It’s been a while since my sisters and brother all got together. When we were growing up there were just us five siblings running barefoot along the Consumnes River. Life was full of slow days and animals and a big dusty house in the country. It was filled with our collective imaginations that could quickly overwhelm a room, and spill into other rooms and yet more rooms until the large, rambling house was flooded with the wealth of our games and our dreams.
It’s been a long time since we were all together.
About a month ago I got a call from my sister. “You should come and visit Mom now if you want to see her at all. Her cancer’s worse.” Mom wasn’t the kind of woman who died. She was the kind of person who lived vibrantly even when the pain would have brought a strong man to his knees. She’d spent the last five years since her diagnosis living each day as fully as the spreading cancer would allow. She gardened and sewed and when she couldn’t do those things anymore she read and called her kids and grandkids to talk.
Mom was in the hospital when I came to see her. She lived two thousand miles away and it had been a little over six months since I saw her. I thought she’d look a lot worse, but she was sitting up, preparing to go home. She was alert and we chatted happily…or rather I chattered happily to her. I told her about my plans and my adventures and she laughed and told me she was happy to see me happy. She told me firmly that I needed to get more color into my house when I redecorated. That was a good day. Maybe the last good day.
The next day, we heard from the doctor. Yes, she looked pretty good, but the cancer was spreading through her liver. He didn’t expect her to live more than five to seven days.
Word spread. Well, to be honest, Mom picked up the phone and spread the word herself. Come here, she told her children and brothers and her mother. I want to see you. And we came. We filled the house. We filled the rooms with our children whose imaginations spilled from room to room until the house seemed ready to break open. Even as we gathered and held each other and cried and laughed. Mom grew weaker. At night, as I lay sleepless on the sofa, I could hear the murmur of my dad’s voice and Mom’s soft slurred reply as they said those last precious things.
Somewhere in the house a child stirred and then became silent as I listened in the dark to the murmuring and the quiet and the creaking of the wind—“This is what it sounds like when your mother is alive,” I told myself. “This is what it sounds like when the world is still whole.”
This Is What It Sounds Like
January 5th, 2012Fang School For Vampires
December 15th, 2011“How,” my twelve year old daughter asks me, “Do you make out with a vampire without cutting your tongue on his fangs?”
“First of all,” I reply, “You should never make out with anyone until you’re thirty two. Second of all, steer clear of vampires until they’ve gone to fang school. All vampires should go to fang school to learn to kiss properly.”
“Hmmm.” She says, clearly amused, both by the concept of fang school and the dictate to wait until she’s thirty two.
I continue. “Besides, vampires are cold. Let’s just say that when you’re thirty two, you meet a nice vampire and decide to kiss him. His lips are going to be cold. Like a corpse. Worse, his toes are going to be cold. If you marry this nice vampire when you’re thirty five and decide to sleep with him, when you’re forty one, he isn’t going to be able to warm your feet on a cold winter’s night. I ask you, why bother sleeping with him if he can’t warm your feet?”
“It could be good on a hot day,” she answers. She’s twelve. She always has an answer. Then she asks, “How do you have so much experience with vampires, Mom?” She’s twelve. She always has a question.
“Mother knows all, dearest. Mother knows all.”
“Sure, Mom.”
Red Lipstick and Other Atrocities
December 11th, 2011Lately I’ve taken to wearing bright red lipstick. I don’t know why this is true, but I’ve spent more time searching for the perfect bright berry colored lipstick in the last two months, than I’ve spent thinking about lip color in the last twenty years. This phenomenon has me puzzled. I’m not your bright lipstick wearing kind of gal. At least I wasn’t.
I also have a sudden hankering for stupidly high heeled shoes. The sillier the better. I want high strappy sandals and tall, spikey half boots. I’m not your silly-high-heels kind of gal. At least I wasn’t.
