There’s a post-it note on my blog intro page. “Write something” it says. December 11 was my last post, so I guess it’s time. Shall I write a catch up post? How I spent my summer vacation, although it’s winter. It’s been tough, but not terrible. Maybe I haven’t been writing because whining isn’t interesting to hear or read.
Decades ago I was a speaker at a Writer’s Conference at Oakland University. I was going though divorce (one that I wanted—but still a sad thing), my first novel found an agent, but she couldn’t find a publisher for it and had given up. I was depressed. And I was supposed to do a Rah-Rah talk on writing. I tried. Really. But the sorrowful, defeated me came through, no matter that I had a few jokes and a smile on my face. What I should have given those paying listeners was hope and enthusiasm. I should have sent them home raring to write their stories. I failed them.
I don’t want to fail you. If you read me because you also write, I want you to type on, with fast fingers: Create! If you read me because you love me, I don’t want to worry you.
I think even before the nose cancer, I was a specter roaming the house in a misty fuzz-faze; a little lost, bored, sad, worried, detached, not able to settle anywhere…all those marvelous things that we humans go through now and then. After the Mohs surgery, I became nose obsessed, doing the required firm massages, basically rubbing my nose for five minutes-four times a day and wearing the scar healing patches during the night. Since then I’ve discovered that a good number of my fair-faced friends have had skin cancer removed from their faces. Use SUNSCREEN!
John had been hobbling around in pain waiting to get his hip replacement surgery until after my nose was taken care of. On January 30 he got shiny new metal and plastic parts put into his hip. He’s a strong independent man. A few days ago he drove himself to IKEA just to look around. He quit using the walker and the shower seat less than two weeks after surgery. He never whines or complains. He’s started doing the dinner dishes again, and any day now he’ll become a regular back at his office at Panera.
One bad snowy night we discovered that Coleen and John McKenna next door had cleared our driveway, front sidewalk, and porch of the cold white stuff. Aren’t they sweet! The next day—more snow, so I learned how to use the snow blower. A proud moment.
I ordered too many copies of “A Bird in the House.” There are 50 copies staring at me from the bookcase in my office. They murmur amongst themselves, “Did she lose her mind?” “What was she thinking?” They stare at me, with their scolding pink and blue spines. I’ve probably sold a total of 40—some at the book launch party, and a few others here and there. I gave away 20 prepublication books to reviewers on Goodreads—three have actually written reviews. Marketing sucks. I hate asking people for reviews. I’m not a sales person. It’s hard. It’s tiresome. I get tiresome. John keeps bugging me to take some copies to the independent bookstore, the Book Beat. He’s feeling a lot better now, so maybe I could just beat him with a book instead.
So that’s it. I wrote something.