Life in the Moment Lane

June 2, 2013

As all and sundry probably know, I’m in elder care mode this month. Dad is 92, Mom 89, and they are valiant, uncomplaining people, who–somewhere along the way–learned to enjoy being waited on. Then too, each has bouts of confusion, each has physical frailties, and to put a cherry on top of this sundae of challenges, Dad has lost the ability sundaeto sleep through the night.

I’m fried. Later this month, another sibling will rotate into the on-site care provider slot, and then another, but my hitch has been emotionally challenging–these are the people who’ve always been there for me, and now they’re…. sometimes not there are all. And it has been physically challenging–I’ve been at the emergency room at 5 am, up and down all night, and responsible for stepping and fetching to the drug store what seems like daily. Also managing the housework, the meals, and other mundane tasks that my mom alternately tries to “help” with, or outright sabotages.

The difference between the present situation and caring for small children is two-fold. First, we can’t look forward to that proud, difficult and baby-smilinghappy day when the kindergarten bus comes by, and competence in the big world starts easing our responsibility closer and closer to self-sufficiency. This situation can go on for another ten years, and the trajectory is toward ever increasing need and grief.

Second, when a parent is out and about with small children in tow, we see the situation plainly from 50 yards away. “Parenting in progress–either help or stand clear.” Nobody in the grocery store knows I’m so tired and anxious, that trying to park my truck in their stupid little urban So-Cal parking slots is inspiring me to bad words. I’ve coped with situations in the cookiespast few weeks that have honestly horrified me, and there’s more of same in store for me and my loved ones. This doesn’t show, and there’s nobody smiling at me sympathetically at the playground or in the produce section.

A good friend put it this way: When it’s family, you have no choice, but you can look for the Zen moments–the flowers, the puppies, the new babies who beam a smile right at YOU, your favorite oldie coming on the radio as you’re struggling to find a parking space you can fit your truck into.

At the gourmet carry out, the nice guy threw in a half dozen scrumptious chocolate chip cookies for free. The home health nurse verified Dad’s vital signs, and then asked, “But single candlehow are you?” When the CNA started and ended her shift, she hugged Mom, and I could practically see Mom glowing as a result.

We’ll get through this, one moment at time.

What are some of your moments? Times when the kindness of strangers, the benevolence of the universe, the perceptiveness of friends and loved ones lit a candle for you when you thought you were plumb out of matches?

To one commenter, I’ll send an audio version of “The Bridegroom Wore Plaid.”

 

The 92-Year-Old Question

May 12, 2013

I’m watching my 92-year-old dad adjust to a diagnosis of congestive heart failure (he’s not too concerned), and while I want to focus on how to keep Dad comfortable and functional, an equally important question is how he managed to last so long and end up in such good shape.

Rain+Play+81Stuey Burrowes is a cerebral sort, a bench scientist with a lifelong fascination for how the living cell goes about its business. I came along when he was nearly forty, and on my watch, he was never a vigorous athlete, though he and Mom took many after dinner walks, and push-mowing an acre of grass is not to be sneezed at. He never “worked out,” and he did smoke for thirty-some years. He’s fond of alcohol, caffeine, and dairy products, and though I never saw my father drunk, I’m not sure he was particularly sober at certain points either.

sand castleDad has stratospheric levels of cholesterol (he doesn’t worry about that either, and hasn’t for decades), but excellent blood pressure and a tendency to salt his food first and ask questions later. He loves good chocolate, and he’s deucedly skinny.

Good genes are part of the explanation for why somebody who never focused on optimizing his health is outliving practically all of his contemporaries, but I think another part of the explanation lies in Dad’s career path.

From very young adulthood, Stu was encouraged to pursue his interest in science. He was wonderfully mentored, and his wife (a mere girl of 89 years) did not begrudge him periodic bouts of preoccupation even at the dinner table, long hours at the lab, and fairly frequent travel.

In short, Dad could, to a significant extent, follow his bliss. He got to do what he wanted to do, and was still doing it to some extent clear up into his 80s. When he’d “talk science,” he’d put me mind of a little kid. Put two young children together who’ve never met each other, and for the most part, they’ll be flying dragons, sailing their pirate ships, and blowing up the Death Star within minutes.

leaf jumperThat’s Dad, but his toys were the relationship between testosterone and red cell count anemia (there is one), and the flavor altering qualities of light on dairy protein. Dad was passionate about his science, and frequently and enthusiastically reinforced for indulging that passion by the decade.

I want writing romance novels to do for me what I believe science has done for my father. I also want to know what in this life—if anything—turns you into that kid who will play flying dragons for days, or the girl who will sword fight her shadow until her biceps are burning.

Or what do you think your passion would be, if you had the chance to pursue it?

To one commenter, I’ll send a $15 Amazon gift card.

And the Moral of the Story…

February 2, 2013

Once upon stormy but not dark afternoon, I was driving back from managing a horse show, happily anticipating a hot shower and the cool, clean sheets of home, when traffic slowed, then came to a halt.

A big tree had blown down and lay mostly across the road. This being a country road, several country boys climbed out of their trucks, and began to Consider the Situation.

I climbed out of my truck too, and stood where I could hear these fellas.

“If I had my chainsaw, I have that sucker off the road in no time.”

“My brother-in-law has a winch on his duel-ly, but he’s up in Jersey this week. That thing would haul this tree clean into Frederick County.”

