DAD’S SYMBOLS (with tears on my keyboard)

Last month, when my father’s pneumonia/COPD took a turn for the worse, I flew to Connecticut.  Alongside my brother and cousin, I was with him as he passed on as peacefully as one can with life-sustaining oxygen removed, morphine compassionately administered.  Afterward, we faced the bittersweet removal of Dad’s things from his assisted-living efficiency at St. Mary's Home.   His was a tiny place, but packed wall-to-wall with his last years’ lifestyle, outlook, and convictions.  He was sharp to the end, so it was a surprise when we discovered he obsessively collected certain items.  I reflected on who he was as I imagined the symbolism of each. 

 

Shame:  Dad had hidden empty liquor bottles and beer cans.  He could have anonymously taken those bags out to the dumpster just around the corner in the hall, but he’d struggled with alcoholism his entire life.  His secret drinking had undermined his sense of worth.  He was ashamed of this weakness, attempting to hide it from the world.  

 

  Unclean, Unsafe, Unhealthy:  Dad had sanitizer bottles, various levels of full, all around his apartment.  One or two would suffice if he’d worried over germs.  Thus I suspect they were secret conversations with himself, perhaps related to his sneak drinking and a few other past indiscretions he wished he could wash from his soul.

 

Seeking Comfort:   Dad had always had dry skin but it must have grown more so over the years because he had a dozen different tubes and bottles of lotion scattered about.  It may have been simply necessary after using so much alcohol based sanitizer, but either way, using it meant comfort.

His Past Career:  Office supplies, pens, paper clips and organizing boxes.  Dad had been a successful manager of over 170 people.  He knew his business inside-out, treated his employees well, was organized, efficient, and capable.  Despite all his later troubles, he continued to keep well-filed records of his bills, payments, resumes, etc. 

Vulnerability and Fear:  Dad had a dozen depleted oxygen bottles, rentals he should have returned.   Dad knew he was winding down.  And we could hear it in his voice when he started to call us more often.  The heavy green bottles stood there as reminders that smoking had sucked the life right out of him.

Prepare and Protect:  White Towels that should have been returned to St. Mary’s laundry were everywhere.  I doubt the white meant purity.  St. Mary's only distributed white towels.  In their terrycloth-soft way, they’d protected him.  He’d wrapped them around his chair arms and back, cushioning them since he spent much of his time there, even while sleeping.  Maybe he feared pressure sores.  He’d draped more white towels over this oxygen bottles, collected them in his closet, tucked them beside furniture--emergency sop ups for his now-and-then incontinence.  They were preparation and prevention, maybe even embarrassment.

Limited Time:  Dad had little dime-store alarm clocks everywhere, as if he needed one visible from any spot he sat or stood.  He hadn’t taken good care of himself, smoking so many years, at times drinking himself into homelessness, even threatening his own life.  Miraculously his liver never suffered.  But his lungs told him he lived on borrowed time.

 

 Isolation:  Unable to even walk a few blocks, Dad came to feel detached from the wide world he had influenced in his political heyday.  He had a huge collection of magazines, CDs and DVDs that must have helped him feel a part of the world again.  Classics to new-release movies (rated G to X), CDs of all sorts--country music his preference, and magazines about his favorite topics, horses, sports, and what he always read “for the articles” --  Playboy.  These items offered vicarious connection. 

Nostalgia:  Calling to mind a teenage bedroom, magazine cut-outs of beautiful women were taped to his walls.  Maybe he wanted to be reminded of a time when he was a handsome, charismatic, female magnet.  It was only because he was loved that St. Mary's turned a blind eye to the half-clad display.

The athletic days: At least a dozen baseball caps hung on a wall:  He was reminded of his athletic days.  Growing older with a bad back was hard on him.  He used to play baseball, ride horses, and golf.

Conscientious about the World:  Cloth and canvas bags were everywhere.  It seemed as if he’d shopped in many places and bought a $1 bag each trip.  He must have set each aside and forgotten to take one with him when he went out shopping again. He could have asked for plastic but sacrificed what little he had to make the environmental choice.