What is it about life now that urges me to choose a brighter color? Why is sensible giving way to sensual? Why am I taking such delight in foolish frippery? Something has changed, and it’s not just my marital status. I’m smiling more. I’m laughing more. I’m writing more blogs. And I’m wearing brighter lipstick and higher heels. I’m like a teenager at the makeup counter, not because I’m hoping to lure a man, but because some time in the last few years, hidden under the veil of a sad marriage, I turned into a woman who likes it bright. Now, as I strip away the layers of old baggage, left over hurts and healing wounds, I’m slowly finding what I want and who I’ve become. I’m finding that I like shoes. And bright berry.
Big and Mean and Fluffy
December 8th, 2011My cat Oliver is a mean, horrid animal and I’m worried about him. Oliver is a big gray, yellow eyed beast who rose up from the bowls of hell to torture and maim me, my children, the neighbors and all the neighbor’s cats. For some reason we, and I’m including most of the neighbors here, but none of their cats, all adore Oliver. He is the absolute king of his territory and don’t try to argue with him. One doesn’t argue with Oliver. It just isn’t a good idea.
Lately Oliver has gotten…well affectionate. He’s taken to following me around and insisting on sitting on my lap, which is torture because this is Oliver we’re talking about. When Oliver chooses to sit on a lap the lap sits still or suffers the consequences. Oliver has always followed me around, but I would never before mistake this for affection. He loves to follow me into the garden and take swipes at me with his sharp claws. He rolls on his back begging for a scratch, but I’m too smart for him. If I lean over to scratch him, he’ll bite me. Not just a little kitten love bite. No, a big mean bowls of hell-this-cat-secretly-hates-you bite. But I’m like the rest of the humans in my neighborhood. I love this cat. It’s not reasonable, but then when is love reasonable?
Still, I think Oliver’s sudden increase in real affection could be a neurological disorder. Suddenly the terror of the streets, insists on coming inside and laying on whatever couch or chair I’ve chosen and watching me with those beady yellow eyes. Should I take him to the vet? A neurologist? A zoo? Or, gasp, (covers mouth with hand) could he be another victim of the divorce? He hated my husband more than he hated the rest of us, but deep inside, is he damaged? Do I need to take him to a cat psychologist? Do I need to make an appointment with a human psychologist to evaluate how the harm I’ve caused the little angel has damaged my psyche? Do I need a new cat?
Divorce, Creativity and What Lies Between.
November 27th, 2011Sorry it’s been so long since my last post. Life’s been a little hard to swallow and I wasn’t sure what to say. Two months ago I told my husband of nearly twenty years that I wanted out. Why? Because we’d both changed. What was important to me wasn’t important to him anymore. The love we’d placed so much hope in had turned poisonous.
The decision to divorce was so incredibly difficult and sad. It took years of trying to patch it together to finally realize that sometimes the best and only way to respect someone is to say, “I understand that this is who you are. You aren’t going to change and who am I to ask that of you? But I can’t live with who you ‘ve become.”
Sometimes the best way to care for both of you is to say, “I give up. Here is my white flag.” And then move on. Life is short.
So I’m on my own. I confess that I like it. I like the peace and the quiet energy. I like sitting with the kids and laughing again. I like making decisions and not being second guessed. Everything in my life has a different flavor and my creative writing is no different. For several weeks before and after the separation I didn’t write at all. There were so many other things that had to come first. It was a good break for me but I began to wonder if I ever would get back to it. Then the slow tug of story, the unanswered question, the challenge of getting it right all began to play at me. To pull me back. I’m writing again and it feels good. But it’s not the same as it was. Nothing is.
I find myself testing these new creative waters carefully. I’m afraid that my husband did not approve of the time I devoted to writing—actually, I think he felt that both reading and writing fiction was a huge waste of time. It made the time I stole to create feel illicit, as if I was doing something wrong.
I can write with more freedom now—and yet that sense of urgency that used to drive me has eased. I can take my time. I can enjoy. It’s astonishing how even mild disapproval can steal the fun from what we do.
