Maybe I’m Hormonal

I admit it.

I’m a person who usually prefers to stay home.

Call me a private person. Or call me anti-social. Or introvert. Perhaps I simply don’t like to schlep around in a mad social whirl.

I like nothing more than a quiet day at home devoid of the hoo-haa of traffic, travel, people, noise, headaches, swollen ankles and aching feet.

Yes, now you can call me anti-social.

Or perhaps I simply don’t feel like doing the dinner and movie thing. Perhaps I have to save my energies for obligations I can’t turn down.

Are you confused yet?

Enough said then.

Just a rant here. Nothing more.

Later, y’all.

Dennis

Sitting up in bed last night and watching the coverage of the fires in California made me think of a dear friend from San Diego who had been a fireman there. 

We first met Dennis when my childhood friend married him and brought him home to meet everyone. He had been a fireman and was injured several times. From falling through at least one roof (two I think), he’d damaged his hips. He was a man in his 50’s when we met him, drawing disability for his injuries. He suffered a lot with hip pain. Both hips had been replaced, one twice.

He loved the small town where we lived then, the place where my friend’s family and mine had lived for generations.  But when he and my friend bought a huge old two-story house that Jim and I had once owned, I was surprised — and thrilled. 

For the next few years the friendship grew and a deep bond was formed. Dennis was like a dear brother to us, and at last (after a lifetime of only seeing my childhood friend in snatches of a few days or weeks at most) we had my friend only a few blocks away.  Then Jim went into the ministry, and we began to move around to the churches he served.

Although gone from Dennis and my friend, we knew we would all spend our retirement years together in that small town we all loved. Whenever we’d go to visit our daughters and their families, we would visit with Dennis and Christa, sometimes even staying at their house. Those visits were precious. We didn’t realize how precious until Dennis got sick.

The ultimate diagnosis was not good. We lost Dennis in 2004 at the age of 59.

I still cry thinking of him, thinking of this fine man who was taken from those who loved him at an age when he should have been planning the next 20 years of his retirement. He was a fine man indeed. He was a people person. Despite his disabilities, he worked hard to help his new neighbors and friends. He was always there in a disaster, pitching in with his knowledge of emergency medical aid and just plain general knowledge of what to do. When tornadoes hit nearby, he was among the first to go and offer help.

He was a large man, a kind man, a gentle man. And yet he was a rock. He was a product of California’s beach culture of the 60’s, a surfer, a big blond man who was handsome beyond belief. I will never forget him. Times like last night, when I was watching the fires that are destroying so much of the place that he called home for most of his 59 years, touched deep into my soul and brought back all this love and loss to me. Today I’ll call Christa, for I know in my heart that she is feeling these same things during this tragedy that is befalling those in California.

Please pray for those who are suffering. These fires are going to have so much more impact on ALL of us in this nation than any tragedy that has ever befallen us in the past. Even more than Katrina. Just think about it. And then say a prayer.

Later, y’all.

(P.S. I’ll never forget your stroganoff, either, Dennis.)

I’m Not Lisa

Two nights now I’ve had good solid sleep, thanks to my husband, who babysat the cats. I went to a guest room and shut the door. Thank you!!

Does anyone else get this dread feeling in the pit of their stomachs sometimes — a feeling that something bad is about to happen and there’s nothing you can do to stop it? That’s been me for a few days. It’s an uncertainty, a dread, a feeling of unease and secret fear.

I think maybe it stems from knowing that I can’t please everyone. I tried for a while, but now I am too tired to keep trying. I knew going in that I would disappoint some. No, I’m not “her” — I’m me. Funny how people expect you to be just like your predecessor.  I keep thinking of the song by Jessie Colter, I’m Not Lisa. Here are the lyrics:

I’m not Lisa, my name is Julie
Lisa left you years ago
My eyes are not blue
But mine won’t leave you
‘Til the sunlight has touched your face

She was your morning light
Her smile told of no night
Your love for her grew
With each rising sun

And then one winter day
His hand led hers away
She left you here drowning in your tears, here
Where you’ve stayed for years
Crying Lisa, Lisa

I’m not Lisa, my name is Julie
Lisa left you years ago
My eyes are not blue
But mine won’t leave you
‘Til the sunlight shines through your face

I’m not Lisa

Those are haunting lyrics. Clearly they’re meant for a lover. But they fit, as well, for my situation. In an odd way, I’ve been trying to be “Lisa” and it hasn’t worked. Now I have to let myself be “Julie” — just Me.

