the stories of my life and the items within.

The Dance

2011-02-12T09:19:00.001-08:00

I am the first one to admit I don’t know anything about dancing. I mean, after all, I was a tap dance drop out at age seven.

Of course, I watched dancers on the Ed Sullivan show. I loved the costumes and the grace of the dancers, but my knowledge of dance is still pretty basic. I can tell a ballet, from a waltz, and I enjoy watching a good rousing square dance, but the ballroom style of Dancing with the Stars I find fairly dull.

The thing is no one ever told me that relationships are like dances. In the beginning a boy picks a partner from the line of waiting girls. He chooses the dance and the girl follows his lead. He either likes her and wants to continue the dance; or he heads back to the stag line, leaving her to join the line of waiting wallflowers.

I was drinking beer and playing pool the night Tom decided to ask this perennial wallflower to dance. I was so flattered by the attention and the opportunity to get out on the floor that I never realized how truly out of step we were. His family was famous for their graceful waltz learned in the highest levels of society. My family did a rollicking tarantella with a smattering of country two step.

I wanted to learn to waltz but try as I might, I just couldn’t follow the steps. Tom wanted to lead and I couldn’t go backwards into life. I wanted to stand alone to do the twist or the frug. I loved the rhythms of disco and wanted to try the hustle. And around the house I did danced much as I pleased, but when Tom came home, he would take my waist and attempt to lead me more mannerly dances. I always ended up stepping on his toes.

We danced a furious merenge for many years, Tom dancing toward his career and me chasing after him. I found the paso doble of motherhood dull and monotonous. So one day, I started a new dance. I picked a lively two-step, balancing school and motherhood. Tom spent several years trying to continue in his lock step as I danced away in my own direction. Every now and then we would try to come together in the family waltz but the kids kept cutting in with dances of their own.

I thought someday when all the distractions were gone, Tom and I could dance together. I hoped he would loosen up and enjoy a lively jitterbug or jazzy freestyle. But when our daughters danced away into their own lives, my husband and I moved again into a halfhearted waltz, trying to keeping up the appearance of a happy marriage. We went round and round and back and forth in the same four step pattern his parents had danced all of their marriage. Tom didn’t realize I was bored with the music, and he seemed unwilling to change the record. Finally the stifling routine of our steps caused me to dance away again, and this time it was for good.

Two years ago I moved into my own studio. My first night there I put ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” on the CD player. I was sixteen again as I twirled and spun, unselfconscious. I am happy with my solo dance. I am my own choreographer. And if someday I choose another partner, he better be confident enough with his own dance to follow in my lead.

Misty

2011-01-15T09:14:00.001-08:00

Around the holidays I always rediscover how ambivalent I am on the subject of gifts. I enjoy giving gifts, however, I feel embarrassed to receive them. When people ask me what I want for any occasion, I usually answer, “World peace.”

My trouble with gifts started the Christmas I turned eight. That year my teacher read Misty of Chincoteague aloud to my third grade class. I fell in love with the story of John, Maureen and the wild ponies from Assateague Island. That year, a copy of Misty was the only thing on the Christmas list I gave to my mother.

The gifts started to accumulate under the Christmas tree and as they did I scrutinized them carefully. Soon a rectangular package appeared with my name on it. It seemed the right weight and size for a copy of Misty. It was solid along one side and dipped in on the other three. It made no noise when it was shaken. I would sit there for hours petting the package, anxiously awaiting the magic hour when I could open it and begin to read.

On Christmas Eve, I bounced around too eager to eat dinner. When the dishes were cleared away, I sat down under the brightly lit tree and grabbed the rectangular package. I squirmed while the adults took their places. The rest of the gifts were distributed and everyone ripped in. The first tear in the red and green paper revealed the rear dust cover of a book. I turned the package over.

My heart sank. Instead of the picture of a grey pony on the beach, there was brown horse and a man in a funny hat. “Justin Morgan Had a Horse”, I read silently to myself. I lowered the book to my lap. The rest of my gifts lay ignored.

Later, I dawdled as Mom and I dressed for midnight mass. “Are you sick?” she asked.

“No,” I said as I pulled at the neck of the stiff new Christmas dress.

“Well, then what’s wrong? You have been pretty quiet.” She applied her bright red lipstick in the bathroom mirror.

“I asked you for Misty of Chincoteague.”

“Well, Sears didn’t have it, so I got the other one. It’s about a horse, isn’t it?”

The unshed tears where tight in my throat. “But I wanted Misty.”

She never turned around but saw her narrowed eyes reflected in the mirror. “Why do you have to be such a brat? It is Christmas for Christ’s sake.”

After New Years, the Justin Morgan book was put on the shelf unread and I stopped making Christmas lists.

A few years later, while home from college, my mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas.

“Nothing,” I replied in a surly tone.

She continued to badger me for several more days. Finally she demanded, “Just tell me what you want.” When I again replied, “Nothing,” she threw down her dust rag, “Why do you have to be such a brat?”

Something exploded in my brain. I was a brat if I asked for something and I was a brat if I didn’t. "World peace!” I screamed at her as I stomped out of the house.

Years have passed and I have spent a lot of time and money on therapy. One day, while looking through some old books with my grandson, I found that copy of Justin Morgan. I turned it over in my hand detesting it. That day, I took the book to donation bin and hurled it in. I relished the bang as it hit the metal wall of the bin. It was the sound of chains falling away. I got back in my car and drove to a bookstore. I bought myself a copy of Misty of Chincoteague.

This Christmas, I decided to take a chance. I asked for presents instead of world peace. I was very specific when I told people what I wanted. I told them where they could purchase the item, and what size and color I wanted. This year there were no surprises under my Christmas tree, nor were there any disappointments.

Holidays and Gifting

2010-12-27T12:49:00.000-08:00

As usual the busy-ness of the holidays have overcome my good intentions to write. I think this year I attempted to buy a few gifts of meaning for all those I had on my list. I think the days when the mountain of gifts under the tree are over.

Our women's writing group project is about gifts. It gave me the opportunity to think back about gifts that I received as well as those I have given. Of course the one's which I received I certainly remember more, but the stories I recall are all unhappy ones. It made me begin to wonder if my mother wasn't correct when she told me I always see "the fly in the ointment".

I wonder if this tendency is nature or nurture. I don't remember ever making the decision to see the glass as half empty, but at least in this reguard it is so. I remember the negative over the positive. I will have to stretch myself to try to understand this as it effects my world view.

As far as this Christmas, I received the gift from my children which I had asked for. My grandchildren got from me the things which they had asked for and they enjoyed them. Their mother received the handmade gifts which I had kidnapped the grandkids to make for her. It was pleasing to see her tears of joy over their artwork. My girls recieved the yearly gifts of socks and their stocking stuffers. It is fun to watch them open their stockings with mini bottles of liquor, scratch tickets, and chocolate.

I didn't spend a lot on Christmas this year, but the pleasure they all seemed to get from simple well considered gifts was priceless. Now if I could only remember those simple joys. I wonder if they were ever present and if they were, where they have gone.

My Three Uncles

2010-12-17T22:55:00.001-08:00

I grew a small white farm house. Every day, at lunch time, my parents and I were joined by my bachelor uncles who lived nearby in the same termite infested farm house where they had grown up.

My Uncle Harold was the oldest brother. He was a big man with a gap toothed smile. He always wore Oshkosh bib overalls and a bill cap to protect his bald head from the sun. Harold had quit school after my grandfather’s suicide. His whole life was spent on tractors, plowing, planting, harvesting and baling hay. When Harold came in from the fields for lunch, dirt and dust covered his face and clothes. He let me hold his callused hands and walk up his vast stomach, turning somersaults until my arms grew weary of the game.

Uncle Howard was the second oldest. He was a quiet, delicate man. He was the only blond. His front teeth bent backwards, the result of a run in with a milk can when he was a boy. Howard did the irrigating for the farm. At lunch time he kicked off his rubber boots by the front door and sat stocking footed on the high stool near the telephone. Howard’s shovel was never far from his side and he wore a pith helmet to protect his fair skin from the sun, a habit he took up during a brief tour of duty in North Africa. He spent most of the war eating cabbage soup and sawdust bread in a German POW camp. When he was released he returned home and took over the household duties for my mentally ill grandmother.

My dad’s younger brother, Uncle Dale, didn’t work the farm. He didn’t have to wear a hat so he lacked the pale bald head of his brothers. His dark fringe of hair was always neatly trimmed. Dale wore horn rimmed glasses and, except that he was taller and thinner, he and my father could have been twins. Dale was first person in the family to graduate college. He worked as an accountant at the local grain elevator and ate meals with us only on the weekends. Dale and I shared a love of books and education. He supported my desire to go to college.

When I was in high school, my family began to change. Uncle Harold suddenly married, produced two sons, and just as suddenly divorced. After that my childhood playmate experienced a long decline of mental and physical illness. Remembering their own parent’s battles with mental illness, the family turned away. I rarely saw him again.