Yes, it’s been a wickedly hard year leading up to and including the separation. I’m only just now beginning to test these new waters. Hop on my bus with me and I’ll let you know how it all works out.
Fifteen Glad Things
March 11th, 2011Miranda and Riley have been deprived for months of the daily sensory pleasures of life. As they embark on a new step on their journey, I had to stop and spend some time considering the normal joys of life—more specifically, the normal joys of MY life. Here is a list of fifteen glad things in my own life, which may find their way into Miranda and Riley’s.
1. Warm water flowing through my hair.
2. The scent of soap.
3. A beautiful song.
4. Climbing the highest hill and looking at the view.
5. Flower petals brushing against my skin.
6. A warm hand in mine.
7. A hot drink on a cold day.
8. Laughing with someone I like.
9. Liking someone I laugh with.
10. Sand slipping through my fingers.
11. Good, dark soil under my bare feet.
12. The right poem at the right time.
13. A story that makes me cry.
14. A story that makes me laugh.
15. The sound of wind in poplar trees.
If you particularly like one of these, please let me know. If you have some of your own, do list them.
First Kiss
February 26th, 2011I remember my first kiss as being wet and disturbing. I remember thinking, I’m not ready for whatever this is. I was fourteen.
Recently, Miranda Baxter experienced her first kiss. She is seventeen, and because of her leukemia, has missed out on much of what teenagers take for granted. Then comes the cure, which is worse than the disease and she realizes that being alive is not the same as living. Now in the middle of the alien invasion of earth she wants that kiss.
Riley, too, having been raised as a mutant on board an alien spacecraft, has also missed out on so much. The kiss means something to these two terrified kids. It matters.
As a writer I have to reach into my past and pull that kiss out of somewhere. So I draw on my own experience. I write a moving scene and I read it to one of my writing buddies, Marianne. Marianne’s eyes get red and she glares at me. “That is sad,” she scolds. “A first kiss is about hope.”
“Hope?” I say, then nod. That may not always be true, but it should be true, and I am the author, the local tyrant in control of my world. I can distribute hope. So I go back to work and this time, I hit pay dirt. At least I didn’t make Marianne cry.
Here is an excerpt from Mutant: Miranda’s first kiss. I hope you enjoy.
He cocked his head, then gave a nod. “Yes, I like it.” Cautiously he leaned forward and he pressed his warm lips to mine. He held his mouth there and then as if guided by some instinct or curiosity, he pressed just a little harder. It was my first kiss and it was gentle and soft and it melted something cold inside of me.
The lab door clicked open and I pulled back, still looking into his eyes. “Thank you,” I whispered. Maybe I’d never wear those shoes, but I’d had this. At least I had this.
Together we turned to face our enemy.
Arrogance Takes a Horseback Riding Lesson
November 23rd, 2010I took a horseback riding lesson last week. I’ve ridden horses all my life on my family’s cattle ranch. I’ve spent eight hours at a time on a horse. I’ve ridden through brush, up steep hills. I’ve ridden in rocky, dangerous terrain and I’ve forded storm swollen creeks. I’ve chased wild cattle out of gullies and canyons. One thing I’ve never done is taken a lesson.
I don’t live on the ranch anymore. I live in a town with very few nearby horse facilities. I miss being around horses, so I got it in my head that I needed to get a horse. After looking around, I discovered that it is very expensive to have a horse in a stable, but it might be possible to lease a part of a horse. When you lease part of a horse you pay for part of the costs and are rewarded with a certain amount of riding time. This seemed like a possible solution. The only problem was that the best and closest stable is filled with English riders and horses who have never been off a trail or even out of a ring. These are fine animals who can jump and do all kinds of fun things that earn them awards.
“Sounds like fun,” I thought to myself. “I’ll learn to ride English and I’ll start doing fun stuff in a ring.” So I drove out to the farm and I took a lesson. I learned a few things about English riding. I learned that it could be fun and challenging. But the biggest thing I learned was how difficult it is to be humble.