Too bad that we can’t read deeply into other people’s thoughts. Or maybe it’s good that we can’t. I guess most of us have thoughts without even realizing that they are so deep and private that we hide them. It isn’t a deliberate deception; it’s simply the way humans think and guard that part of themselves.

If this is what two good nights of sleep do for me, I’m in trouble! LOL

Take care, everyone. Have a good day.

Later, y’all!

What Kind of Blogger Are You?

New Parent’s Woe

I feel like a new parent. The new kitten, Max, had been sleeping in the big bathroom with food, water, and litter box, but now he’s been liberated to the rest of the house with Girlie, the older cat. It’s working out well, except at night, when both want to romp and play, and take great pleasure, it seems, in romping and playing on my prone body.

No sleep for the weary parent.

Two nights like this, and I’m worn out. Today will be a busy busy day, and I’ll be running on low.

My confidence and general joy in life is slipping, and I’m afraid if I let this pre-depressive state get a strong hold on me, I’ll be in for a long spell of depression and sadness. Determined not to let this happen, I’m trying to stay positive about everything I can, but sleep is a necessary thing to good health, both physical and mental.

The good part of this day is that it’s cool, the birds are singing, and autumn has arrived at last. I love autumn! The colors are my colors. The air is crisp and a bit nippy. All that summer air polution  is cleared away, and the sky is the bluest ever. Happy fall, everyone!

Time to get moving on the morning.

Later, y’all!

Long Time Gone

A long time gone. Nearly two months since I’ve written here. Nearly as long since I’ve written anything. I hate good intentions. It seems that most of my good intentions fail. Can you tell that I’m feeling down and unfulfilled? My own fault. What is it people say these days? My bad. Mea culpa. Whatever.

The past three weeks have been a bit lacking in peace and rest due to the addition to the family of a kitten. Max, or as we sometimes call him Mad Max or Bad Max, is about 3 months old and just an active kitten. He isn’t really bad, except that he likes to chew on things. Our older cat, Girlie, has accepted him better than we expected. They play together and get rough sometimes, but usually they are good playmates. I’m wondering how things will go when we decide to let Max stay out all night. Now we put him in the big bathroom at night with food, water, and litter. Otherwise he’s usually loose in the house along with Girlie. Time will tell. I think this will be a fun adventure – someday after I’ve gotten enough real rest.

I’m sad today. My get up and go has gone. I have so many things I want to do with my life (what’s left of it), but there’s just no time, and I’m too lazy to get anything done. Instead of choosing one thing and getting it done, I end up with getting nothing done. My energy level has dropped. I’m slightly anemic again, and my thyroid meds are being reset by my doctor, so perhaps those two things have a hand in this mood and feeling lately. I just want to weep today. I have so many things flitting up there in my brain, and yet I can’t focus on any one thing.

I’ve tried for two weeks to get critiques done for my two very patient critique partners. Both of them have busy lives, and say they expect a critique only when I can get to it. But I’m feeling much the failure as a critique partner. They both have completed mss, and I have only bits and pieces of old writings. NOTHING new. Nothing. I seem incapable of thinking a new novel thought, much less creating a story. My whole world seems to revolve around the cats and my health lately.

And yes, I do spend way too much time online and in chat rooms. I wish I could break my addiction to the chat rooms. But I love going there. I also spend way way too much time surfing the net. My mind flies from one thing to another, and each new thing brings with it questions and curiosity, so I’ll google something… and I’m off again! New things to learn about! Or perhaps it’s just new ways to waste my time. New ways to spend the time I have left on this plane.