I graduated college and got married. My father died eighteen months later. One night after the funeral, Uncle Dale called to say he had married his long time girlfriend and moved into her house. I would see him when I went home for visits. He seemed diminished by his wife’s hypochondria and the shadows of her former husband. Our visits were brief, punctuated by gaping silences. He now resides in a nursing home. I haven’t seen him in a decade.

Two years after my father’s death, my mother declared the farming over. My Uncle Howard was alone in the old farm house down the road. He had nowhere to go when the farm sale was over, so my mother moved him into the basement of her new home. Howard never abandoned his boots, shovel and pith helmet. He helped my mother with her garden and kept gas in her car. Howard took over the role of grandfather to my girls who called him “Unk”. He spent the remainder of his days silently perched on the high stool in the corner near the phone.

When I think of my uncles, I remember those happier times; turning somersaults on Harold’s stomach, driving tractor while Howard burned weeds, and playing pinochle with Dale and my parents. They provided love, companionship, and extended family to a lonely child. Somewhere within me Harold’s fun-loving spirit, Howard’s quiet perseverance, and Dale’s love of learning carry on, a living testament to my three bachelor uncles.

Relationships

2010-11-14T10:27:00.000-08:00

I have a cold today. I don’t feel like writing. My nose is drippy and my head aches. My neck is hurting as well as my left hip. I feel feverish.

I have so much to do and no motivation to do anything. My cat is even worried. She is haunting me.

I had a party at my house last night. While it was nice I didn’t get to visit with everyone like I had planned. I made too much food and now it will sit in my refrigerator going to waste.

It makes me wonder why I have parties at all. Some people who said they would come didn’t. My older daughter called at the last minute to say she wasn’t coming. I don’t think she likes my company. All this party business brings up the worst of my feelings of rejection.

I realize that I bring a lot of my isolation on myself. I am afraid to invite people because they might not show. I am afraid that if they come they will be bored. So to avoid all the painful feelings, I just stay home alone.

I wonder if I can ever overcome this. I am quiet and reserved by nature. I work all day with the public and get easily burned out by too many people. Perhaps I should embrace my solitary nature and revel in it. Maybe smaller get-togethers are more my thing. My counselor would say I should keep trying.

I know I tend to keep people at arm’s length. It takes a lot for me to trust. Once that trust is broken, then I am done. I suppose it is better to know, but it is something I am not proud of.

This week I get my dining room table. I am having company for Thanksgiving and at least part of my family will gather then. My older daughter has promised to be here for Christmas Eve. My office staff wants to have a girl’s evening of movies and snacks. Maybe smaller get-togethers are more my thing.

Today I will care for my cold. I will read something that makes me laugh. I will not worry about my writing.

The Unusual House

2010-11-13T16:16:00.000-08:00

The house on Fourteenth Southwest was curious. It was painted battle ship grey and there was a brass ship’s railing around the front deck. Inside the front door, where the carpet was worn, there was a sheet of brass nailed to the floor. An old ship’s lantern hung in the dining room. The oddest thing was the two large grey pallets which hung down below the regular siding on the south side of the house. Neither our real estate agent nor my engineer husband could explain the house’s unusual traits, but we had imagination, so we purchased it without these mysteries being solved.

Several days after we moved in, I went down to the daylight basement to do a load of wash. When I opened the door at the bottom of the stairs, it was pitch black. I peered through the gloom, wondering where the light had gone. When the solution revealed itself to me, I marched to the garage, grabbed a weapon and headed outside. With crowbar in hand, I began pulling those weird extra pieces of siding off. Tom heard the commotion and yelled out the back door, “What are you doing?”

“Letting in the light,” I yelled back, as a chunk of siding fell off at my feet, revealing the hidden window. The house was curious.

I never imagined when we bought the curious grey house that it would become a home. It was filled with powerful memories.

I opened the front door one day to find the red haired woman I had seen walking with her children. Mary Lou was a stay at home mom like me. Her twins were a year older than Sarah. She invited me over for coffee. We discovered a mutual love of books, nature and motherhood. Two doors down on the other side lived the Broomfield’s. They could be counted on for spontaneous trips for frozen yoghurt or Mrs. Fields’ Cookies, and many games of pinochle were played around our dining room table.

One summer day when I turned my back, two year old Sarah disappeared from the living room. I looked out the large picture window and there she was, walking the balance beam on the front deck railing. She was oblivious that the ground was twelve feet below. I signed her up for gymnastics.

Over the years, Tom and I did a number of projects to fix up the curious house. We painted the outside blue. We tore up the carpeting and the brass sheet from the living room floor. We swapped the ship’s lantern with a proper chandelier. The brass railing was replaced with the sturdy wood one which Sarah had walked that summer day. I day I went into labor with Robin, we replaced an outdated cast iron laundry sink.

Personal remodeling occurred there as well. Surrounded by love and friends, I battled the darkness of depression and, like removing the pallets from the boarded up windows, I became enlightened. I set my feet on the path to my career. I could never have imagined when we purchased the grey house it would become our home. A place of love and growth built with sweat and tears. It was indeed a curious house.

Home

2010-10-27T10:43:00.000-07:00

The definition of home is an abstract concept. Many people have tried to describe it.
'There is no place like home.''
"Home is where the heart is."
"You can never go home again."

The one I like best is: "It takes hands to build a house, but hearts to build a home."

I have lived in many houses. The ramshakle farm house where I grew up. The 900 sq ft house my husband and I bought in West Seattle because we were tired of paying rent. The beautiful dream home in Idaho surrounded by wheat fields and so far from where I really wanted to be. The Nevada house where I just existed for the seven years of medical school.

I just left an unhappy house, the one I didn't want, where my children became beligerant, balky teenagers and my dreams of growing old with my husband came to an end. I have moved to a new abode. I have only been here a few months. I love the view of the lake. The furnishings and the wall color are of my choosing. My cat has a favorite place to sleep. But it is not yet a home. I hope someday it will become one. A place where I can slow down and meet my neighbors. A comfortable living space where friends can come and drink wine and listen to music. A place where, at last, I can be at home.

The Queen of Denial

2010-10-24T09:36:00.000-07:00

My favorite photo of my mother is in black and white. Mom is sitting on the maroon sofa of my aunt’s floral living room. I know it is Sunday because she is wearing a skirt. Her long thin legs are crossed at the knee. She is holding a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. She is smiling and having the time of her life. I hear her trademark laugh.

In our tiny rural town my mother was hard to miss. She was five foot eight and rail thin with olive skin and curly black hair. She had flashing brown eyes and always wore bright red lipstick. Mom talked loud and loved a dirty joke. She could swear like a construction worker.

Mom was never idle. She moved from sink to stove to refrigerator, working all day long to feed my Dad, my three bachelor uncles and me. Mom rarely ate. She survived on coffee, cigarettes and chicken backs. “I like the backs,” she would say as she stripped the nonexistent flesh from the bones.

Mom had a daily ritual of sweeping, mopping, dusting, and laundry. I remember her hanging sheets on the line in the hot summer breeze. I loved the way they billowed and blew, but Mom had no time for such sentiments. “Don’t you get dirt on those clean sheets,” she would call through the open kitchen window. “Go cut some asparagus for lunch. And stay out of the ditch.”

When fall came the kitchen was abuzz with the work of canning pickles and jams. I slowed her down so Mom said, “Take these peach pits out to the garden and plant them.” When the acrid odor of burning leaves drew me to jump into her neatly raked piles, I was told to “go play in traffic”, as if there were any on our lonely dirt road.

Winter brought snow to shovel and family affairs. All of Mom’s large Italian family gathered at our home for Christmas Eve. The drinking and loud conversations scared me so I hung back and watched. I hid under the tree with the thousands of gifts she had painstakingly wrapped, none of which I wanted or asked for.

In the spring, as Mom was bustling to put together elaborate bouquets for the cemetery, I would gather a small bunch of wildflowers to put on my sister’s grave. I sat watching my mother hack away at the invading grass around the headstone, imagining what life would have been if my sister had lived and I was the one who had died. My sister would have been an olive skinned beauty with a big laugh and an outgoing personality. She would have been loved and pampered, and I would have been brought beautiful flowers on a warm spring morning.

I look again at that old photo of my mother. I can see what the camera could not. The gorgeous smile and frenetic energy were camouflage used to displace the pain in her life. The loss of her first husband in The War. The death of my sister. The shame of my adoption. The discontent with her life on the farm. But for that one moment on film my mother was queen. The Queen of Denial.

Time

2010-10-20T10:02:00.000-07:00

I have noticed as I get older time seems to shoot by without me really noticing. For instance the last time I posted here was three weeks ago, although I could swear it was just last week. When I was a child time passed quite slowly. I have decided that as we age there is less to learn so more stuff just passes by without our notice.

