Counting Cars on US 31

A sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves — a special kind of double. --Toni Morrison

The Internet went down today, which is a bummer for people doing important things like procrastinating on eBay, as I am wont to do when working on my novel. At least half my closet is filled with great finds purchased on eBay while avoiding the page. The items that didn't fit or that I liked on a Wednesday but found ugly on a Saturday now fill a bag in my car on its way to the thrift store. I suppose some of those clothes will end up on eBay again in the not-too-distant future. I'm not sure if you'd call that irony or synchronicity, but I like the full-circle aspect of it. 

I spend a lot of time on eBay but in all these years, I've yet to find the one item I wish I could retrieve from my childhood. Made of cherry wood with grape leaves carved into the sides, the bowl sat on a base and came with a tiny key that, when cranked, played music while it turned in circles. Our family called it the Singing Bowl. On summer nights when my sisters and I camped out in the back yard, we'd fill the bowl with popcorn before tip-toeing out of the house like tiny ghosts in our hand-made night gowns. The air was pregnant with Lake Michigan's humidity and our nighties clung to us like gum to a school desk as we huddled inside our makeshift tent, a mish-mash of blankets thrown over a rusty swing set frame. Nita, the oldest of the three youngest, took command over the one flashlight we were allotted. She used it sparingly, knowing full well the power of ownership that light gave her over my sister Vonny and me.

Under the magical spell of overhead stars, the three of us told stories, laughed, and plucked popcorn from the Singing Bowl as it turned in front of our six scabby knees. When our bellies were full, we'd sneak the two blocks into town where we'd sit on the curb in our bare feet and count the minutes between passing cars on U.S. 31. Eventually we'd tire and make our way back home. "Step on a crack, break your mother's back" we'd chant, taking giant leaps from one sidewalk square to the next.

Our goal was always to stay up until midnight, the hour when all scary things happen, although nothing ever happened. When the second hand ticked by twelve on Nita's watch, she'd hold the flashlight under her face and say, "Boo!" We'd squeal, then fall giggling onto our musty-smelling bedrolls. One last crink-crink of the wind-up bowl and we'd fall asleep with lilting notes that filled the sticky night, trying to forget that our mother's back was already broken.

What I wouldn't give to eat popcorn from that Singing Bowl again. To look into the innocent faces of my sisters when we didn't yet know the value of simple moments that get lost like a haunting melody you can't quite remember but permeates your dreams. To trace the carved-out leaves while tracing my way back to the joy of telling stories, much like the tale I meant to write when I got sidetracked by this one. But you know what? I don't need no stinking bowl to remind me that when the Internet goes down, it allows us to go deeper. So neener neener to whoever is responsible for the DNS attack today. You actually did some of us a favor.

What about you? Do you have a favorite memory of your sister(s)? If you didn't have Internet right now, what would you be doing instead?

Doxology Redux

Several years ago I traveled to Michigan where my younger sister and I made a pilgrimage to our hometown of New Era. Vonnie parked her car at the elementary school and we walked the streets of the little village that raised us, a village that remains relatively unchanged over the last fifty years. We swang on the swings, stopped at the creek where we used to catch frogs, and walked the familiar railroad tracks. We wandered through the cemetery to find our baby sister's grave, where another sister has since been buried beside her. 

We ended up in front of the house we shared with our parents and five siblings. As I stood looking up at the window of our childhood bedroom, I felt a sudden urge to walk through those rooms. Having married at the young age of sixteen, I wanted to allow myself a more gentle pass through the last membrane of my childhood rather than having been yanked like split thread through an ill-fitting needle. 

I dragged my shy sister up the sidewalk and rang the bell. The door opened and the current pastor and his wife welcomed us on a tour of the parsonage. Vonnie and I held hands as we moved through the rooms.  "There's where Mom's water broke before they took her to the hospital and she delivered a dead baby," I said. Vonnie stared quietly at the floor.

I pointed to a corner of the kitchen. "We had a mangle right here. It hissed when Mom ironed the pillowcases, steamed up all the windows."

We paused at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor. "And that's where I found Mom. I was upstairs, weaving potholders when I heard her fall down the stairs. Nobody else was home, so I ran next door and got the neighbor. I remember the ambulance taking her away. "

We peeked into our parent's former bedroom. "They hooked traction up to her bed to take the pressure off her spine."