Self-consciousness:  One might argue that sucking on mints was a practical thing to do given Dad’s lack of good teeth.  But I felt the hundreds of packets of hard candies and gummy chews—most not even opened—were my father’s way of reassuring himself that he could pop some flavor and keep his breath fresh.  He’d always been a good-smelling, clean, well-dressed statesman.  He still had pride in his presentation despite having very few good teeth in his mouth.  

Powerlessness:  Dad was naturally fastidious, but he’d become incapable, leaving dirty dishes strewn about and piled in the sink.  The unused stove was covered with a towel.  Luckily St. Mary's Home served meals.

Preserving and Protecting:   Dad had tissues everywhere.  Wads shoved over half eaten dried cranberries in paper cups, apparently meant to protect and preserve.  Sometimes those cups also had take-out plastic drink lids laid over them to further protect munchies from drying out.

 

Connecting/Reconnecting:  Dad had many little calendars and tiny address books with contacts and long lists of birthdates, friends and family he wanted to send cards to for Valentine’s Day (names checked off), fellow assisted-living residents to buy little gifts for.  Tucked inside were greeting cards he’d received and found precious enough to keep—one was from me, my last to him in which I wrote, “Dad you taught me to care what I think of myself rather than what others think of me.  You taught me to stand up to the bullies.  You taught me to care about the world around me.”  I had tucked a check into that card.  Only weeks before, he had sent the check back to me asking that I spend it on my sons.

 Follow Through:  He didn’t only make gift lists, he followed through.  On a window sill sat little figurines and tiny pots with silk flowers.  Dad wasn’t a figurine and flowers type.  But as my brother and I scooped Dad’s life into boxes to be donated or otherwise distributed, Dad’s fellow residents popped their heads through the door, expressing their sadness, showing us little gifts he’d given them on holidays and birthdays, items he must have picked up at the nearby thrift store.  Little pieces of his love.  Despite his oxygen depleted state, he’d thought of everyone. 

Dad’s things had no monetary value, but they told the story of his last few years, his reminiscences, what he regretted, what he cherished.   -- InkPot   

 

My Writing Team (A Poem)

My writing team of three,
'Tis me, myself, and I.
But wait, where's thou or thee?
A greater team have I!

(ahem)

Me writes first, the draft,
Myself whips out the pen,
And I, am I, plain daft?
To edit till "the end?"

I spit and cry and cuss,
At every shirty page,
Yet at "the end" I must,
Share my words again.

My friends, you read those words,
That slip and slide and rend,
Through every story told,
By me, your writing kin.

Thou holds my hand to cry,
Thy strength holds fast my heart,
Thee shares my angst and joy,
Through broken hopes, too oft.

And so my team of three,
When yes, "our" brain is fried,
"We're" grateful, don't you see?
Yes! Me, myself, and I.

~ Folio


Please add your own verse(s)!

It's a Great Life If You Don't Weaken

by Nib

Anticipation 

Spring is here! As soon as the snow melts, anyway. I have to admit it’s been a tough few months for me. I didn’t winter well. I struggled with dreary days in a cold house. But I developed a routine, determined to persevere. I scribbled my way through one completed manuscript, ¾ of the way through another, which will probably remain unfinished. And finally settled in to write the first in a series I’ve been thinking about for a while. The first draft is nearly done on that puppy.

I kept myself to an ambitious daily word count, even if some of those days I resorted to only writing description because I wasn’t sure where the plot was heading. In addition to that, I forced myself to get outside on all but the blizzardiest days for at least an hour. I knew that eventually spring would arrive and I’d finally get to plant my vegetable garden and enjoy the sunshine.

I sought out inspiring messages. I read all those clichés on Facebook about positive thinking and counting blessings. I did my best to create a positive attitude. It didn’t always work but it didn’t hurt.