I have made an effort over the last month to take more time for myself. My younger daughter is quite needy and even though we see each other every day at work, she would have me spend every day doing something with her. To be able to find time to write and enjoy my home, I have been telling her no more often. Today I know she was disappointed, but I have an essay to finish for my women's story circle group and since I mailed out my memior query to some agents, I really need to get it finished. And to do that I can't spend the whole day with her.

I hate putting pressure on myself. I think in some ways it leads to bad writing and writer's block. Setting a deadline for myself is the only way I am going to get this project done, and I need to get it done, so I can move on to something else. Over the years I have writen many essays on my life on the farm. The women's circle is helping me with that. I would like to tie them together some how. My novel is going nowhere but I would love to start working on another one. I have several good ideas, but I have to give myself permission to take the time to write.

Time is flowing by far too quickly. I need to take the time. I need to say no to those who would waste it. And most of all I need to give myself permission to be selfish with my time. So off to write.

Friends

2010-09-29T10:18:00.000-07:00

I have never been very good at making friends. Part of the problem is my natural shyness and a difficulty warming up in new situations.  I don't have old friends my hometown or college.  My oldest friend is my ex-neighbor Mary Lou.

Mary Lou and I lived on the same street in West Seattle. We met when she came collecting for the Red Cross with her tow-headed twins. Her daughters are a year older than my oldest daughter. She and I struck up a conversation and have been talking ever since. Numberous cups of coffee have been drank together while we watched the children grow. We took ESL and guitar lessons together. We have gone to parks and plays. We even played volleyball on a church league together. It was a total fiasco and our name, Luther's Losers, was very appropriate.

I moved away when the twins were nine, but we have kept in touch. Some years it has only been a Christmas card, but whenever I came back to Seattle I made a date with Mary Lou. Since I have moved back I try to see her several times a year. She lives in the same house as when our children were small. I have moved five times since then. She is married to the same man for nearly forty years and I am recently divorced. Her life is always so serene and upbeat.  Mine is always frenetic and stress filled, but she puts up with me for reasons I don't fully understand. Our lives are very different but the friendship remains. The connection is always there.

Mary Lou and I had dinner together last night. Two of our daughters are now mothers and we get to share pictures of the grandchildren. We discuss what a wonderful world this would be if we were in charge. We share a love of books and our travel stories. We ate Chinese and laughed.  We were the last people to leave the resturant.

Many years ago after I had moved from our little neighborhood, I had a dream. In the dream I was lost and so alone. I dispaired of finding anyone in that dark and lonely place. I rounded a corner and found Mary Lou. She was dressed in white and she was surrounded by a radiant glow. She is a large, soft woman and as she took me in her arms I was enveloped in her love.

Mary Lou is a true friend. We don't share a lot in life except for that love of books, motherhood, and now grandmotherhood, but there is always that connection. I feel as warmed by her now as I felt when I woke from that marvelous dream.

Critiques

2010-09-26T09:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I received an email from a friend. I had posted 100 pages of my memior to several friends in an attempt to see if I was writing something of value or it was just self-serving schlock better saved for my kids to read when I am no longer here.

I had received one back from my friend Chassily Wakefield who pointed out my typos and grammatical errors. She always likes what I write and other than my choppy first page she seems to like what I am doing. An old friend from medical school said it brought back a lot of memories of our time together there. She criticized my use of explatives but when I read some of it through they are appropriate. I was very angry at those points in the story.

Other people I sent it to have not responded. I don't know if that is because they didn't like it, or they are just too busy in their lives to sit down and read anything. I hope it is the latter.

But when I got Jen's note it gave me a warm feeling. Jen is a graduate student in library science in Boston. She reads a lot! I value her opinion. This is what she said:

"I just had to let you know that I hadn't had a chance to start reading your manuscript, but then today at work, while waiting for a report to run, I thought it would be a good time to take a few minutes and read a few pages. Well, I got so pulled into it that I completely forgot that I was at work and before I knew it, I was on page 46! When I realized how long I'd spent not doing a single bit of work, I forced myself to close the document and refocus, but wow! I did spot some little things here and there - typos and such - that I'll make note of and send back to you, but I just had to let you know that overall, you've really got a gripping story here. I know you've mentioned bits and pieces of it to us before, but I just had no idea of the extent of what you went through. It makes me want to come give you a big hug (which I intend to do at LeakyCon!) and tell you how amazing you are and how proud I am to see where you are today and how far you've come from the incidents you're describing in this book. I cannot wait to finish reading it - I intend to use that as my motivation and bribery to myself to finish my school reading as quickly as possible so I can get back to it."

Thank you Jen for restoring my faith in this project. I am going to work on that choppy first page and a query letter today and get it sent off.

Money

2010-09-22T09:49:00.000-07:00

I haven't given much thought to money in the past decade or so. My ex-husband and I were resonably well off. We had a two income household, a modest housepayment and the cars were paid off. We were frugal and didn't buy a thing unless we had the money in our pocket to pay for it.

Somewhere along the line, money got out of hand. I don't know whether it was the recession or that my income has stayed static for the past ten years while inflation has zoomed out of control. I think our divorce had something to do with it but I can't imagine what since my ex had not shared in the household expenses for a long time. I think a major culprit is an adult daughter and her family who always seem to need something and never have the money to buy it, inspite of their expensive cell phones and big screen TVs.

Irregardless of the the cause, I find myself waking up at night worrying about money. Twelve years ago when I became a doctor I was making good money. When I left that office four years ago to set up my own, I took a paycut to get the practice started and it was enough for just the ex and I and everything was fine. But this year, the bottom fell out. Income is down 15% from last year. I have given myself yet another paycut to make ends meet at the office, but now my household is cut to the bare bones.

I am back to when I was first married, counting every penny and hoping I will have enough to buy lunch tomorrow, while still carrying the burden of my daughter and her three children. I have a lot of money in savings, but I am afraid to dip into it because that is there for when I retire. And my novel is nowhere near to being sold for that big six figure advance.

So what to do? I suppose I could sell my practice to a big box medical group, but then I would be forced to march to the tune of someone else's drummer, something I am very bad at doing. I suppose I could let my daughter go from her receptionist posisition but that would only backfire on me even more because then I would be picking up more of their expenses. I suppose I can tighten my belt even further and forgo my lunches out and make my ten year old car run for another thirty thousand miles. Or I could get a weekend job at Walmart or McDonalds to supplement my income.

It really made me angry yesterday when it was reported that the recession is over. For whom? The Wall Street bigwigs that created this problem or the CEO's of insurance companies who keep raising premeiums but haven't increased reimbursement for services in ten years. I don't get it, but I can't waste the energy trying to change that which I have no control over.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I will go back to square one and start by changing myself. Goodbye lunch out and Hello sack lunches. Goodbye theater and concerts and Hello Red Box. Sorry Ky cat, but it is little Friskies for you. And daughter and grandkids, no, just no.

Beginnings

2010-09-19T10:11:00.000-07:00

The new project for my story circle group has to do with beginnings. This is a difficult assignment for me. I don't remember the first day of school or getting my first paycheck. Even my birthdays are just non-events.

I remember my wedding and the birth of my children. I remember a fall I took on the family farm which changed the way I look at life and death. I remember the phone call telling me I was accepted to medical school, but the first day is a blur.

Some images of my life are so painfully acute that they are difficult to unbandage and take a good look at.
Other aspects of my life are clouded in mystery. My own birth is clouded in speculation. I remember things which my mother always told me didn't happen or that I could not have remembered. And since memories are always tainted by the experiences of the rememberer, it is impossible to know what is truth.

I found a quote in a book yesterday. It summed up how I felt when I left the group with this new project looming. It is from The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield and is attributed to her character Vida Winter.

"All children mythologize their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won't be the truth; it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story."

So I will chose to do a portait of my mother, as I remember her. Because in telling that story, I will tell you the mythology of mine.

Life Hiking

2010-09-18T09:36:00.000-07:00

At twenty years old I stood at a crossroads. I was attending a college in Southern Idaho, a place I did not want to be. In the past year I had changed my major three times. I had just ended a two year romance which I was glad to see finished, although I was lonely and unsure of when another would come my way. To my right was a verdant path lined with ferns which twisted into a canopy of ancient cedar forest. To my left, a steep, slippery shale slope, virtually impassable without the proper climbing equipment.

I stood at the base of that cliff armed with a rucksack and a couple of tattered maps. I wanted to take the path which scaled that rocky crag, but my mother barred the way up. That dream was too lofty for her imagination. She believed that women could only travel gentle trails and then only with a male companion. I looked down the undemanding the needle-soft wooded path she preferred and then craned my neck up in an attempt to imagine what I might find at the top of the precipice. I knew I could only climb that incline with help, but I was alone.