"The room was much bigger then," my sister said.

"Everything was bigger then. Except the tree in the back yard. Can you believe we used to climb to the top?"

"You did. I only went about halfway up. You were always the risk-taker."

We thanked our hosts for the tour and walked across the street to the church where, as children, we'd spent unbearably long hours counting ceiling tiles and organ pipes to pass the time between my father's first prayer and the last low note of the doxology. I took pictures of the stained glass windows and the wooden plaque with white hymn numbers resting in the carved grooves. Vonnie stood at the back of the auditorium, talking with a woman who was readying the sanctuary for the evening service. I walked toward the familiar podium, stroking the back of each curved pew I passed. When I reached the pulpit, I grasped the lectern, feeling my beloved dad's presence in every grain of the wood as I looked out over the invisible congregation.

The woman in the back tugged on her sleeve, seemed uncomfortable with our intrusion. "What's she doing up there?"

"That's my sister," I heard Vonnie say. After a moment, she smiled and leaned toward the woman. "She's a writer," she added, as if that explained everything.

And in a way, I suppose it did. My next book is, after all, a coming-of-age novel set in the Midwest. But truth be told I wasn't just working on a future book; I was revisiting early chapters of my story, one written upon my bones many years ago. It felt good to inhabit that young girl knowing what I now know. I wanted to give her a hug and tell her everything will be fine. That it's okay to take risks sometimes. And that you're never too old to climb trees.

I wonder, if you could go back and whisper something into the ear of your younger self, what would you say? 

The Sound of Paper

"In order to make art, we must first make an artful life, a life rich enough and diverse enough to give us fuel." --Julia Cameron, The Sound of Paper

In this digital age we've developed less and less of a relationship to paper compared to our relationship to a digital screen. But what sound can match the swoosh of envelopes pushed through the mail slot, the thrill of anticipation as you gather up the pile? Today, most communication is accomplished via email but to a writer, the sound of paper is a promise. It's the promise of an idea about to take form on the page. The promise of a check that might mysteriously appear from a forgotten debtor, just in time to pay the rent. Or the promise of an acceptance letter from one of the many agents you sent your manuscript. Even a rejection letter holds promise, because it means you are a writer, broadcasting your pages like seeds in a windstorm, knowing one of them will eventually burrow itself into the heart of a receptive reader and take hold.

I wrote my first poem at the age of nine. It was simply titled, Mother. I have no recollection of the words anymore, only the sound of my pencil scratching a clumsy message of love into a lined notebook. It was written for the woman who lay in her bed, moaning in pain from degenerative disk disease. I thought my poem would help her get well. It didn't. But writing it helped me. Over the next several months, I wrote that pencil down to a stub. And many more pencils after that.

The title of Julia Cameron's book got me to thinking, what is the sound of paper? I took out my journal opened a Word document and tunneled back in time to when the sound of paper meant more than the hum of a computer coming to life on my lap, more than the click-clack of a keyboard. And I remembered...

The sound of candy wrappers unfolding, my tongue sweating with sweet anticipation.

Dad shaking out the Muskegon Chronicle after supper as he sat in his leatherette recliner, shoes off, tie loosened.

The last flimsy square on the roll peeling from the cardboard cylinder, me shuffling to the closet with underpants around my ankles, cursing my sisters for their lack of consideration.

A dentist pinning a stiff paper napkin around my neck to catch my blood but not my screams as he yanked a tooth we couldn't afford to fill with silver.

A note uncrinkling on its own after being passed under bubblegum-painted desks. Do you like me? Circle Yes or No. (Yes.)

Red and green Christmas paper, peppered with dried needles, my name on the tag. Tearing, not caring. Because it's for me.

Unfolding a wrinkly blue learner's permit, exchanging it for the real thing, although I'd been driving since I was twelve.

Antiseptic white paper sheet unrolled, the width of my bottom, scooch down, Honey. A little further. A little further.

Wet signatures dancing across a marriage license, that we traded in for a thick ream of divorce papers almost before the ink was dry.

Fat markers squeaking bloody prayers on poster board, carried on a stick, nobody hearing the sound of peace marching past closed windows as we protested the wars.

