All good things...

It's official: I'm writing again.

Today it was only a glimmer of a chapter, but it happened. Rewriting, actually. Chapter Six. Dinosaur that I am, I tend to write in a notebook first. Yes, longhand. Cursive even. That none but I can read (just ask my former students or clients).

So today I grabbed one of three notebooks filled to the brim with the sketchings of my first-draft, second-in-the-series novel, and picked up where I'd left off: at the beginning of the next chapter. I didn't get far. But I'm not bothered by that, because I'm writing again.

Also editing. I finally found a couple hours to sit with a client's final chapter of her novel (yay, her!!!) to edit and pen my notes. And before that, I reconciled four months of our household bills, and prepped for the next onslaught. Including that big ticket item: the IRS. Oy! They do come calling for those of us who happen to be self-employed. That's both my husband and me. Therefore, April 15th is always the most painful day of the year: The day we pay up on the former year's taxes AND pay the first installment of the current year's taxes.

If lawmakers want my vote, they would do well to break up those two painful self-employed payments. And do something about making healthcare affordable. Before you scoff--do you pay over $16,000 a year for two people, which doesn't amount to much of anything covered until we fork out another $13,000??? Glass houses, people!

Of course they should also bloody well follow New Zealand's lead and get the high caliber rifles outta the hands of everyone in this country (NRA, I'm looking at you, you nasty buggers!). And don't even get me started on climate change (have you seen my film at the McAuliffe-Shepard Discovery Center? If not, why not?).

But I digress. Since I do, reminder to self: I need tissues next time I'm at the grocers. And bananas.

So tomorrow's looking up: I think I'll jump right back into rewriting and typing chapter six into my computer. I'll also be picking up my already published novel, as I reread and review before my Lyme disease discussion with Dr. Lynn Durand, LLMD, at Gibson's Bookstore next Thursday evening at six o'clock. It's free, if you want to join us. You can buy my book too while you're there. That won't be free, but what in life actually is?

I'm exhausted, and unnaturally nocturnal these past few days, which some are telling me is on account of the super huge moon lighting up the night, and some other hocus-pocus planetary stuff, which I'm still not sure I absolutely believe...though I do believe I'm haunted by...uh, visited by...my spirit guides, dead relatives, and guardian angel.

But once again, I digress. The point of this blog? That I'm writing again. And whether or not you're happy about that, I can honestly report that my protagonist Anna McGrory is tickled to bits that it is so. She wants to get on with this body identification process, after all.

Ohh...who will she see in that drawer in the morgue? Only my spirit guides know. I hope.

Wow. Have I been lazy or what?

Just noticed my last post was in December. While Novel Launch Day was pretty spectacular--thanks to all my friends and the two sites that hosted me and my NEWLY PUBLISHED novel (Gibson's Bookstore in Concord, NH, and MainStreet BookEnds in Warner, NH)--a few things have happened since.

Mainly, my step father-in-law has transitioned from our home to an independent living facility across the street from the hospital, which is handy when it is necessary (like all day yesterday when I went with him to a last-second doctor visit to help solve a suddenly painful issue). It is supposed to be a win-win situation: a win for him since he is so social and now has tons of friends to hang out with.

Some really cool wallpaper in an exhibit at MASS MoCA.
We were there last weekend to see the Punch Brothers
in concert. My life isn't entirely about taking
care of others, after all. :)

It's a win for me since I can again--in theory--return to my writing since--again, in theory--I will be less exhausted taking daily care of his needs. That hasn't quite happened yet, but it's only been two weeks, so my frequent trips in to see him are only because we have been setting up cable, nursing visits, dropping off medicines and medical necessities that are still shipped to our home, and accompanying him on his myriad of physician visits.

I'm not complaining. Just recording daily life as a Lyme warrior who has a few other co-infections off and on, and a plethora of autoimmune disorders. To make matters worse for myself, when January and February became especially stressful (did I mention my mother has moved in with us too--meaning I am also driving her and her little dog to the dentist, doctors, and vet), I stress ate. Don't judge me. When I'm harried and exhausted, white carbs appeal to me: especially popcorn and butter toast.

I'm still making plans and canceling them. I have only a couple friends left who seem to understand this bizarre condition of mine. But at least my husband completely gets me, or at least supports me and loves me despite my being prone to needing about 48 hours of rest for every handful of hours of activity.