I think having just the truck is getting me down, as well. For over a year now, we’ve only had the pickup truck. I sold my car, and now when I need to go somewhere, Jim is left without transportation, and vice versa. I really miss my outings. My LONE outings. And I used to take small trips alone. I would go do some genealogical research or just get away about once a year. Only three or four days, but just the driving wherever by myself would be regenerating to my spirit. My last trip away by myself was to Kentucky. I took small country highways that I’d never driven before and spent a wonderful three days just doing whatever or nothing at all. I pray that we will be financially able to purchase a second vehicle soon after the new year.

My hair is letting me down lately. I can laugh and explain it away by saying that I have my mother’s hair – thin and straight – but the fact is I just don’t want to take much time with trying to make it look presentable. I need a good haircut, but that isn’t the whole story. Perhaps it’s time to find a carefree style that I won’t have to do much with. Whatever happened to those old curly perms that you simply washed and shook out??? Any chance they might come back in style? LOL

There are still at least half a dozen boxes to go through and unpack since the move. I emptied several last Saturday. I can’t believe how many boxes of folders with my old writings in them. I’ve bought some of those open plastic file containers to house them all. But now where do I house the file containers? This house is so much larger than the house where we’ll retire in a few years. How will I ever manage to find space in that little cottage? I guess I will have to bite the bullet and throw out reams and reams of crap writing. That doesn’t sound as bad as it once did. Perhaps I’ll actually be able to part with all that crap.

Enough for now. I’ve written out my frustrations for the time being. Perhaps by clearing out this stuff from my pent-up insides, I  will be able to find a good mood for the evening. We’re going over to the Country Village with a couple from El Dorado, two preachers, man and wife who share a charge. At least I won’t have to feel guilty about not cooking.

Later, y’all!

Changing Gears

Always so much to learn. If the learning ever stops, then I think I must be dead.

Through Romance Divas I connected with a nice, intuitive, and smart woman who agreed to critique this first chapter (posted as Footprints 1, 2, & 3). Her input gave me much to think about, and I’m grateful for that.

One thing she said really hit home. I am terrible about writing a scene or chapter, and then re-working it to death. I don’t mean a simple reading back through and jotting down some notes. I mean drastic rewrites. I am so guilty of doing this rather than continuing to write that I can’t believe it took someone else to point that out to me. She quoted something from Nora Roberts on this: “I can fix shit; I can’t fix nothing.”

Think about that.

Anyway, I love Footprints, but I don’t know exactly where it’s going. It’s been about ten years since I wrote what is posted here. That’s a long time and distance from a story I was never very sure of in the first place.

An email from an old critique partner and dear friend now has me looking in another direction. Instead of writing another long contemporary (at this time), I’m going to try a short story. She is one of the publishers of a southern press called Bellebooks, and they have a series of down-home, Southern-style books called Mossy Creek. The books all revolve around a place in Georgia called Mossy Creek. Each book is an anthology of short stories involving the unique people of Mossy Creek. I’m re-reading and studying and thinking and hopefully will soon have an idea (or premise as I read in a blog recently) for a story that I can submit for an upcoming anthology.

I’ve never tried short stories because they are hard. I’m too wordy to be concise and crisp with my writing. BUT… I’m going to try to be just that. The big key will be in capturing the mood, voice, feel of Mossy Creek.

What might help is that in recent months I’ve gravitated more toward southern women writers’ books than category romance. I’ve read Dorothea Benton Frank and Cassandra King and other authors of what I call chick lit. They’re stand alone mainstream titles. These two authors evoke a mood that I enjoy and that perhaps will help me to find the right voice for the Mossy Creek stories.

Anyone out there read Frank or King? Let me hear your thoughts, if you do. What about the Mossy Creek books?

Footprints – 3 (warning: long)

Anna approached the doors to the side porch slowly, her feet balking every few steps. Despite the July heat, the polished cypress floor felt cool, almost damp. At the French doors she hesitated, her heart constricting at the sound of the low, familiar lullaby coming from the porch.

Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the screen, casting the porch and its occupants in a muted golden hue. Anna stopped in the doorway to watch a well-rounded, coffee-colored woman perform a mesmerizing act on the young child she’d seen this morning in the kitchen with Sam.

So the child wasn’t a dream. After waking groggy from a drugged sleep, she’d hoped to find that she had imagined Sam and the screaming toddler. But here it was, straight black hair and all, cuddled in strong brown arms and staring up at Anna’s housekeeper with huge dark eyes.

As the duo rocked, the large, cushioned rocker creaked rhythmically, the sound mimicking the despair in Anna’s heart. Surely it was only yesterday that this same woman had held Susana and sung softly to her.

Anna swallowed the lump growing in her throat and drew a deep breath. A wave of lightheadedness made her reach for the door frame.

Filling her lungs again with warm salt air, she waited for the dizziness to pass and swore to flush the rest of her mother’s sleeping pills down the toilet. Their unpleasant after-effects far exceeded the brief descent into soothing numbness they produced. Besides, the last thing she needed was to follow her mother into chemical dependency. She’d rather never sleep again.

When she finally stepped onto the porch, she bumped into a plant stand, nearly upsetting it. The humming ceased.

“Missy!” exclaimed her part-time housekeeper in a low-pitched, maternal voice that was as deceptively soft and subtle as the surf just before the tide turns back toward shore. “Shame on you! Sneakin’ up on an old woman like me. Lucky my heart didn’t jest stop dead.”

Anna ignored the scolding and faced Opal St. John with slight bewilderment. “Is today Friday already?”

“Course not,” came Opal’s quick reply, “but when Samuel called this morning–”

“You came running.”

Opal smiled broadly. “He needed help, and when my favorite man calls, I–”

“Come running,” Anna finished for her again.

“Now stop that, missy. You know I’d walk this fat old body to the ends o’ the earth and back for that man.”

Opal’s lifelong service to Anna’s family and her immediate acceptance and subsequent devotion to Anna’s husband was reciprocated tenfold as far as Anna was concerned. She loved Opal, who had been the one steadfast influence in her troubled childhood.

Anna stared at the child in Opal’s arms. “So, this is why Sam needs help.”

Sam had pulled some pretty outrageous stunts in the seven years of their marriage, but this one topped them all.

“He needs help, all right, takin’ on a child with not so much as a howdy-do,” continued Opal in her rich, Jamaican singsong. “He’s a good man, Samuel is, so when he called this morning begging me to drop everything and come quick to help out with this fine young fellow here, I’m not about to refuse.”

“Good man, my–” Anna started, then stopped when Opal’s dark, disapproving gaze fell on her.

As if Anna had not even spoken, Opal turned her attention back to the child, lifting him until his face was close to her own. “And if this old woman is any judge, this is a fine young fellow sure.”

Opal cooed and chuckled, producing a wide smile and an answering giggle from the child.

Anna tried to ignore the raw emotions surfacing in her, but still found her voice low and husky when she asked, “Where’s Sam?”

“Gone into Charleston on business.” Opal eyed her with a shrewdness which made Anna want to shift her weight from foot to foot like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “My, aren’t we the lady of leisure today?”

“Sam did not sleep in my bed last night, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Now, missy, would I try to intrude on what goes on behind your bedroom door?” asked Opal, feigning innocence. “I was jest wondering if you planned to be exchanging those red jamas for some real clothes anytime today, or if you’re going on back to bed.”

Certain now that Opal had finally discovered the small bottle of sleeping pills she’d hidden weeks ago behind the aspirins in her medicine cabinet, Anna refused to explain either her state of undress or her sleeping habits. Instead, she grumbled, “What time is it?”

“High time, missy, plenty high time,” Opal said quietly, not bothering to camouflage her continued displeasure with her employers’ separation. “It’s a crime against nature for two people who love each–”

“Enough!” Anna warned. “I only asked the time.”

Opal shot her a look that would have wilted a weaker person. “Nearly dinner time. I’m fixin’ Samuel’s favorite summer meal to welcome him home. Crabmeat salad, baked potatoes and ear corn.”