Words written on lined paper. Dear Mom. I wrote this poem for you...

What about you? What does paper sound like? What memory or image comes to mind when you close your eyes and listen?

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Writing Out The Storm

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.  ~Ray Bradbury

When I find myself too busy to write I can actually feel the creativity start to wane. I love writing. Really, I do. It's the revising I hate. Surgically removing big chunks of writing, inserting new material, moving whole chapters around, changing the ending for crying out loud--it boggles the mind. And when this particular mind is boggled, it tends to travel toward any number of distractions. The longer I wait to dive into my writing the more distanced I become from what once were fresh, perhaps even brilliant, ideas.

A month ago I woke to the dog licking my foot, let her outside, and in my foggy state flung open my mind's door on the way to my desk.  An unseen hand--my own, I think--brewed an espresso and set it on the side table. The keyboard landed in my lap, and my sleepy fingers found home. One by one, the first couple words choked and sputtered, resurrected from the tombs of procrastination. Light found its way into the room as I lifted first one, then the other hand. I took a deep breath and let the words fly .

Since then, six chapters have arisen from the page, propelled by a two-book offer my agent received from a respected editor. I can't announce the details yet because the minutia is still in negotiations but needless to say I am beyond thrilled to know that my coming-of-age novel set in Midwest during the culturally explosive sixties has found a home with a wonderful publisher. The release is scheduled for Spring of 2018. The second book, the one just taking shape in my writing womb, will hopefully emerge as a fully-formed story in time for its release the following year.

From as far back as I remember, words have leaned against my chest like an irritable dog at the back door, growling to be let out before leaking all over the floor. It was a rare day that I didn't spend at least part of it scratching my soul into the pages of various notebooks, journals, or whatever loose scrap of paper was handy when the urge overtook me. Then along came the computer and word processing, neat little letters marching across white paper all self-important and official looking. I wrote like crazy, often backing up to erase thoughts almost before they were fully formed. I filled diskettes, then CD's, hard drives, and finally, my own personal cloud, with a seemingly endless flood of poems, essays, and stories held captive by a heart too timid to give them all the life they deserved. 

And then I published Lost in Transplantation and discovered that taking that first risk, polishing a story and letting the light in, wouldn't kill me. Not only did I survive the writing, editing and publishing process, sharing my story changed my life in innumerable ways. Mostly very good ones. All this to say, thank you. Thank you to those of you who love to read and who buy or borrow books. Thank you to the bookstores who struggle to keep their doors open. Thank you libraries! Thank you to those who take the time to leave authors reviews. Thank you to the successful authors who uplift, encourage and mentor other writers. Thank you to my wonderful partner who reads my work and helps me make it better. And thank you, whoever you are, for celebrating the wonder of words with me today. Where would we be without each other?

Wait Wait...Please Tell Me!

“We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.” ― Voltaire

I've been waiting to update this blog because I was hoping for a particular bit of good news to share but I'll have to save that for a future post because it's taking too long. Actually it's probably taking the normal amount of time; I'm just impatient. But as I waited for this news it occurred to me that lately I've been in waiting mode on a lot of levels. I'm waiting to hear from my agent that (hopefully) she's sold my next book. I'm waiting for my landlords to decide if they plan to rent out this amazing house to me for another year. I'm waiting to see if this toothache goes away so I don't have to go to the dreaded dentist. And I'm waiting until all of this and more is "settled" before I choose what to write next, where to live and whether to repair a crown or pull that damn tooth once and for all.

We spend so much of our lives waiting. Anyone who's ever carried a baby for nine months knows how excruciating slow those last few weeks are! We wait in lines, we wait for news, we wait for the right time and the right partner and we wait for the wisdom to discern all the big and little choices facing us at any given time. And quite often, instead of plowing forward we get stuck in this virtual waiting room, unable to move forward until the "perfect" moment, person or opportunity arises. But that's not how it works. Waiting for answers is like holding a seed in your hand and expecting it to bloom if you watch it long enough. You have to plant the darn thing, give it some water and then go do something else while you wait for it to grow. 