And I plan to return to Anna McGrory's exciting life as a Lyme warrior and amateur sleuth. When I last joined her in unlocking her journey into Book Two of my Lyme Murder Mystery Trilogy, she was about to identify a body. She's afraid it's Frank, which should be just bones by now since it's been over a year since he was murdered. She wonders if there's a real-life Dr. Brennan (on the TV show Bones) who could be called in to make a more accurate I.D. But maybe it's not Frank's remains, after all. I left off just as she and her nephew were approaching the morgue, so I don't know who's in the drawer either. I can't wait to find out!

This rambling post is to say that I'm back. The writer me, that is. I've actually never gone anywhere. I simply got distracted by real life duties that have landed me on the sofa for far too much recovery time. But look at me now: a new post. Maybe the next will be to update my progress on the next novel. I can only hope so.

Judge a Book by its Cover. Please.

The publisher I've signed with is willing to look at up to two possible designs for my book--a Lyme Disease Murder Mystery set throughout New England, from Cliff Island, Maine, to Berkshire County, Massachusetts, as well as in Southern Vermont, Concord, New Hampshire, Boston, and other points in Casco Bay, Maine.

Would you pick up any of these designs? Which cover most entices you? Please cast your vote via a comment here or on my Facebook post. Thank you!

Anchor Chain

Casco Bay Lines Ferry

Snowy Bucket

But how will we feed the children?
(My daughter.)

Thanks to Black Rose Writing for its belief in my story. And to Canva, where I was able to create these possible cover designs. Maybe even to Lyme Disease, which has hit me FOUR times and continues to challenge me now, but which has helped me to slow down and appreciate the quiet (and sometimes not so quiet) times with family and friends.

Batman Works for the CIA

Mother recently told me about a childhood friend,

A boy I’d played Caped Crusader with

Nearly everyday after kindergarten.

I was Robin to his Batman.

At his house we wore towels for capes, and

Were actually permitted to jump from

Sofa to coffee table to chair in pursuit of

The Joker or, my favorite, the Penguin.

At mine, our capes were mimed as a

Backyard plum tree provided the obstacle

To climb, dodge, and drop from as we narrowly

Escaped injury in time for PB&Js dunked in milk.

Our mothers kept in touch through the years

As we moved about the country,

She and her husband still in that cozy northern

Ohio home a block or two from our first house.

“Apparently he works for the CIA now,” Mother said.

Since learning this news, I’ve envied him. At first for

Becoming what I’d only ever dreamed of. But as I grow older,

I am jealous he can return home to a place he knows well.

My family continued to move, finally depositing me

In a New England college town like sediment left  

Behind by an iceberg on its travels; the rest 

Eventually migrated to Southern California.

In the year before he grew ill, Dad was accompanied

Everywhere he went by a new security guard. Mother

Would complain that the guard was eating with them

Again and sleeping in their guest room again.

The guard even traveled with Dad to his new

Destination of China and places around the region.

We wondered why Mother was no longer invited

To journey with him as she had so many times while

He visited the English plants that he managed from

This side of the pond, the German manufacturers with

Which he often did business, and his Italian relatives

With whom he was pleased to finally become acquainted.

None of us knew why he was suddenly sending us selfies 

From the Great Wall and Tiananmen Square, yet saying 

Little about his new Far East adventures other than they 

Were equipment-purchasing forays from retired mills.  

In an office desk drawer, which Mother thought

Was jammed as, upon his death she cleaned out

His personal effects, and which my brother

Successfully jimmied open, was a handgun.

“He was a decent shot,” said the guard who

Suddenly darkened the threshold, there

To retrieve the weapon. But we knew

Dad could not possibly have been. After all,

We’d seen him shoot his 22, balancing the butt of

The gun in his armpit as he used a hand to cover

His eye and the other to pull the trigger because

He couldn’t blink. How could he possibly sight a pistol?

Apparently he’d been trained to work around his

Odd handicap. He’d had to learn for his own

Protection. Not even an undercover CIA operative

Posing as the new head of security could protect

My father twenty-four-seven from the 

Hit that had been placed upon his head 

By a foreign government. Perhaps all his

Training had been for naught after all.

When he suddenly fell ill with stage-four 

Cancer—dying five months later—he often 

Said cryptically that it probably wasn’t 

Natural causes that got him in the end.

Dad had been spying for Congress. Foreign steel had

Flooded the marketplace, purchased illegally by unscrupulous

Businessmen who dared blame their shady dealings on legal

Loopholes that allowed them the luxury to shun domestic steel.

A contingent from a country south of north had allegedly taken a

Contract out on my father. Either they or natural causes—

Or perhaps all those chemicals he’d been exposed to over

The years—got him before he could deliver his expert testimony.