Grieving for what was lost, I shouldered my rucksack and started down the easier path. After a couple of turns I could no longer see the peak. I found a man sitting by the side of the trail. He asked me to join him on his quest. I gave up on my maps and followed his. Soon, the once friendly, welcoming trail became steeper. The bed of needles gave way to ruts. Sharp rocks jutted out catching the toes of my well worn boots. I wore a blister on my heel. I reached for my husband’s hand, but he batted it away, and scolded me. “Keep up,” he said and I soldiered on trying to emulate his steps.

Years passed and I stumbled more. The weight of the two children I now carried in my pack bent my shoulders. My head ached with the effort to stay on the trail. I trudged, eyes down, not watching where I was headed until, horrified, I realized the once friendly path was now carrying me toward the edge of an abyss.

I clambered back from the edge. “I thought this was the easy path,” I cried and feeling lost, I pulled out my maps. I found the place where I sat trembling and followed a dotted line back to where I had really wanted to go. Now it didn’t really seem that far. I stood up and squared my shoulders. I felt stronger now. My climbing skills had improved. I realized I had picked up some ropes and climbing tools along my hike. I had to try.

I turned back toward that shale slope, my husband running behind me. “I will climb this slope and you will help,” I called out to him. I placed my foot on the first slippery step, and slowly, I began to ascend. Over the next few years, there were tumbles and more than a few skinned knees, but I kept the top of the peak in my sights. I didn’t let ill weather or rock falls deter me. I moved upward, one difficult step at a time.

When at last I crested the summit, I stood amazed at the new vistas which presented themselves. I looked down into the verdant valley where I had started. And at forty years old I stood at a crossroads.

_________________________________________________

I wrote this for my women's story circle group. The topic was what you were like at a certain decade of life. While I was thinking about this I realized I couldn't address myself at 10. Thirty was an age of discovery about my true roots. And now at 50 I am still making choices about my future. Life is full of crossroads and how we navigate them depends on the experiences of the past.

Arguements

2010-09-06T10:34:00.000-07:00

One of the things I never learned in my family of origin was how to have a disagreement. I have some ideas about why that was. Possibly it had something to do with being an only child and not having those exasperating sibling rivalry things which I truly believe hone one's skills at disagreement. The other I believe has to do with my parents, Silent Bob and The Queen of Denial. Dad never had much to say about anything and my mother's point of view was the only one which mattered so there wasn't much conflict in our household.

I think it also stems from my personality. I am slow to warm up, and when people do or say things with which I disagree, it takes me a while to process that. So when someone is rude, I don't have a quick comeback. I stand there flatfooted wondering what is the right thing to say. In fact I had a recurring experience with a patient who left me so dumbfounded with her negative pronouncements, that I finally put a notecard in her chart so that the next time it happened I would be prepared with a snappy come back. I did a simular thing with my ex-mother-in-law whose backhanded "compliments" left me baffled for nearly 25 years.

The reason I am even talking about this is because last night a good friend of mine hurt my feelings. I was so shocked that he would do such a thing. Especially since he had asked me for the information I was trying to give him. I shut my mouth and gave him back monosyllables for the rest of our conversation. I don't think he even noticed. I fumed about it all evening and this morning sent him off an email about it. Even then I couldn't put into words how hurt, embarrassed, and bewildered I was at his actions.

This morning someone had shared on Facebook this video of Dane Cook talking about relationships. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EvXQFZGbitE&feature=related
I remember the first time I saw it how much I laughed. I wish I could be that "brain ninja" that he talks about. I do the foot plant. I start to agree with everything that is said. I do the thing with the hand and then ... nothing. No timebomb set to go off in my opponent's mind.

I wonder if this is a skill which can be learned. Snappy Comebacks 101. I would sign up immediately.

Sharing my writing

2010-09-05T11:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I took a very brave step. While I have sent pages from my novel to a number of agents, each time shaking as I slipped them into the mail slot, I have not shared my writing with friends or relatives.

Yesterday I emailed the first 100 pages of my memior to trusted relatives and friends. I wanted to know from them if they felt it was ready to share with an agent who showed some interest in my project.

In the past have been reluctant to share my writing. It was away to put feelings in a safe place. Hidden away from prying eyes.  My feelings were not respected when I was growing up. I was told not to believe my own senses and experiences, so writing became a way to make them solid and real. Writing for me became so personal that it is difficult to share it with others.

As I was writing the female protagonist for my novel, so many of Rhiannon's thoughts and experiences are my own (with the exception of the great love affair). Even writing this fictional character was cathartic for me. It helped me see the inadequacies of my own life, and helped me move forward toward resolving those issues.

I am finding the composing of this memior to be less healing. I have lived that part of my life. The stories within its pages I have told many times. The conflicts are resolved and the goal has been reached.  I think this memior's purpose is to instuct and hopefully inspire. But to do that, others will have to read it.

I took that first step yesterday and I will be doing more of it with my women's writing group. I am a storyteller. So the stories must move from my head to the page. So off to write!

Day hikes

2010-08-29T10:13:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking since yesterday about hiking. When one sets off on a day hike they take with them their day pack with some snacks and water. I always pack my binoculars and my field guide hoping to run across some unique species of bird for my life list. I suppose one should pack the first aid kit and some supplies in case of an emergency, but I never think that far ahead. I tend to walk on well traveled paths with good signage and I never travel too far from civilization. I suppose that provides me with a false sense of security.

The last hike I took was to Sol Duc falls with friends. The path is a mile long and well traveled although uneven in places and slick with dampness from the falls. On that occasssion I didn't even take food and water. We were close to our cabin at the resort. We would be back very soon.

However, even that short walk was filled with possibilities of danger. One could turn an ankle on the slippery rocks. One could go left when the others went right and be seperated and lost from the safety of the group. Someone could lean too far over the edge and fall into the water or worse yet over the falls. I planned for none of these emergencies.

Life is often like that. I have often set out unprepared on life's journeys. I didn't have the proper equipment or the map I was given was faulty. I have blindly followed the directions of others, only to find myself stuck at the edge of an abyss or trapped in a box canyon. I have planned for a day hike only to be trapped out overnight, without fire and food, and forced to face the elements alone. I have been afraid and dispaired of anyone finding me.

In the past I have repeated this pattern time and again, but those experiences have shaped who I am. I have made magic with a couple of sticks rubbed together and I have eaten the fruits which Nature has provided. I have learned what I need to carry with me for safety and whose advice I will listen to when planning a trip. But mostly I have learned to trust myself and my instincts. I will stay away from slippery precipices. I will avoid fellow travelers who take too many chances.

I have become my own best guide.

Writing and Women's Stories

2010-08-28T16:23:00.000-07:00

This morning I attended a Women's Story Circle group which is organizing near my home. I have to say that I was apprehensive. I have never considered myself the most outgoing person and I tend to avoid meeting new people, but the energy and support which emanated from this group from the first few moments were remarkable.

This group of smart literate women joined by the passion for writing and the telling of stories was so uplifting. I was able to tell my story in a non-judgemental group was something I have been lacking for a long time. I think I have been so tied up by the rejection of agents that I am on some level afraid to put fingers to keys and get busy.

I have a writing assignment for the group which is buzzing inside my head. We are to write about ourselves at different ages. I am thinking about age 20 and how the choices I made then affected the outcomes of my life now. Always keeping to the positive.

I have also toyed with the idea of trying to get a newspaper column started as a platform for my other writing. Two of the younger women in the group were already doing that so now I am empowered to go forward with that. I think I would like to write a medical column which not only addresses physical wellness but the effects of psychological and sociological pressures on health. And I would like to do it in a upbeat, friendly kind of way.

Thank you to Linda for organizing the group. I hope you are the "Butt Glue" I need to settle down and get to writing again. And as we were talking about this morning...

"It isn't easy for any of to transcend the past, or pain we might have suffered. Yet, there are gifts in those pains, and we can choose to let light into the dark places"

The Claddagh Ring

2010-08-22T11:22:00.000-07:00

Prologue

Michael Richmond placed his left palm against the familiar front door. He listened for some sign of life on the other side. His hand trembled as he slipped the key into the slot. The door swung open.

The condo was altered from the last time he was here. The comfy furniture was pushed back against the walls. I was replaced by a stainless steel hospital bed. An unfamiliar, medicinal smell made the back of his neck prickle.

He crept to the rail of the bed. The occupant’s ice blue eyes were wide open, but they were focused on a specter Michael couldn’t see. A guttural groan issued from her dried, cracked lips. Michael stood transfixed with horror. What was happening here?

He jumped as the kitchen door banged open. A woman entered. He thought for an instant this was his beautiful Rhiannon, but the scowl and the flash of green eyes told him this was her daughter, Beth, instead.

Beth carried a loaded syringe between her teeth as she pulled on rubber gloves. She slipped the needle from the plastic cap and inserted it into the IV in the woman’s hand. Beth watched her patient’s face a line of concentration between her eyebrows.