Twenty years ago my wasband and I debated about moving from Michigan to California. He reasoned that if he waited longer to retire his pension would be substantially greater. I argued that if he waited longer his stress levels would take their toll and what good is a pension if those extra years end up killing you? My belief was that our quality of life was much more important than a few hundred extra dollars a month. We moved six months later and never looked back. Although the marriage didn't last I think we can both honestly say it was one of the best decisions we ever made. You couldn't give me a million dollars for the memories I've created here on the Central Coast. 

I've decided to quit waiting and start living. Instead of looking at Craigslist ads for rentals I'm going to enjoy every last minute here at the ocean. I'm going to start the next book instead of worrying about editing and reediting the one my agent is currently pitching. I'm going to turn off my phone and go for a bicycle ride with my love instead of waiting to see if a massage appointment comes in. And I'm going to call the dentist tomorrow. Really I am. No, I mean it this time. Okay I'm not going to call the dentist but I'm going to look up the number.

So tell me, what are your waiting for? 

Inside Out

I am an introvert. 

"The Dickens!" you say. "I've heard you speak, I've seen how you are with clients and how easily you chat up strangers in the coffee shop." 

And you're right, I do all those things and I do them joyfully. But I am still an introvert.

People often confuse shyness with introversion but they're not the same thing.  A shy person is bashful or timid or lacks self-confidence. They tend to be very uncomfortable in new situations or in close proximity to other people. I feel shy sometimes but as a rule, I love being around people and I enjoy engaging strangers in conversation--especially if they appear lonely. In fact I often set out with a clear intention of making a difference in someone's day with a smile or a comment because it almost always makes a positive difference in my day.

The thing about introverts is that although we're very capable of socializing, we need solitude to recharge. We revel in our alone time. We crave that space where we can be alone with our thoughts to reflect, create or just do nothing. For me, introversion is a dichotomy. Because as much as I cherish my alone time, I much prefer to see a movie in a theater full of people because I find that shared experience adds so much more to the emotions of a good film. I like feeling like a part of the whole, connected to my immediate community. But then I want to go home and curl up on the sofa, not sit in a noisy coffee shop critiquing the characters or story arc.

According to Myers-Briggs personality experts, extroverts draw energy from interaction but those who prefer introversion expend energy through interaction. To rebuild their energy, introverts need quiet time alone, away from activity. We need space to reflect and analyze. Like, say, write a blog to justify why they are hidden away from the world, save for a beloved snoring dog, while unanswered emails and phone calls go unanswered.

The photo above was taken inside my little 1957 camper, parked in my driveway where I can see, smell and hear the ocean just outside my door because sometimes even the sea is too much much. This tiny room is where I go when I need space to write or reflect or just be lazy. What about you? Does engaging with the world charge your batteries or drain them? If it's the latter, where do you go to bring yourself back to full power? 

Bhoots On The Ground

As a veteran (23 years) massage therapist I've become very picky about who I receive my massages from. I like strong, confident hands that stem from a happy, positive human being. I've learned from experience that if a massage therapist is having an off day (or week or month) it's better to postpone the massage because being somewhat of an empath, it's very likely I'll absorb that sadness and/or negativity. In fairness, I apply the same standard to myself. I don't want to dump the doldrums on an unsuspecting client because that's just bad karma. If I feel like crap, I reschedule or hand off the work to one of my peers.

It wasn't that long ago when people used to cast their demons, known as bhoots, into a rock and leave it in the road for some unsuspecting sucker to pick up. I don't believe in that kind of magical thinking but on the flip side, I have seen with my own eyes and felt with my own hands the wonder of shared positivity and lightheartedness through massage therapy. Witnessing this transformation is one of the greatest rewards of what I do. 

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we applied the bhoot mythology in reverse? I live near the sea where it's common to see adults and children alike filling their pockets with ocean-carved stones and pretty shells. How lovely to think of the sea blessing all that flotsam, those stones and shells and polished glass before sending it ashore?  And what if we could each of us scatter goodwill and blessings like little treasures for unsuspecting strangers to find? 

As a writer my hope is always that a story or a phrase will bring a smile to your face or stir up emotions that engage the heart as well as the mind. That by telling my stories you will remember yours. And that you too will share your beautiful treasures with the world.

So tell me, if you could cast a secret gift into a stone to leave for a stranger, what would it be?