In a faith-validating way, April swung around and I planted a vegetable garden. And now it’s growing and I’m heaving a huge sigh of relief. I don’t have to put so much effort into feeling happy. Hearing the birds sing, waiting for the first burst of color from my peonies, and feeling the sun on my face is all the inspiration I need.

Today, I’m going to share one of the bits of inspiration I tacked up last winter to remind myself to buck up. I saw it online someplace and printed it out. It’s from Doe Zantamata.

We believe what we tell ourselves.

Tell Yourself:

Everything will work out.

Things will get better.

You are important.

You are worthy of great things.

You are loveable.

The time is now.

This too, shall pass.

You can be who you really are.

The best is yet to come.

You are strong.

You can do this.  

My father-in-law used to have a saying I love: It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.

I often resort to one of my favorite lines I first saw on a greeting card: It’ll all be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.

Look at their sweet newborn selves!

Now as I happily trip through the sunshiny spring and summer of growth and delight, I’ll shed the heaviness of winter. Not to get too maudlin, but life and the seasons cycle around. Maybe the dreariness of winter won’t hit me like a sledgehammer next year. But eventually, I’ll run into another rough patch and I’ll need to circle my emotional wagons again.

As an aside, the Hopi tribe, featured in my mysteries, believe that planting seeds and growning things is essential to maintaining not only the Earth's balance but our own personal balance. 

What about you? What tricks, methods, exercises do you engage when you need to pull yourself from the depths?

A little later than I'd planned but, as promised, here is Donnell Bell of Colorado Springs playing the Writing Process Blog Tour with us. (Donnell answered right away, I just procrastinated on this end.) 

What do you write?

I write romantic suspense and mystery.

 How does your work differ from others of its genre?

I think I write outside of the typical romantic suspense box.  I concentrate on character and put them in “what if” situations to see how they grow out of a problem. For me, it’s all about the relationships.  Sometimes intimacy is called for, sometimes it’s not, and I’m never going to put a character into a scene because of the “expectation” it belongs there.  Pacing is everything to me, and sexual tension can be ten times sexier in my opinion than a gratuitous sex scene.  Of course, if the characters have built up to that point, a sex scene can be equally satisfying. 

I started writing when editors and agents were giving authors all kinds of rules.  Keep your characters together 99 percent of the time.  Never have a kid in a book older than two or three, couples don’t date, never start your book with your protagonist driving a car, skip the prologue…my gosh, we had a rule for our rules.  I’m grateful Bell Bridge allowed me to break a good many of them in my debut The Past Came Hunting.  I actually had an agent reject representation because Melanie my protag faced the bad guy alone.  It was her story, and although Joe, my police lieutenant eventually comes to her rescue somewhat, this was Mel’s journey and I wanted her to be worthy heroine material. 

In Deadly Recall, I was told, “Nice idea, but Catholic stories aren’t well received,” even though I explained the story wasn’t out to convert, I simply wanted to write a mystery.  Again, I owe Bell Bridge Books a debt of thanks.   Deadly Recall was a 2010 Golden Heart finalist, reaching #1 on Amazon’s Deal of the Day, and as of this writing, has 200 reviews, (some of them positive ;).

In Betrayed, my third release from Bell Bridge Books, is a mother and daughter reunion story.  Their reunion is the crux of the novel, but true to what I write, it includes a lot of suspense, mystery, and, of course, a love interest.  There’s lots going on in Betrayed. 

Speaking of BETRAYED, just a heads up.  On May 3^rd BETRAYED will be Amazon’s Flagship Deal of the Day.  On May 3, it will be greatly reduced to $1.99.  If you like mystery, suspense with a healthy dose of romantic sexual tension, consider adding this book to your TBR pile.

Long story short, I write what I believe needs to be in the book.

 How does your writing process work?

 The storyline has to gel for me, and then the research starts.  I generally write cop stories, and this time a FBI agent has entered the fold.  I’m driving my contacts crazy with my questions and have purchased so many research books, they’re causing my floor to sag.  First draft, I write in shorthand, second, I print it into a notebook.  Then, when it comes time to type the work onto my computer and into manuscript format, I have a pretty comprehensive third draft.