When the syringe was empty and the moaning stilled, Beth acknowledged Michael. “What are you doing here?”

“Why didn’t she call me?”

Beth removed the syringe from the tubing, recapped it and looked up from the IV line. “Look, Michael, not everything is about you, okay. Mamma said you were busy, and she would call you when she could.” She glared at him. The heat of her hatred penetrated him.

“Beth, I don’t want to fight with you. I came because you said on the phone your mother was ill. I need to be here. I want to help.”

“Kate and I don’t want your help,” she spat and strode out of the room.

He was alone except for the click of the IV pump. Rhiannon lie quiet and still. She looked so old. When had that happened? She was always alive, willing to go anywhere and do anything. Had he gotten too busy for her: taken her for granted? Then he realized that she had never depended on him. Loved him, yes, but never needed him.

He heard a crash against the kitchen wall.

2010-08-22T10:50:00.000-07:00

Lately my life seems to be speeding by and I have no idea where it is going. Two weeks ago I was poised to begin anew. Then a special friend came for the weekend and I got off track again.

So here we are where I was two weeks ago. I did make some changes to this blog this morning. I decided to drop my Claddagh Ring domain name at Yahoo. I had only gotten one email in 18 months and it was expensive so I dropped it. I also removed my Twilight updates from the bottom. I will be researching more interesting and appropriate gadgets in the future.

Later today I will post the prologue to The Claddagh Ring. I will post the announcement to my Facebook and Twitter accounts and see how many comments I get. If you want me to continue, please post. Your comments will help me decide if the time is right to make an attempt to epublish or not. I WILL take all comments seriously. Please stay tuned.

The Claddagh Ring

2010-08-07T12:20:00.000-07:00

I have been doing a lot of thinking this week about my novel and what would be the best way to get some reader impressions. I thought about going to a small publisher and getting 100 copies made to send to all my friends. I also thought about sending it as an attachment to everyone I know.

I had considered sending it out to an epublisher and seeing if I could get a following, But after much consideration, I have decided to use all the formus which I belong to instead. With that goal in mind, I am going to work on serializing The Claddagh Ring to this site, and see what reader comments I can generate. If I get a favorable response then I will probably approach an epublisher and see what I can rustle up! LOL

I also found a writing challange in Stephan King's book that I am going to work on. It consists of writing a short story for which he has laid out the scenario. I am intrigued by the idea, so will set to work on it soon. He even says if you email it to him he will read it an critque it. Very interesting!

My good friend Chassily Wakefield will be home from the RWA convention this week. We are having lunch on Wed. I am going to ask her to edit the first fifty of my memior so that I can send it off to the agent and editor who expressed an interest. I finally got up my nerve and read the critiques I had gotten. I got a 67/100. They wanted the story tightened up a bit but they liked the concept.

Anyway, I will be working on a couple of minor changes I want to make to TCR this weekend. So look for the first installment sometime this week. I look forward to your input. Thanks.

Busy ness

2010-08-01T19:02:00.000-07:00

I can not believe it has been nearly six months since I was last here. Since I checked in last my new grandson has been born. My condominium closed, been remodeled and I have moved in. I have taken a trip to Holland with my cousins and attended a writing conference.

That writing conference is the reason I am back. I forgot in the busy-ness of life that I have a goal and to achieve it I have to find a quiet peaceful place for my muse to find me. Today has been one of those days. And for that I am grateful.

I started the morning with the newspaper and coffee. I read a bit of Stephen King's On Writing. He inspired me to get off my hamster wheel, put on some Butt Glue and start writing again. I spent four hours revising my memior. It was brilliant. I was cutting out unnecessary words and killing adverbs left and right.

I got a couple of bites on my memior at the writer's conference so I need to get it ready to send it out.

Alas no one seems to be interested in my novel. However there is a local outfit called Long Tale Press. They publish the first few chapters of your book and see the reader response. I am thinking about using them to get a feel for the market. I have also considered serializing it here ala Stephanie Meyer. I am going to give it a bit of thought before I do anything rash. However I feel compeled to do something. I think the right answer will come to me very soon.

Anyway, it is good to be feeling the muse.

2010-02-24T09:42:00.000-08:00

My cold is worse. I am coughing and if it keeps up, I will lose my voice entirely. I have a list of things to accomplish today. My day off never is. I have to do all the little things that keep my practice running like buying copy paper and staples. I have to do my banking and grocery shopping. There never seems to be enough hours in the day.

I realize however that I am wasting a lot of life surfing the web. I have several sites that I am kind of addicted to. I have beaches to comb and farms to tend at Facebook. I have to keep up on my fav celebrities at Twitter. I have my three Harry Potter sites to keep track of and my emial at AOL. It is quite overwhelming at times and a total waste of my time.

So with that in mind I am going to close this down and maybe get a couple of hours of real writing done.

2010-02-23T14:25:00.000-08:00

Well so much for good intentions. I use the excuse that I was really busy this weekend.

I went to a medical conference on Sat. Tell me why they always talk about sleep disorders after lunch. It was all I could do to keep awake. I was so afraid my head was going to hit the desk. I did manage to find a sunbeam at the break and take a ten minute power nap. It revived me enough to pay attention for the rest of the program.

On Sunday I went with a realtor friend to look at condos. There are tons of them in the area where I live, unfortunately I am being picky. I really want something with a view of the Puget Sound. Many of them you had to stand on one foot and peer around the corner of the deck to see it. Even my friend thought some of the realtors were imagining things. I also didn't want a lot of stairs. I am getting old and the idea of schlepping groceries up two flights of stairs is getting more and more unattractive. I saw a couple I might be interested in, but nothing I am going to be broken hearted over. Now I am kind of rethinking my plan.

Yesterday again I did nothing. I blame the Olympics. I got intrigued with the ice dancing and didn't do too much else. I wrote my writer friend Chassily. We both seem to be in some kind of writing doldrums. Maybe it is the weather. I think I need to find another weekend symposium to get my juices flowing. Or maybe I just need another project. I will think on that one.

I have a much needed appointment with my counselor for tomorrow. Hopefully we can discuss this quagmire I find myself in and devise a way to escape from it.

2010-02-17T11:33:00.000-08:00

I got some writing done this morning. I am working on a memior of my medical school experience. I have just finished up with my three weeks in the NICU and am considering if there is enough material from my weeks in the peds ER or if I should just move on to family medicine. I will let that thought percolate as I go about the rest of my day.

My Long Absence

2010-02-16T10:48:00.000-08:00

I can't believe that an entire month has pasted without me posting something here. I have been getting two submissions together for the local literary contest, but that couldn't have taken up so much of my time. I seem to have a lot of things spinning through my head, and time moves too fast when you get older.

My daughter has been ill and while she is getting better, the stress of not knowling if she was going to have to be hospitalized again was taking its toll.

A good friend, who had become a big part of my life, had some set backs. It was hard for me to let him deal with these things. I am a rescuer and it is so difficult for me to do nothing when a friend is in need. I am still dealing with the emotional fallout from that.

And I have been worried about finances. The economy down turn had a serious negative effect on my business. And while I was worried about that, I also am trying to make plans for my future, which of course, only takes money.

So I have three Feb 15th resolutions.
1) I am going to write everyday with the goal of 500 words and at least a short post here.
2) I am going to get back on my diet and start walking everyday
3) I am going to think about ways to fill up my weekends, otherwise I am wasting time sitting and stewing.

So I will be here tomorrow. I promise myself.

2010-01-09T12:39:00.000-08:00

I really got into the writing this morning. It felt good to get some words on paper. Time to run some errands and do some household chores, but then will hit it again this afternoon.

2010-01-08T19:29:00.000-08:00

Here it is Friday night. I have had a very busy week. The cold and the rain have seeped into my joints. I have a few moments for reflection.

I have a ton of free time this weekend which I plan to put to good use. The Christmas decorations need to come down and some household chores, but I will write this weekend. Things have settled down with the family issues. The holidays are over. I feel more in control of my finances. It is time to get to work.

I am picking up my story with my obsterics rotation and moving on to the neonatal ICU. This is followed by an emotionally difficult set of scenes dealing with my marriage and depression. A few notes about family medicine and a couple of psychiatry stories. I think I can accomplish this in the next few weeks. I will use this forum to get my head pointed in the right direction. And hopefully this time I won't be betrayed by "the pinky finger."

Happy New Year

2010-01-05T11:06:00.000-08:00

I recently returned from a visit with a friend. It was cold and damp and we spent quit a bit of time indoors. I found time to contemplate all the events of the last year and consider the beginning of a new one. I have set some goals and resolve to make them happen. I realized I am spending too much time "surfing the web", and I need to start writing, start exercising and get out and meet people. This isolationism isn't good for me.

As far as my book goes, I received a kind rejection letter from an agent I met last summer. I think I will keep it. She gave me hope and I value her opinion. I will do the edits sometime this weekend and send out a couple of queies and get it ready to submit to the PWNA writing contest. I am starting to look at self-publishing.