“Great,” murmured Anna, “just don’t make him feel too welcome. He won’t be staying long.”

Opal’s sharp brown eyes captured hers, the censure in them clear. “You can’t be meaning that, now can you, missy? You miss him as much as I do.”

“Believe what you want, Opal. I don’t care.”

Anna turned to go. She couldn’t stay here and listen to Opal’s none-too-subtle attempts at reconciling her and Sam. Nor could she stand by and watch Opal fawn over some child Sam no doubt had produced to take Susana’s place.

Besides, she wanted to be dressed when Sam made his appearance. She needed every psychological advantage possible in order to withstand his sensual assault on her. Even after everything, she’d discovered last night that she was still much too vulnerable to just the sight and smell of him. Despite the sleeping pill, she’d lain awake long into the night missing anew the warmth of his body next to hers.

“You should have told me you and Samuel were going about adopting a child,” Opal commented too casually. “I could have had the nursery ready.”

Opal’s words stopped Anna dead. She turned back and stared hard at her housekeeper, who was walking her fingers up the child’s arm as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb. The child giggled contentedly. Anna forced her gaze from him to Opal.

“Adopting a child? You mean … him?” She glanced back at the child, who was mimicking Opal’s finger-walk by moving his own tiny fingers up the housekeeper’s round arm. “Is that what Sam told you?”

“Samuel told me nothing. But this old woman ain’t born yesterday.” Deep laughter shook her shoulders. “Not even day before yesterday, for sure. Samuel don’t have to say anything. Why else would he be bringing the boy all the way from South America, if not to adopt him?”

Anna blinked. This conversation was far too confusing for her to follow in her present half-groggy state. She knew she was going to flush those pills now. “How do you know Sam brought the boy from South America?”

“The airline stubs, missy. Poked in the side of the diaper bag. Samuel and this young man flew here all the way from Bogota.” She acted as if she was stating what Anna already knew. “Sometimes foreign adoptions work that way. Remember my cousin’s daughter, Trudy? That’s how she and–”

“Opal,” interrupted Anna, her voice as sharp as the pain piercing her head, “will you get on with it? I know all about Trudy and James flying to Jamaica for little Etienne.”

“Don’t look at me that way, missy. I just assumed you knew all–”

“Well, don’t assume anything, Opal,” Anna said, and sighed, “especially anything involving Sam and me. We’re not adopting that child, for goodness sake.”

“Now don’t get snippy with me, missy. I could still take you over my knee–”

Deep masculine laughter from the yard interrupted Opal’s throaty voice and brought both women’s heads around. A giggle of delight erupted from the boy. Sam, dressed uncharacteristically in a suspiciously new-looking business suit and carrying two huge shopping bags, stood at the foot of the steps leading up from the wide, shady yard.

“Careful, Anna,” he said as he shoved his way through the screen door and deposited the sacks on the floor beside him. “I believe she could do it.”

Still staring at Sam’s extraordinary outfit, Anna was totally unprepared when Opal thrust the boy into her arms and chuckled. “Make yourself useful, missy, while I see to dinner. Welcome home, Samuel. Don’t go running off again. Dinner in one hour.”

Momentarily forgetting Sam, Anna looked down at the toddler squirming in her arms. He was heavy, heavier than his size indicated, and he was beginning to fuss. Maternal instincts she’d thought were dead kicked in, and she shifted him in her arms until he was snuggled against her bosom. Rocking back and forth on her bare feet, she met his wary dark stare head on.

He was afraid. Poor thing. She smoothed a lock of coal-colored hair out of his eyes and cooed softly. “Ssh, little one. It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. Nobody will hurt you.”

At the sound of her voice, the child stopped struggling and smiled up at her, his tiny white teeth shining like iridescent pearls. Then he did an incredible thing. He said, “Mama.”

Anna’s heart lurched. She’d never heard anyone call her that except Susana. It sounded strange coming from this boy whose name she didn’t even know. Vaguely, she wondered if she resembled his mother. Whoever he was, this child was beautiful.