He’d spent many more than Malcolm Gladwell’s ten

Thousand hours earning his reputation for greatness

In the wire mills of the world, and could easily identify shifty

From legal, frugal from dangerous, and strong from fragile.

He also knew how to recognize working mills from

Reportedly retired ones, which may have been the

Final nail in his coffin—

Or cancerous tumor in his spine.

My father had worked undercover with the CIA

As a super-secret agent for our government,

Giving me yet another reason to admire him.

I wondered if he and my kindergarten Batman

Ever worked together, feeling a sudden pang of

Jealousy if they had. But as time continues on,

What I most envy is that my childhood friend is 

Still able to return home and visit with his father.

  

  

-->

Dad of Steel

This morning as I fill and flip an
omelet, spread probiotics over the
dogs' breakfasts, measure chicken for
my husband's lunch, I half watch a
public television travel show host tour
the country ruled by a government that
years ago took a hit out on my dad.

That is one place I'll never go, I think.
Until he ends with a celebration of
Buddha's birthday and a chance meeting
with the American ambassador and his
dog out for a stroll and breakfast supplied
by the myriad of street vendors.

My father's slight against that country's
leaders was recognizing a trade
imbalance; they were dumping illegal
steel into the American marketplace.
Hired by our government to spy,
trained and protected by an agent
of the CIA, my father instead
succumbed to an aggressive cancer.

Within a few months of its discovery,
he was gone. Once in conversation with
my mother he apparently hinted at the origin
of his illness--wondering if it was natural
or planted, while also recognizing it may
have simply been the multitude of chemicals
his professional life was built around.

In our current age of political madness with
a commander in chief who, during a debate
with the other party's candidate, bragged
about using illegal foreign steel to construct
some of his buildings, I now understand
how money drives maniacal power.

And I wonder if my father's death was
a convenient coincidence for the foreign
powers, or a plotted timeline that cut him
down before his scheduled expert
testimony before congress.

Christmas without the ha$$le

For Christmas this year,
Our family has decided to
Exchange handmade gifts.

Spices neatly wrapped,
A cake freshly baked,
A poem, a picture, a whittled spoon.

It doesn't matter the form,
Only that we are together
Making memories and sharing love.

Soup

Soup has always
for me been a starter
to a meal,
not the meal itself.

Older now,
and a wee bit wiser,
I eat soup
as a complete meal.

This morning it is breakfast,
ham and artichoke hearts in
thinned Thanksgiving gravy,
the perfect starter to my day.

Keeping Up With

I'm not sure I can do this--
Write a novel.
And yet I know I can.

Pen to paper.
Fingers to keys.
Plod forward, trying to keep up with my characters.

Wait. What did he just say to her?
What would he say?
Who is that approaching?
And now a dog is in their lives?

The story fascinates the storyteller.
It better.
If not, it won't entertain anyone at all.

On writing a novel.

Daily meditation writing

after penning a portion

of Chapter Twelve

in my current novel,

Fermi's Redux. 

Happiness Found

I pray for help detaching from my ego
Asking that I no longer have an ego;
Let go of my ego becomes my new mantra.

I say it when I wake,
     When I take my first sip of coffee,
     When I shower,
     When I brush my teeth,
     When I drive.

Let go of my ego,
     Let go of my ego,
          Let go of my ego.

It becomes a rhythmic intonation
     Keeping time with the breaks in concrete
     Along the road beneath my tires.

Let go of my ego.

And all the while I also
Pray for help with this,
     As my heart fills with love,
     My mind and body relax,
     And I discover true peace.

For happiness springs from within.

Today's meditative writing was inspired by readings from

Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones 

and 

Doreen Virtue's Ten Messages Your Angels Want You to Know. 

A brazen attempt at blazon poetry

Reading Natalie Goldberg's books serve as my daily writing prompts. A couple days ago I read about Blazon poetry in her book The True Secret of Writing: Connecting Life with Language and naturally attempted my own. Goldberg suggested penning a list, an ode to something or someone you love. It's a fun exercise no matter what you think of my own scrawling, a snippet of which I am sharing here. Give it a whirl; you may find yourself addicted to the process!

A Blazon to Summer

Days of insomnia.

Light pools an immense lake.

Morning explodes in chirps.

Days linger; a lover remaining close.

Flowers a frock.

Grass slippers.

Moss socks.

Snake play toy.

Sun bath.

Lawn mower cicadas.

Crickets evening symphony.

Herons statue heralds.

Bees gossiping neighbors.

Dogs synchronized to the sun,

We sleep no more.