You're Reading That?

As I writer, I always have my nose buried in some book - usually a work of literary fiction (my favorite genre). My husband, who is not an avid reader like myself, will often ask me about the book that has so much of my attention. His response is almost always the same: "What's so interesting about that?"

Why, for example, would a thirty-six year-old, healthy woman be reading a story about a fifty-year old who is diagnosed with early onset Alzheimers? Why should I care if some gay guy can talk pretty one day? So what that there's a guy who runs kites (whatever that is) in Afghanistan. Who cares!?

Well, thankfully, a lot of people care. Readers care. Not so much about the topic of the story itself, but about the human condition. We were put on this world to live in community. We crave connections. We were made to have feelings and to regularly express them. When we keep our feelings behind lock and key for too long, they eventually explode out of us in a less-than-appropriate way.

A character in my novel, Forest to Fenix, sums this up when, on her deathbed, she writes to her daughter:

"Now, Kallie, my life is spent—frantic wasted energy burned for the sake of numbness – because being numb seemed a better option to me than being alive with sadness and regret. Denial seemed far better than truth. I realize now that the very thing that motivated me to run is what gives me fullness and peace in this moment today. It is the absolute knowledge that pain is a necessary part of life; that it must be felt and dealt with for any kind of healing to take place. I am only human, Kal, as are you; and the human body can only hold on to so much emotion at any given point in time. Our souls are contained in these tiny earthly bodies and, without release, they will implode."

True, we cannot hold our emotions inside - we all need some kind of outlet. For many, emotional release comes from listening to a piece of music, watching the ballet, or visiting an art gallery. For me, the pages of a book are my freedom. A good book allows me to feel every emotion I am capable of - and it is cleansing and rewarding. A good book - regardless of the plot or storyline, regardless of whether it ends happily or in tragedy - a really good book makes me feel human . . . connected . . . alive.

Snapshots of Life

Today I am feeling poetic and nostalgic. Today is a day for poetry. Here's one of the poems I wrote for a novel I am currently writing.

SNAPSHOTS

My life, a string of snapshots…

Memories of yesterday;

Stills of what I’m feeling now,

And future dreams still far away.

My life’s a picture of unrest

With bouts of pounding rain

And times of calm and peaceful bliss,

And moments of endless pain.

Temporary solitaire,

Loving, hoping if I dare.

A snapshot of the coming fall

Through clouded sky “My love,” I call.

My heart beats still against the wind;

My soul cries out; when will it end?

The rain falls hard upon my skin,

A snapshot of the coming spring;

The promise of life renewed again,

And Beauty glowing like a gem.

The winter brings the breath of death;

The summer stings with heat;

But the fall cools down my silent breath,

And spring brings life so sweet;

It’s all a picture – painted clean,

No more a shattered dream;

Snapshots of a peaceful life,

And promises redeemed…

When Opportunity Knocks - Write!

Have you ever had an idea so illuminating you had to literally pull the car over to write it down? You have if you're a writer. A song comes on the radio or a passenger in the seat next to you makes a random comment and - boom - there it is . . . the answer to your most pressing dilemma.

Okay, so it doesn't always happen that way, but sometimes it does. And all it takes is for you to ignore that urge to stop everything cold and write just one time - and you'll never do it again. It happened to me yesterday on my sixty-minute drive home from the university where I serve as a marketing professor . . .

I am mulling over a particular scene in the novel I am currently editing and the perfect resolution to one of my character's conflicts just appearsin my mind. I know that it's good.

What do I do?

I tell myself to just get home, where I can open my laptop and give the idea justice - give it the proper attention it deserves from the hands of a serious writer. I use the remaining thirty minutes of my drive to elaborate on the brilliant concept.

Here's how the rest of my evening plays out.

I arrive home at 3 p.m., neurons firing and nerves racing in anticipation to finally get this scene right. My heart is pounding as I mentally plan the next hour I will have alone in the house before the kids arrive from school and before I'll have to start dinner. I walk in, drop my bag on the office floor and descend the stairs to the basement where the dogs are yapping crazily.

The high-pitched scream of the smaller dog is so painful I cannot hear myself think. I open crates and the little monsters dart up the stairs to the door where I let them out. They know they must perform before they receive any attention from me, and when they do, they are rewarded with hugs and chewy treats.

Silenced now, the dogs take their usual spot on the oriental carpet that serves as a resting place for my desk. They know I will be working now. (I am always working.) I open my laptop and press the power button, knowing I have at least a minute before it will be ready to receive my thoughts.

The dogs - who look confused although this is what I do almost every day - notice I am passing through the office instead of sitting at the desk. I am quickly making my way toward the bedroom for a change of clothes. If I'm going to write a masterpiece, I need to do so in comfort. They follow at my heels, tails wagging and the little one stealing tiny kisses on my ankles as I stumble to the bedroom.

The phone rings. I answer it. The window treatment guy needs to stop by to remove a shade that needs repaired. Okay, I tell him. I'll be home until six, when I take my daughter to cheer practice. Come by anytime.

I dump my work clothes in the laundry basket, which I notice is full. This bothers me. I carry the basket to the laundry room - passing through the office once more. I notice that the computer is at full attention now, just waiting for my fingers to tap out the brilliant scene. I start a load and, as I pass by the half bath, I realize I really need to use the restroom. First things first.

The dogs are barking again. What now?