I will be spending more time writing. I will make time on my days off to write. I want to have the memior ready for the contest as well, so I am going to use my time more wisely.

I want to be able to hike the Lake Ozette trail by June 21st. It is six miles round trip. I can do three now, but I do need to get back at the end of the day.

I need to think about my business. Expenses are up and patient visits have been down. I have been worried about money and that has been sapping my energies. Some of my worries are going away this week, but I need to work on living more frugally, so that I can do the things which bring me pleasure instead of denying myself.

It seems like a big list but it is do-able. I will have to push myself out of this funk. It is a new year with new possibilities. The biggest thing I have learned this last year is that I am content to be alone. I don't need someone in my life to make me happy. I have interests and goals, and I need to put them before anything else.

2009-12-23T19:34:00.000-08:00

Thanks go out to my friend and fellow writer Chassily Wakefield. She finished the edit on another section of my novel. I have been blessed to have the support of Chassily and other new writer friends as I go through this process.

I would also like to send out thanks to John Reed for his review of my first fifty. John, it was sometimes difficult to hear, and even though I didn't want to change the format, I saw the wisdom in your advice.

I have been letting ideas percolate up this week and I think I am ready to work. I hope to make progress over the holiday weekend. Merry Christmas.

Holiday Greetings

2009-12-21T11:20:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Blessed Winter Soltice to my friends and family.

A month has gone by so quickly. Apparently when one reaches middle age, the days and months get shorter, not to mention the years. I had every intention of writing again and I did get some work done but alas, not as much as I had hoped. I am planning on using the Christmas and New Year's holidays to get some major work done, with the goal of having a rough (and I mean Rough) draft done by the end of Feb. I had decided that the pre-med and medical school stuff is probably enough for one book. I can always do residency as a sequel. :)

As far as the marketing of my novel, there is no joy there either. I have postponed sending any more queries for now. Agents won't have time to look at them and I frankly don't have the time either. I sent several queries by snail mail a while back, and two of them are still floating around out there. I got a nice letter back from an editor I had met at a PWNA conference. She was kind, but said she didn't feel that she could be passionate enough about it to do it justice. An agent who will remain nameless was less kind. She told me she didn't think the book sounded interesting. I don't know how you make that kind of judgment based on a one page query, but she is pretty opinionated based on her Twitter account.

I think the basic problem is that my query letters are lacking some pazazz. I may need to find a query workshop or on line course to help me put it together after the first of the year. Several of the agents I am interested in are not taking any new queries until the first of February so there is plenty of time.

I wish you peace and joy in the winter holidays,. My New Year's resolution is to write here daily.

2009-11-15T16:13:00.000-08:00

I began writing again today. I have a story to tell and I have to get it on to the page. I can't continue to worry about no one wanting my novel. I can only keep sending it out and hoping someone will want it. However, the more of this marketing I do the more I become convinced that one needs an agent to find an agent.

I think I got myself unblocked by writing something else. For years now I have sent out a tacky Christmas letter with all the activities of my family. People often told me how humorous it was, but for the past few years since the girls grew up it was tired and mundane. This year because of all the changes in my life I wrote a new letter, one of hope and dreams for the future.

I think writing that letter in combination with reading Kris Radish's book and lunch with my friend Chassily, put the whole thing into prospective for me. Chassily's stuggles with getting words on the page helped me realize again that it is not the selling of the story which is important but the telling of it. I have told the story in my novel, I now need to tell this story from my life. And when I finish this story, I will move on to the next. I am a writer and writers write stories.

Christmas letter

2009-11-11T10:26:00.000-08:00

I haven't been here in a while. I have been a human doing instead of a human being. I just started a new book--Dancing Naked at the Edge of Dawn by Kris Radish. I love her voice although she kind of rambles and loses me at times. I read her stuff wondering how she knows what goes on inside my head. She inspires me to stretch my wings.

I haven't worked on the memior. I am afraid to start again. I am afraid of Vista. I don't understand what my left pinkie finger does to get me in so much trouble. I will try to keep it extended and not hit extranious keys.

I wrote my yearly tacky Christmas letter. Last year when I wrote it I was on the edge of a major life change. I didn't say anything in the letter. I didn't want to be a downer at the holidays. I suppose I was leaving myself an out just in case I didn't leave. This year I felt I owed my family and friends an explanation of my inexplicable behavior. I hope it satisfies them.

I was wondering what I would do with my time off at Thanksgiving. I finally decided. I am having dinner with my younger daughter and her family on Wednesday. Thanksgiving Day I will watch the Macy's parade and go to the movies or write. On Friday I am working a half day and then I am going to see a friend for the weekend. I refuse to sit here feeling sorry for myself. That wasn't why I left.

I have been off my plan for a while now. Maybe it was the depression. Maybe it was grief as the one year anniversay of my freedom approached. Maybe it was exhaustion from all the legal wrangling. Maybe it is just fall and I am going into hibernation mode. Irregardless, the divorce will be final in a few weeks. All that is left is gathering the remains of my things and returning the things which I inadvertantly took with me. It is a poor end to thrity years together, but it is what I wanted. Still it is sad.

Depression

2009-11-01T10:41:00.000-08:00

I can't believe that I have fallen into this hole again. As I look back at my blogs for the past few weeks I can see it happening again. I had all these plans about what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go, and now I find myself slogging through life once again.

I don't know how this has happened or even what started it. I think it began with losing the memior. The task of starting over was just so overwhelming. I had just been though all that with the novel. I am getting rejection letters on that as well and it is hard to deal with. I love my story but apparently others don't. I know I have to be all right with that, but it is still difficult.

I am also reaching the end of a divorce. All that is left now of 30 years of marriage is a trip to the courthouse to file the papers. Other friends are going out, being asked on dates, and I sit here alone with my laptop playing hearts. My adult daughters have their own lives and I not want to be an intruder on them. I have four days off at Thanksgiving and I will be alone for most of it. I am afraid Christmas will be just as bad. I knew this would happen but it hurts none the less. The pottery class I was looking forward to was cancled. I feel increasingly isolated.

Maybe it is the laptop. Before I got it, I would have to go to my desk and look out the window. I could see the sky, the trees, and the cars passing on the road. Maybe my easy chair is just too confining.

I had all these plans, but they have come to nothing. Maybe I need Prozac or just a swift kick in the butt.

Next week I am getting a haircut; the first one in four years. I want to feel attractive. I have signed to go to a medical conference in two weeks; I will talk to people. I will get out of this chair and go sit at my desk. I have another query letter to send out--this one will go to the person who will love my book. I am going to Amsterdam with my cousins next summer. I will get off this pity pot and make a life for myself. I must start to concentrate on the positives.

2009-10-25T17:34:00.000-07:00

I have been stuck now for far too long. I know I have to just sit down a write, but I feel uninspired. I did get a writing assignment from my counselor this week. She wanted me to visualize a situation that I though would have the ability to change a flawed position which I maintain about myself. I spent today working on this.

I know I need to just sit down a write, but so many things seem to be calling me away. I must get back into the habit of writing daily even if it is only to write something here. I will move my blog up the list and tomorrow I will begin again.

Robert Frost

2009-10-17T23:29:00.000-07:00

I started trying to write this morning. As I was beginning I remembered one of my favorite poems. I first heard The Road Not Taken when I was singing in a madrigal group in high school. It has become a touchstone for my life. While I have had difficulties in my life it truly has been one of taking the least traveled road. I wanted to share it with all of you who seek a different path.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

2009-10-14T11:18:00.000-07:00

This morning between balancing my checkbook and cleaning the cat box I came to a decision. I am a great believer in Karma and serendipity. I think losing the memoir was a bit of both. I am not going to take the laptop to Geek Squad. I am going to start re-writing it. I think the initial draft was just away to get my energy flowing. I am going to do an outline this time. >.< And I have set up a back up for documents on my computer. Hopefully that will keep me from losing everything again. And I will begin again.

Losses and Gains

2009-10-11T18:47:00.000-07:00

You shouldn't give up.
Fight for yourself and
who you are. You've got
to go through the worst
times in life to get the best

I just read this on PostSecret.com. This is one of the absolute truths of life. The difficult times are the fire that temper us. We become harder, more resilliant. The difficult times are also an opportunity for change. And if used well, those difficulties can produce gifts for you.

The past few weeks a friend of mine has had financial difficulties. I am not in a position to help, but I know that something good will come from his situation. It does no good for me to tell him that. He will have to experience it for himself.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

For myself, I have been to the ocean this weekend. I love the sound of the waves. There were pelicans skimming the beach. It is very theraputic for me. I needed to say my Serenity Prayer. I needed to come to terms with a loss.