What are you working on now?

I am editing my September release for Bell Bridge Books, another single-title called Buried Agendas and writing the first book in a suspense series tentatively called, “Whatever Happened to Rae Dawn Walker?”  P.S. I’m writing this one with the lights on.

Writing Process Blog Tour

by Nib

Sparkle Abbey tagged me in this Writing Process Blog Tour. I was well into my second G&T and thought it would be a good idea. Often times, when I make decisions in that state of mind, it’s a disaster. But this time, it turned out to be fun. 

When I met Mary Lee and Anita we were getting our first Starbucks of the morning at the Mayhem in the Midlands conference in Omaha way back in 2010. I love their humor and friendliness and look forward to seeing them at least a couple of times a year.

Sparkle Abbey writes the hysterically funny and cleverly titled Pampered Pets mystery series. Yip/Tuck, Get Fluffy, Kitty Kitty Bang Bang, and Desperate Housedogs. It is a dynamic duo of Mary Lee Woods and Anita Carter. They’re friends and neighbors in Iowa and can often be found writing at Mary Lee’s dining room table or at their local Starbucks. They chose to use Sparkle Abbey as their pen name on this series because they liked the idea of combining the names of their two rescue pets—Sparkle is Mary Lee’s cat and Abbey is Anita’s dog.

Check out their answers to the Writing Process here http://www.sparkleabbey.com/category/blog/

My answers to the Writing Process Blog Tour:

What do you write?

The Nora Abbott Mystery Series from Midnight Ink is a fast-paced mix of Hopi spirituality, environmental issues and murder. All the books are set in western landscapes: Flagstaff, AZ, Boulder, CO, and next, Moab, UT.

How does your work differ from others of its genre?

These books mix hard science and environmental truths with the woo-woo of an ancient culture. Tainted Mountain (2013) deals with the real-life issue of man-made snow on a ski mountain in Arizona. The enviros hate that, the business people are gung-ho, and the tribes, including Hopi, feel it’s sacrilegious.

Broken Trust, just released, plays with energy and Tesla technology and crazy (or not so crazy) conspiracy theories about weather as a weapon of mass destruction. Believe it or not, a Hopi kachina has a thing or two to say about this.

Tattered Legacy (next year’s addition) adds another layer of Hopi culture as Nora defends one of the most iconic landscapes in the west. What do Mormons, aliens and monsoon rains have to do with murder?

How does your writing process work?

My process is not for the weak. I start with lots of excitement, thrilled with a new idea and the cool facts I learn in research. It goes from there to painful thinking and plotting on an Excel spreadsheet. Lots of cursing and lamenting about how I’m not smart enough accompany this stage. I move on to galloping though a first draft without stopping, editing, rewriting. I do this, because as I write, I realize what I’d planned isn’t logical, isn’t as good as a new idea, isn’t what the characters foist on me, or any number of reasons. I make notes about what needs to change and charge forward. I’ve learned not to go back and fix it because it might change again before I’m done.

After the first draft is finished, the real work begins. Rewriting, sweeping up, polishing, adding clarity. All that stuff takes a few drafts to get through. Then off to a free-lance editor, a couple of weeks of respite, then panic at the changes she thinks are necessary.

Now that I put this down, I’m wondering what the hell I’m thinking? This is a lot of work! I ought to quit, read more novels, and eat more chocolate.

What are you working on now?

With book three turned in and winding its way toward publication, I’ve turned my thoughts to a new series set in rural Nebraska. I’m still in the lust stage for this, so don’t want to say too much. Right now, I’m giddy with writing the first draft. Soon enough the honeymoon will end.

I’m passing this tour off to J.A. Kazimer and Donnell Bell. I picked two people because I’m an over achiever. Or, because I’m insecure and asked a couple of people, sure they’d turn me down.