First I was schooled in proper care of stalled horses and found out that they are shockingly fragile. I had to learn to mount correctly and use the correct terminology. I rode slowly in circles. I got an earful of how this kind of riding is superior to what I know.
Some of this was very hard to swallow. I gritted my teeth and I stayed silent when I thought it prudent. I asked questions and learned what my instructor had to teach me. I forced myself to be humble. After all, I was paying her to teach me.
Sitting on that horse reminded me of the many times I’ve had to humbly listen and learn while writing. I’ve had to grit my teeth and pull from people whatever useful thing they have to offer. I’ve had to humbly re-write stuff I thought was brilliant, and discovered that my humility had allowed my story to improve. At the same time I’ve had to foster the self-confidence to keep writing—to keep telling myself that I can do it because I’m awesome, cool and reasonably smart. Thinking that I can create characters and worlds and events that will mean something to somebody is a crazy act of arrogance. Getting better at creating characters and worlds and events that mean something takes a heroic act of humility.
Those who cannot be humble do not learn and improve their skills. Those who cannot be arrogant or at lease confident, become stuck, discouraged and timid. I know so many writers who successfully see-saw back and forth between the necessary arrogance and the equally necessary humility required to write well. It’s a precarious balancing act.
So, after much thought, I’ve decided to do it again. I’m going to bite my tongue and get myself out there for another English riding lesson. And then I’m going to rip apart chapter five of my current work in process, and see if I can make it better. At the same time I’m going to forge ahead and build a dynasty on war-torn earth. It’ll be fun—except when it’s not fun.
Good writing everyone! And good riding, too.
Desert Ground
November 6th, 2010What is the dirt like in the desert? Miranda and Riley are crossing the Nevada Desert. The ground here is rocky; the sand is hard and gritty. There are rocky outcroppings and cactus and sage. The place is alive with snakes, lizards, birds and rabbits.
Miranda is not a survivalist. She isn’t the type of character who knows how to catch dinner with a shoe string and a paper clip. She’s never killed anything furry. She doesn’t know how to make a fire without a match. She and Riley don’t have proper shoes or clothing. The sun burns them during the day. They freeze at night.
It all starts with the dirt. How does it feel to cross the desert and feel the ground cut your feet to ribbons? Worse, you have to keep going because you can’t survive another freezing night.
I really, really wanted to skip this part of the story. I wanted to get right into the next phase of things where the fun and games start and Miranda and Riley begin their personal war on the aliens. I wanted to skip this part because it’s hard. The details are painful and important. The details are what tear my characters apart and it is their reaction to the details that rebuild them into heroes. Miranda and Riley have important lessons to learn from the desert. They will learn to trust each other. They will learn to skin a rabbit. They will learn to survive on their own. It’s either that or die.
So I’m thinking about dirt, and grit and pain and determination. I’m thinking about the kinds of things it takes to turn a victim into a hero.
If you’re following the saga of Miranda and Riley, stay tuned. I am reworking the beginning and plan to post an update.
Musings on A Proud Papa
August 12th, 2010 Last week we stopped for the night in the town of Los Banos, California. There, we met David at the motel where we stayed. David is originally from India and owns the hotel. What was interesting about David was the absolute shining pride the man takes in his children.
We really only meant to eat quickly and then travel on our way when we wandered into the motel lobby for the complimentary breakfast. David greeted us warmly, his eyes lighting up when he saw our children. He told us about his own two children and about how proud he is of them. We listened to stories about his children and how he took a personal interest in their education; how they would come home from school and do homework together. Father would teach children and children would teach father. For David, an education was not only the most important thing he could give his kids, but it was a great joy to learn along with them. He instilled this love of learning into his kids in a loving, joyful way that must give their lives a whole rainbow of possibilities.
When I think of how unenthusiastic my kids and I are about their homework, I have to compare it to this lively man who taped the times tables to his dining room walls. Not only has he given his children a gift, but inspired me to do better, too.
Thank you, David.
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