I have been working now for two months on a memior. The work was going very well, I thought. Then I touched some button or something and the whole thing disappeared off my flashdrive. I didn't know that could happen. My daughter says it is backed up on my laptop some where. I have thought about it all weekend. Should I take the laptop to Geek Squad and spend the money to try to find it, or should I accept it as some type of omen and begin again? I haven't decided yet.

2009-10-03T16:24:00.000-07:00

I finished The Lost Symbol. I was greatly relieved to find out there was a twist.

The book raises a lot of interesting questions about the nature of God and man. Most of points were not new ideas to me. I was brought up as Christian, so when I think about spirituality I use Christian vocabulary, but I have also been through AA and studied other religions. I believe there is a Power Greater than Ourselves, without which we are unable to make positive change in ourselves, and I see no conflict between being a scientist and my belief in that Higher Power. In fact, the more I study science the more I am convinced in an all powerful creative force which gives things a push in the right direction every now and again. I believe that science is leading us on a path toward "touching the face of God". He would not have given us all this intellect and all these talents if He did not want to meet us someday as equals.

I was also thinking about the divisions which exist between those world religions. The Washington Monument features strongly in the book. It made me think about the Tower of Babel in the Old Testament. God struck the builders down for trying to reach heaven, and punished them by making them speak in different tongues. The world's religions are all talking about the same things; peace, love and enlightenment. It is the "Babel" that keeps us from really communicating. Think of what could be accomplished if we understood each other and every person was able to use their intellect to their highest capacity.

John 1:1 says, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." The novel centers around the quest for that Word. What if the Word is Man?

2009-09-30T10:07:00.000-07:00

There are several things on my mind this morning. First, I have gotten 382 pages into The Lost Symbol. It appears at this point that one of my favorite characters may have died. I can't believe how this revalation has effected me. I am shaking and my heart is pounding. There is pressure in my throat and tears are about to spill. I can't believe Dan Brown would do this. There has to be a twist.

Which leads me to hope that I can create that kind of emotion when I write. I want people to laugh and cry. I want them to feel the emotions of the characters and then add their own to the mix. Will work on that today.

Another few words about the healthcare debate. I am very upset with the division the country is facing right now. How will our legislators ever be able to accomplish anything when they are so far apart ideologically? Have we gone as far as democracy can take us? Maybe we should put some of the dollars being spent on this debate into improving education. "Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it".

2009-09-26T11:47:00.000-07:00

I realized this morning that I am wasting a lot of time. It is so easy to get caught up in social networking sites. I am not doing the things I should. I must work on a change of attitude.

I worked a bit on my short story submission this week and sent out a couple of query letters. I realize that getting a book published is a long term investment but it will soon be four years since I had the idea and started putting words on paper. Royce Buckingham said "Send things out and start writing something else." I am trying to do that. The discouraging part is that even though you have sent it out, the book still needs to be tended.

Getting your novel isn't like writing a business letter or paying a bill. Once those have slipped through the mail slot they are gone. You can put them out of your mind. With finding an agent, you have to be mindful of when you sent your query. If there is a rejection, you must send out another query. The novel is always in the back of your mind. It is difficult to move on to the next project with the last one still lingering there.

I know I will write this weekend between the laundry and vacuuming. Life must go on. I learned in medical school that I could do almost anything I set my mind to, but I would like to have my novel bound and sitting on the shelf, rather than on a flashdrive at the safety deposit.

Today however, I will put this aside. I will work on positive thinking. I will read some more of The Lost Symbol and start watching True Blood season one because everyone is raving. And I will let the stories percolate to the top of my mind so I can begin afresh in the morning.

2009-09-20T17:51:00.000-07:00

I am feeling really good about my work today. I have written four chapters today. I am even having fun trying to come up with titles for the chapters. I did realize today that writing a memior is very simular to writing a novel. While it is tempting to write everything that happened in a linear manner, there has to be some plotting as well to make it interesting. As such it is not totally accurate as a time line, but hits the high points.

I started The Lost Symbol as well this weekend. Dan Brown wrote a flashback six pages long. It was so shocking when we came back to the current time I also felt the transition physically. I probably wouldn't have noticed it before I started writing in earnest. Now I made a note to myself. "Don't do that."

I also went to see James Taylor. His music leaves me nostalgic. I also watched Dirty Dancing with friends on Friday. I wonder why I don't own any of this fabulous music. I wonder if I can get a discount from Amazon if I run their ad here.

I also got a rejection letter for The Claddagh Ring. It was from an agent which had rejected it before. I am going to make a file of rejection letters, just so when I am published I can send them a copy. Get one rejection, send out another letter.

2009-09-18T10:28:00.000-07:00

Haven't found too much time for posting the last few days. It seems the days and weeks are much shorter than they were when I was younger.

I worked on my memior this weeks. It is amazing how memories fade. I have some old calandars which my children made that help put me in the time. I am anxious to move on to my third year. I have so many more stories which revolve around patients and the tension is greater for that particular year than the second year.

I had dinner with a writer friend last night and then went to our local writer's association meeting. It was good to get out and talk about writing and hear about the process of others. I was reminded that I need to write every day. Life and work seem to get in the way so easily.

The other bit of writing I did this week concerned a letter to Pres. Obama. I took parts of my post below and some comments I had made else where and melded them into a letter which I hope was coherant. I was very distrurbed to read in the paper that a local Holocaust survivor was arrested for assaulting LaRouch follows with their posters of Obama with a Hitler mustache. The mis-information and extreme rhetoric in this debate is going to lead to more of these kind of unfortunate incidents, which is unfortunate. Every person in this country needs access to healthcare. I don't have the answers, but I know if people don't calm down, nothing will be accomplished and healthcare costs will continue to rise.

Redondo, Des Moines, Washington

2009-09-12T22:09:00.000-07:00

Today, I stated my morning with coffee as I always do on Sat. I am reading this wonderful book about a traveling funeral. It makes me quite emotional with all the stories and memories and female friendships.

I had a message appointment. They always have the most sumputuous aroma therapy brewing. You can smell the place the moment you open the door. My therapist had whale songs playing. She put heat on my feet and arnica on my sore back. I wish she could have worked on me all day.

When I left the building my mind was open. The weather so beautiful that I decided on a walk. There is an area called Redondo not too far away from my home. It is on the south Puget Sound, which is an arm of the Pacific Ocean. Redondo has a sweeping view of the Sound. You can see Tacoma and Commencement Bay to the south. Fox Island is to the west and you can just see the Olympic Mountains beyond. To the north, I don't know how far you can see, but the Sound heads to the Staight of Juan de Fuca and then Vancouver Island in Canada.

I took a walk along the boardwalk. There were all kinds of people, young and old, out walking and running today. The tide was in. The water was slapping up under the walkway. Occassionally water popped up between the boards. I saw something moving in the water. Initally I thought it was a big salmon, but it was a sleak, grey harbor seal headed north. I saw one dark head farther out in the water which may have been a sea lion. Salmon were jumping everywhere slapping the water and forming spreading wakes in the calm water. The sky was the bluest blue. There were no clouds. I met a lady as I was walking. We talked about the bald eagles and great blue herons which nest nearby. I told her my story of seeing a fox near there one evening.

My plan was to write down there, but I decided on food instead. There is one resturant on Redondo called Saltys. I walked alone into this upscale place with my dirty tee-shirt, baggy pants and Birkies. No one gave me a second look. They gave me a table with that same Sound view. I had a glass of Chardonney. It wasn't the best--not quite buttery enough for me. I had a tender petite sirlion, medium rare with a Hollendasie sauce. There were two pan fried oysters, asper-grass (that is what I call it) and tiny, buttery, Yukon gold potatoes.

It was a perfect day in the Pacific Northwest. I am refreshed and renewed, and re-dedicated to seeing more of this paradise I call home.

The healthcare debate

2009-09-10T20:45:00.000-07:00

I listened with interest to the President's speech last night. I am in agreement that every person in this country has the right to healthcare coverage. The costs of caring for the uninsured through the ER is increasing costs for everyone.

I just don't know how it should be administered. Medicare and Medicade are huge government buearacracies which are difficult to navigate and sometimes extremely difficult to get compensation out of. Like any government entity, the only thing they know how to do is make rules and create paperwork. And in our state Medicare pays one of the lowest rates of reimbursement. Medicade only pays 45 cents on the dollar so for people with multiple medical problems and complex psychological and social problems, I can't afford to care for them.

But the insurance companies have providers in a bind as well. They decide how much they will pay as well and you are locked into their rates. Very few insurance companies reimburse at 100%. Most of them are at 65%. So as a provider, I could raise my prices but I wouldn't be compensated more. A price increase will only hurt those people who have no coverage. Insurace companies are in the business of making money for themselves.

I am in solo practice. My overhead runs 65%. Rent, payroll, supplies and malpractice insurance keeps rising, but the amount I earn per patient visit is static. Today I filled out five patient forms which I can not be reimbused from. I have patients who work for Boeing and Microsoft who make more than I do, but because I am "a rich doctor" I am viewed as the source of the increases in medical costs. I have not raised my fees in four years. So where do I cut costs. I cut them in the amount that I pay myself.