Tearing her gaze away from him, she glanced at Sam, who stood leaning against a white post and smiling slightly. Not wanting to frighten the child unnecessarily, she forced a stiff smile of her own and tried to keep her voice pleasant as she asked, “What the hell are thinking, Sam? Who is this child, and why did you bring him all the way from South America?”

Sam’s smile turned as false and brittle as her own. “Good, Anna. Your years in front of a jury has made you an excellent actress.”

Upon hearing a familiar voice, the child turned his head and reached for Sam. Anna handed him over, thankful to be relieved of her burden, for the boy’s lively warmth was beginning to do crazy things to her insides. Again, she forced her voice to remain low and gentle. “Who is he?”

Sam ran his hand over the boy’s head and then met Anna’s steady gaze. “You look a little pale, darling. Perhaps you should sit down for this.”

Unable to hide her exasperation another moment, Anna ignored his obviously feigned concern over her well being and repeated her question. “Who the hell is he, Sam?”

Eyeing her cautiously, Sam hesitated as if choosing his words carefully. “Just don’t faint on me. I have my hands full at the moment.”

“Sam!”

He shrugged. “Okay, Anna. If you’re sure you don’t want to sit down first. This is Miguel, and according to his birth certificate, he’s my son.”

Discipline

When I first started writing, I was lucky to hook up with a group of writers in Memphis.  Linda Kichline had moved to Memphis and wanted to get some writers together for meeting and sharing and critiquing. I honestly can’t remember how we connected the first time, but the important thing was that some local women (I lived two hours away in Arkansas) met in a neighborhood library and formed a group of writers that was to become the River City Romance Writers. There were under ten of us. It was a beginning.

From this core group of writers, this brand new chapter of Romance Writers of America, emerged a group of us who started meeting for critiquing. None of us were published, and there were really too many. We met every Saturday come rain or shine, usually in someone’s home. Yes, I drove the four-hour round trip every Saturday. It was that important to me. In a few months, the group had dropped to four or five. Then down to three of us. Out of this group came Debra Dixon and Lisa Higdon, who became published romance writers. Debi was the first to publish, and even after publication, she continued to meet with us. Lisa published after the group suspended meeting, but publish she did.

The success of these dedicated and determined writers always fills me with a sense of awe.

I came close, but never quite reached that goal.

Nevertheless, discipline kept me writing consistently for about five years. Without that weekly deadline I probably would have gone weeks without producing any fresh pages. But even if I had a few bad days, I managed to meet the goals. Each week, slowly as a slug creeping across a patio, I produced.

When the critique group broke up, I lost that impetus. I lost part of my support system. Oh, I still had Debi and Lisa and others in RCRW who encouraged and read my pages and brainstormed with me. But I did not have to hand out at least ten NEW pages every Saturday. I soon stopped producing. And with the devastating rejection (that thing all writers experience and must survive), I lost the heart to write. Oh, I played around with some story ideas and wrote a little. But nothing like before.

Now I live in a rural county in southern Arkansas, about three or maybe more hours from Memphis. The old critique group is not there anymore, anyway.

This is not a piss and moan post. I know that only I can write my stories. But I miss that group. I miss the one-on-one, face-to-face interaction and discussions. I miss schmoozing with other writers. I miss RWA (yes, I let my membership lapse). I miss writing.

So why am I writing this? I think simply to express in my wordy, convoluted way that critique groups are important, interaction with other writers is important, sharing information about the publishing business is important… Ergo, isolation might work for some. But it doesn’t work for me.

Anyone else out there share my thoughts?

Writers Write!

Often during the past couple of days I’ve wondered if I’m wasting time surfing all the websites recommended by blogging writers. I love visiting those places and reading the forums and following the links to other equally interesting sites. But …

When do I write?

As much as I think blogging and exploring websites that deal with the writing business and craft are helpful things to do, I think the simple act of writing is the most important activity writers should pursue. Writers write! Period.

Tiny rant over.