Julie is one of the funniest people I know. She’s also one of the most generous, kind and snarky. (Those are not mutually exclusive.)

J.A. (Julie) Kazimer lives in Denver, CO. Novels include CURSES! A F***ed-Up Fairy Tale, Holy Socks & Dirtier Demons, Dope Sick: A Love Story, FROGGY STYLE and The Assassin’s Heart, as well as the forthcoming mystery series, Deadly Ever After from Kensington Books. J.A. spent years spilling drinks as a bartender and then stalked people while working as a private investigator.

Learn more at www.jakazimer.com or on her writerly talk blog More Than a Little F***ed Up. She can also be found (way too much of the time) on Twitter as@jakazimer and on Facebook as Julie Kazimer. 

Something you may not know about Julie: One of her coworkers has eight legs and a whole lot of body hair.

Donnell Bell is perpetually cheerful. Her smiling face and easy laugh light up any room.

Donnell Ann Bell is as at home in nonfiction as she is in fiction. She has worked for a weekly business publication and a monthly parenting magazine but prefers her fictional writing compared to writing about stock portfolios or treating diaper rash. She has a background in court reporting, has worked with kids and engineers, and has volunteered for law enforcement and other organizations. Raised in New Mexico’s Land of Enchantment, Donnell has called the state of Colorado home for the past twenty-eight years.

She writes thrillers and mysteries for Bell Bridge Books. Her titles include The Betrayed, Deadly Recall, and The Past Came Hunting.

 Here’s something I just found out about Donnell from seeing her picture on her website, http://www.donnellannbell.com/: Donnell has a bull dog.

Writing as a Business

Thankfully, tax season is behind us, but in early April I followed an interesting exchange of opinions about how the IRS might determine whether you, as a writer, are operating as a business and could (presumably) deduct expenses.  I've seen similar lists before, attended one or two panels on the subject, heard suggestions regarding making a profit at least one year out of five, and so on.  Of course tracking royalties is the fun part of this equation!

However, more than a few of the items on the "IRS" list annoyed me.  (Surprise, surprise.)

"Do you carry on your activities in a business-like manner?  Do you maintain a system to keep track of your expenses/income? (Do you maintain a separate checking account or charge card for business purposes?"

Yes and yes!  I win!  Er, wait.  This was just the first item on the list.  And while I'm not going to go through all of them, I did think it would be fun (ahem) to rant about a few of them.

"Is the time and effort you put into writing indicative of someone attempting to sell a manuscript for profit?"

Let me say it one more time.  I'm a slow writer.  I've always met my contract deadlines, but overall, think of me as a tortoise.  I think it's because I edit so much, plus I work on multiple manuscripts at the same time, so my progress feels sluggish.  But how and why would it be appropriate to compare my time and effort with someone else?  What if my plots are more (or less) complicated; my characters less (or more) developed?  And how in the hell would the IRS be able to judge this?  Can you picture a couple of agents sitting next to you, timing your efforts, then compiling that into a database so it can be compared to the next writer's efforts?  Or filling out a survey?  "It took four days to draft that chapter.  Then I edited it 19 times over the course of three months and changed the character arc of my heroine and added several scenes and then deleted one of them as I scrolled back."  How many hours did that take?  No clue.  But I sit at my computer many hours every day.  And most of us ARE attempting to sell our manuscripts for profit.  Not all.  But most.

"Have you generated a profit from your writing in prior years, and was the profit sufficient?" 

Yes, I've generated a profit.  Was it sufficient?  Hell, no!  Not if you calculate an hourly equivalent.  Do I  care?  Of course.  But that hasn't stopped me nor will it, though it would be nice to make enough to pay the mortgage.  Every month.  (Greedy, eh?  Wanting to pay the mortgage from my royalties.  Every.  Single.  Month.)  In truth, earning that much would provide so much affirmation that I wouldn't be able to stop grinning, which would, of course, trigger unintended consequences.  Children might run away, shrieking in terror.  My dancing in the street could alarm our neighbors, not to mention the cows and horses in the field to the east.  And what about that dark scene I need to write?  I might not be in the appropriate frame of mind to throw enough rocks at my characters, which might keep that manuscript from selling, which means I wouldn't make enough to pay my mortgage, which means I'd stop smiling, which means...  Okay, going in circles now.