The UPS man is at the door, package in hand. I sign, thank him kindly, and set the brown package on top of my desk. I sit to write, but the package is in my peripheral vision and now it's caught my attention. I am curious. I open the package and find two books I have recently purchased. Amazon. I love Amazon. I give the books a quick once-over and set them on the bookshelf beside my desk - third row down, where the books I am determined to read next stand in line expectantly.

I am thirsty. The dull humming of the refrigerator just a few feet away reminds me of this fact. I snap open a can of Diet Mtn Dew and revel in the sensation of the fizzy caffeine coursing through my veins. While in the fridge, I notice that the meat I moved from the freezer last night is not completey thawed, so I remove it and set it on the counter. It should be thawed within an hour, I figure.

Crap. The microwave clock, now right in front of me, says 3:55 p.m. How is that possible? I'll have to thaw the meat with a little extra help. Just as I place the package in the microwave and push the start button, the damn dogs are yapping again. I hear the "beep-beep" sound of the bus backing up and within seconds, the kids are barreling through the door.

"I'm hungry, Mom."

"I need you to sign my test, Mom."

"Can you help me with my homework, Mom?"

I look toward the office where my laptop is no longer anxiously awaiting. Instead, it has gone to sleep and the screensaver is rolling some beauty shots of the campus at which I work. My head starts pounding.

The next hour is a whirlwind of kids and dogs and homework and cooking. At 5:15 p.m. my husband arrives home and we sit down to eat as a family. It is a quick dinner. I've got to put on some workout clothes so I can get in some Yoga while my daughter practices cheerleading for three hours.

We are in the car by 5:40 p.m. and at the gym by 6 p.m. - right on time. I cross the street to my gym and sweat for a good forty-five minutes. My headache is gone and I feel somewhat rejuvenated. I have two hours now to sit at my daughter's gym. I plan to bring in my trusty laptop and finally transfer that brilliant idea to virtual paper.

When I arrive and sit in the viewing room, there are several other parents there. I make polite conversation and we watch the practice for awhile, trying to determine if the girls will be ready for the first competition, just a little over a month away. My daughter is learning a new trick. She's small so she's a flyer (she is thrown into the air and then, please God, is caught by the ones who threw her). I am nervous so I watch for awhile to be sure I trust her bases. They appear to be a pretty strong stunt team.

I have one hour.

"Who needs to order shoes?" The question comes from the team "mom" who can get us a discount if we order in bulk. I need to order new shoes for the upcoming competition season because my daughter's are worn. I search my purse for the checkbook and take care of placing the order. I check my daughter's folder while I pay and read through the most current updates. There's a sleepover next Friday. Twenty dollars. We need to order make-up and bows. Fifty dollars.

It is almost 9 p.m. It is time to go. My laptop is not even in sleep mode now. I hadn't plugged it in and the battery is completely dead. I pack it up and collect my daughter and we are home by 9:15 p.m. My son and husband are watching TV - it's the first NFL game of the season. Fantastic. I peel off my sweat-soaked clothes and take a quick shower. I dry my hair. I correct my son's homework (my husband tried, but math is not his thing). I am tired.

It is 10:30 p.m. and all I want to do is sleep. The nerves are no longer racing. The only thing I anticipate is the comfort of my bed and soft pillow. I turn on my computer. Check my e-mail. Respond to the most time-sensitive inquiries. I open the document containing my most prized possession - my novel. I scroll to the scene I need to complete.

Fingers poised above the keypad, I realize with horrow that my mind is blank. What was that great idea I had? Shaking my head, I close my laptop and pack it for tomorrow. I cannot for the life of me remember what had inspired me so vividly just hours ago.

***

Have you ever had an idea so illuminating you had to literally pull the car over to write it down? All it takes is for you to ignore that urge to stop everything cold and write just one time - and you'll never do it again. Pull the car over, my writer friends. Pull over and write. It's what you were born to do.

Things Left Unsaid

One thing I love about writing is that it gives me the opportunity to say the things I am too much of a coward to say in real life. It is an outlet not accessed by many. Fyodor Dostoevsky (Russian novelist in the 1800's most known for the classic Crime and Punishment, though my favorite is The Brothers Karamozov) captured my thought in this brilliant quote:

“Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.”

So true. Though the word, once spoken, can never be retrieved, the word, never uttered, can never be resolved. Bewilderment may cause some dis-ease, but it is far better to walk about in mystified confusion than to walk about empty - hollow.

Resolution is a basic human need. We have an innate pyschological drive for closure. It is so strong, in fact, that an individual presented with an incomplete image of some type will instinctively "fill in" the picture in their minds so that it does not appear unfinished. A writer too close to his work may in fact "see" words that are accidentally omitted because his mind completes the sentence or fills in the missing word.

We seek it - closure. We crave it. We must have it. Without it, we are lost. We finish others' sentences when they don't finish them quickly enough to satisfy our need for closure. When we enter a conversation near the end of the story, we ask the storyteller to start over so we can get the whole picture.

Try starting a task or stating half of a thought and then try not to complete it. You will go mad waiting for the other shoe to drop, or you will give in. (The latter usually prevails.) The cliffhanger to the series finale of a favorite show, or waiting for the third book in a trilogy to finally be released is an adrenaline rush, but we can only wait for so long.

Unhappiness comes from the word unspoken, the thought unfinished, the truth left unsaid. I love writing because the truth always finds its way onto the paper and I gain much-needed closure . . . that sense of peace that I can now move forward. It is cathartic. It is healing. It is another gift meant for the hands of a writer.