I will be steadfast. I don't believe that bigger medicine makes better medicine. I don't believe that more paperwork and buearacracy do anything to enhance my relationships with my patients. I don't believe that big government can improve access to care. But what I do know, is that if I had a million dollars, I would keep doctoring until it is all gone.

2009-09-07T22:49:00.000-07:00

I worked on my med school memoir today. Got up through the summer before second year. Already have 25,000 words. May have to do one med school one residency.

Toying with a short story in my mind. See if I can pull it together for submission.

My good friend and editor Chassily Wakefield wrote me today. She sent me a note about her edits on part 3 of The Claddagh Ring. She said, "you were very good about keeping the story moving forward and not bogging it down with unnecessary back story and flashbacks. The ones that are in there need to be there and deepen characterization. . . .Your style of writing is very lean and clean, straightforward and yet still manages to get the passion and character development in there. It makes for a very fast-paced read, which is awesome." It was wonderful to have someone appreciate my work. Thanks Chassily! I will put that on the cover when it is published!

2009-09-07T00:09:00.000-07:00

I thought of this the other day. Thought it would be a great beginning line for a story.

Cassandra once again felt her mother's critical glare. The child her mother wanted lie under the dry grey-green grass of the southern Idaho cemetary. All she had was Cassandra and Cassandra was never enough.

Book Review

2009-09-06T10:10:00.000-07:00

I just finished The Crowning Glory of Calla Lily Ponder by Rebecca Wells. I was expecting more of a Ya-ya sisterhood kind of story. Calla is almost a Forrest Gump kind of character. She grows up in a small Louisiana town surrounded by love and lives a charmed life until two great tragedies rock her world. She moves to New Orlenes to study to cosmotology and become surrounded by a group of bizzare, but loving characters. Another tragedy sends her back home and one of the story lines is resolved. Calla has such a open childlike view of the world and the author in the face of all this heartbreak gives you the impression though Calla’s eyes that everything is still wonderous and beautiful.
Having said all that, I thought the story was a little thin. Calla is not a very complicated character. She makes two big decisions in her life, the rest of the story she seems to float along with the tide. The tragedies are sad, but not devestating. I just thought it lacked the conflict necessary for a good story. I keep waiting for something momentous to happen to pull this woman into reality. And I really couldn’t connect with any of the characters either even though her gay friends from NO were entertaining at times. It was just too "gushy" for me.
I am starting Annie Freeman’s Fabulous Traveling Funeral today. A patient recommended it and said it was a riot. I need a good laugh.
I am going took work on my medical story today and I am trying to work on the timeline for the memior. For some reason I don't remember a whole lot about second year. I have some calandars from those years, hopefully they will spark some memories. Third year will be much more exciting.

Med school memior

2009-09-03T21:32:00.000-07:00

Got some work done on the memior yesterday. Mostly I was looking at what I had all ready writen and trying to make it better. Soon I will have to get out all those old calandars my kids made during those years so I can remember the chronology better. Looking forward to the long weekend. I think I can use the time very productively now.

Had an interesting piece of karma today. Don't know if it is good or bad. One of the query letters I sent out lost its address label so it came back to me. It is the one to an agent I really respect and would like to have work with me. Maybe it came back because it could be made better. I will look at it before I mail it again.

2009-09-01T22:37:00.000-07:00

My twitter friends think the med school stories would make the best memior. Will try to make some sense of all my random notes tomorrow. Maybe I have the makings of two different types of memior.

Have been having some problems with my back and a dear friend is very ill. Haven't felt much like sitting at the computer the past few days. I am going to get Office loaded on my laptop and maybe head out somewhere scenic to write tomorrow. Have flashdrive will travel. Will post more tomorrow.

2009-08-30T22:09:00.000-07:00

Got quite a bit accomplished today. I am going to let my medical story percolate for a bit and then go back and look at it again. Then off to my "editor".

I transfered all the memior stuff to a single flash drive. Now I will try to sew it together and see where I am headed.

Bed is calling me.

2009-08-30T09:18:00.000-07:00

Didn't get anything accomplished yesterday. I found a disc (one of those floopy ones) that has a large chunk of memoir on it. I have pages of paper, several other discs, and some hastily scribbled notes. It is not much to work from. I think I need to get it all organized and in one place (I love flash dives) before much more can be accomplished.

I did find my Bertha T story that I want to send to a professional journal. I may work on that first. The contest dealine is Oct 31.

Then there is another short story contest for Writer's Digest with a Dec 1st deadline.

Anyway, I think I will spend the day putting all the memior stuff together in one place. Remembering the sage advice of someone who is published--Start something, finish something. It is hard to finish a memior. My life isn't over.

Saturday

2009-08-29T09:15:00.000-07:00

I have worked the crossword puzzle and had my first cup of coffee. I am sitting down to clear my internet mailboxes and compose myself for writing. I have a couple of projects I want to work on. None of it is firm in my mind yet. A couple of short stories, a memior I have picked at for years (it keeps changing its focus), and my next novel.
It is a romantic suspense set in London. It is about half finished. I wrote it during one of those 50K words in 30 day challanges. I like the characters. I don't know enough about law enforcement in the UK to know if it is accurate. The ending is fabulous! It is the middle that is giving me grief.
I want to go back to London. I love the city.
Just rambling--clearning out the cobwebs.

Queries

2009-08-26T12:22:00.000-07:00

Today I am sending out four queries. Two go to an editor and agent I met at the PWNA Conference this year. One goes out to an agent I met last year who suggested I make some changes and send it on when I was done. The fourth goes to an agent I previously queried, who turned me down flat, but I have such a cosmic kind of connection to his agency, that I hope he will look at it again now that I have reworked it.

Off to sign some papers, go to my counseling appointment, and buy some groceries. My new cell phone came and I have no time to get it up and running. Will battle technology later. The mundane chores of life take precendence over greatness.

Teddy Kennedy's death

2009-08-26T09:37:00.000-07:00

It is a sad morning indeed. I was only 8 when JFK was assasinated, but it remains one of those hinge points in life. I had lost my hero, and while Ted Kennedy sat in the Senate, I was assured that Camlot would never truely die. Last night I pulled out my battered old guitar and played Abraham, Martin and John. I thought of John Jr and how he died before he really had an opportunity to achieve his potential. So much power and so many talents in the Kennedy family, and so much personal loss. Passing along the song for those who have never heard it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3dHvYB5JdSs

2009-08-25T22:16:00.000-07:00

Essay is sent out. Going to work on another one tomorrow and send out a couple of queries.

2009-08-24T21:51:00.000-07:00

My friend has edited my synopsis and my essay. Now all I have to do is send them out. Pushing the send button is the scariest thing in the world. It is like walking out of your apartment nude.

Priorities

2009-08-22T18:59:00.000-07:00

Didn't get anything accomplished today. BUT my daughter did come over for the day and I got a lot of errands done. It was good to see her. Tomorrow I really have to write.

Contests

2009-08-21T20:33:00.000-07:00

I found an essay contest in Real Simple magazine. The topic is "When did you become an adult". I am inspired. Wrote most of it today. Have to submit by Sept 7, so have a goal oriented weekend.

Advertizing

2009-08-19T10:47:00.000-07:00

I just got an email from a woman who saw my add at Yahoo and is interested in my book. I need to make a list of these people so if I am forced to self-publish I have a handy list of buyers.

Reviews

2009-08-19T10:35:00.000-07:00

I just got an email from my friend who is a romance writer. She just finished reading the first third of my novel. She LOVES it. I am so happy I am crying. Now I just have to find an agent who LOVES it. Anyone know anyone?

How to Write a Synopsis of a Novel | eHow.com

2009-08-16T10:54:00.001-07:00

How to Write a Synopsis of a Novel | eHow.com

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And one more for good measure. Off to write!

How to Write a Good Book Synopsis | eHow.com

2009-08-16T10:48:00.001-07:00

How to Write a Good Book Synopsis | eHow.com

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Here is a related article. I think I did that by going back and naming the chapters. >.< Still don't know how to condense it but will keep typing for now.

How to Format a Synopsis | eHow.com

2009-08-16T10:44:00.001-07:00

How to Format a Synopsis | eHow.com

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Found this on the internet today. There are a couple of other short articles. Still don't know how to condense a 110K word novel into 2 pages single spaced, but I am at least typing.

Synopsis

2009-08-15T23:35:00.000-07:00

Today I am feeling quite frustrated. I worked on my book for the past three years. I have worked on my pitch and query letter for the past year. Everything I have read up until now has told me that a query letter and sample chapters is all that is needed and NOW everyone wants a 1-2 page synopsis. I don't even like synopses. And now I have a huge case of writer's block. I think I need a cookie.