"Have you changed your method of operation in an attempt to be more profitable?"

I have changed my methods over the years, but not to be more profitable.  It was simple evolution.  Writing first drafts on the computer instead of long-hand, doing more up-front plotting instead of my long (and beloved) habits as a pantser.  Social networking.  While it's true that I hope networking might entice a few more people to buy my books, I wasn't really thinking about bottom line profit.  Sorry, IRS, to be absolutely honest, the answer is no.  I haven't changed my habits in order to be more profitable.  I've changed them because it makes sense, sometimes because it's fun, but also to help achieve my writing goals.  MY goals.  Not yours.

Enough of their list.  How about mine?  It would be short and sweet, starting with something along the lines of, "How often do you sit down and write?  Virtually every day?  As you also cope with a day job?  And family?  Then OF COURSE you're a writer."

Does our dear old IRS have those questions and that answer on their list?  Nope.  Just dollars and cents.  I know, I know.  My list is simply wishful thinking on my part.  But remember, I do write fiction!

~  Folio

Don't Weaken

by Nib

Is it me, or has it been a long, cold, gray winter? I’m ashamed to say I sort of lost my grip during this last season. I’ve been fortunate that either by nurture or nature, I normally maintain a cautiously upbeat outlook on life in general. To augment that, I’m like the Thought Traffic Cop, directing them from the dangerous road of negativity to the more positive lane.

Something twisted in my head last fall, though, and my determined optimism faded. I opened my mind to a dribble of fear and soon, I was flooded with it. I turned in the last book of a three-book series and my new proposal hadn’t been accepted. I started writing in a new genre, experimenting with alternative publishing methods. I moved from my supportive writing network to the boonies. And I started to fret.

What if I was all washed up? What if my book sales tanked? What if no one ever wanted the new mystery series I wanted to write? What if these new books wouldn’t be successful?

I kept up a respectable daily word count but writing became a sentence, not fun. (Okay, let’s be truthful, writing for me in rarely fun, but I often feel satisfied.) My view of myself as a big fat loser grew to US dietary proportions. I literally saw my world in black and white. (I mean that literally, as in the movie Nebraska.)

I’m not sure what caused the turning point but one day it hit me. I had nothing to moan about. My goodness (truth is I probably didn’t say “my goodness” or "moan."), I had a three-book deal with a decent publishing house! How long had I worked toward that goal? I reminded myself that not long ago I’d said, “If I could have three books published, I might give up writing and become a full-time reader.” Somewhere along the line, though, I’d raised the bar on myself. Suddenly three books weren’t enough. And I wallowed in self-pity that my sales didn’t rival more successful writers.

The truth is, I may never get another publishing contract. This is what I’ve got right now: two books released, one due out next year. I had darned-well better enjoy this ride. If it’s the last time I go round, I’ll kick myself if I spend the whole time worrying about what’s next.

I also decided to stop writing the books that weren’t feeding me and start to have fun (again, a relative term). Just like the pall of winter lifting for spring, my gloom lightened. Negative self-talk that had become habit required conscious thought to change. But it’s so worth the effort.

Instead of thinking, “oh no, how will lightening ever strike me twice?” I’m feeling gratitude for the shock of the first time. I’m infused with new energy and determination to get going. No one may want to publish this next series but it’s the book I want to write. Thinking of it makes me happy. So that’s what I’m going to work on.

Maybe my new-found optimism is more a product of the coming spring than it is my ability to direct my own thinking. But it snowed yesterday and there’s a definite dreariness in the sky today. And yet, I threw myself into my new project with enthusiasm.

As my dear father-in-law used to say: It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.