“We got a four-wheel-drive tractor at home, and it will move some tree. I guar-an-damned-tee you it will.”

Meanwhile, a few of the less prepossessing vehicles disgorged female drivers. The season being high summer, the fallen tree was fully leafed out. A gal who drove a Prius began to snap off the smaller branches from the topmost part of the tree, which lay a-thwart the shoulder.

Back at the trucks, Blue Ford F150 allowed as how his missus would bring him his chain saw, but she was still at work. The other gents, inspired by this swift thinking, got out their cell phones. Alas, we were in rural Maryland and in the shadow of a mountain. No signal to be had.

By now, several ladies were ripping away at the hapless tree, carrying stray limbs from the travel lanes, busting off other limbs as best they could with their bare hands and shod feet.

Dodge Ram said he had a buddy who lived not two miles off. The buddy enjoyed the distinction of having a brother who belonged to the local volunteer fire department, and surely, surely, that fine organization would know what to do about a fallen tree.

Ms. Prius and her cohorts had relieved the tree of much foliage and many smaller branches by this point. Their efforts revealed that by crowding onto the shoulder, a car might be able to scoot around, provided its tires could negotiate a couple of not-so-large branches, and its paint job could endure a close encounter with wet leaves and twigs.

The ladies got back behind the wheels of their vehicles (as did I), and the little Prius managed to get past the tree.

As the Prius drove off, the guys stopped talking. Another pee-pee car came tiptoeing around the tree. When I nudged my Tundra past that tree, the guys were heading back toward their respective trucks.

Does this situation point to a difference between male and female problem-solving? To the differences between people who drive trucks and the people who drive pee-pee cars?

I like to think it might. The guys were focused on solving the public problem of a tree in the road, the ladies focused on the personal problem of being late for soccer practice (or whatever).

Or maybe the Prius lady was particularly determined, and no generalities need apply. What I was aware of, was that doing something to get me moving toward home, was more satisfying than jawboning about woulda-coulda’s.

This little twenty minutes out of a summer evening has stuck with me, though I’m not sure what I’m supposed to learn from it. What do you make of it, and have you ever found yourself with a similarly tenacious, but not quite comprehensible memory?

To one commenter, I’ll send a signed copy “Lady Eve’s Indiscretion.”

How my horse taught me to write…

January 20, 2013

When I paid attention, I learned a lot from my horse. My most recent Personal Steed was a 17.1 hand Hanoverian (doing business as an Oldenburg) gelding whom I referred to as Boy Genius. When he had adequate years, his moniker morphed into Wonder Pony, and several other appellations, depending on the quality of our ability to communicate.

Beloved Offspring on Beloved Andy

I am not by nature an athlete. My idea of a good day is to sit for at least six hours in front of the computer, spewing make believe and swilling decaf tea, then having a nice lie down with my latest potential keeper (book, that is) for a few hours, then a few more hours of composing at the computer. I will feed my beasts at the beginning and the end of the day, which entails heaving a few hay bales, maybe lugging a 50-pound sack of pony chow from the top to the bottom of the barn, and chucking out some 5-gallon buckets of water, but God forbid I should break a sweat.

As much as I loved my horse and enjoyed riding, there were many days when my energy for the task was not great. Then too, there were windy days, when the arena might creak and groan, provoking my dearest steed to occasional lapses of dignity. Or sometimes it might be stinkin’ hot, or stinkin’ cold. Stinkin’ rainy was only half an excuse because I rode in an indoor arena, but it would do in a pinch.

Some days, I would get to the barn, tack up my horse (or the grooms, sly boots, would tack him up for me), and lead him into the arena, and still, the motivation to ride would not well up in my soul. “I’ll just ride him at the walk,” I’d say. I’d swing aboard, pat my pony, and off he would saunter. He has a lovely walk, does Wonder Pony. He walks like a gunslinger, and if you make allowances for his species, the guy is certainly tall, dark and handsome.

We’d walk this-a-way, and that-a-way, and pretty soon, we’d have walked just about every way you can in a modest indoor, all the while having a nice visit with my instructor about Life In General, or maybe a little about how the horse feels to me as we walk. What the hell, I would say to my pony after about ten minutes, let’s just loosen up a little at the trot. But the horse has a pretty big trot, and as is the case with some warmbloods, he loosens up better at the canter.

So what the other hell, I’d cue him into a nice, relaxed canter, which is kinda fun. But you can’t canter just one way, so we’d canter around the other direction and maybe try a flying change across the middle, and before long, I’m trying to put the horse together in a working trot, working on suppleness, moving him off my leg (this is a term of art), and generally engaged in the meat of a worthwhile riding lesson.

Todd Bryan, most wonderful trainer

My instructor (also tall, dark and handsome, but not the same species as the horse) probably pulled my horse aside first thing in the day, and worked out this little conspiracy, but eventually, when I’d say, “I think I’ll just sit on him at the walk,” it was all both of them could do not to laugh at my prevarications outright.

Let them laugh. They are my prevarications, and they serve me well. When I’m not enthusiastic about taking a walk (which is 90 percent of the time) I’ll tell myself, “I’ll just go a half mile to the neighbor’s mail box). This is generally the start of a two-mile walk. When it comes to housework, I tell myself, “Just vacuum the bedroom. You can worry about the downstairs later.” And sometimes, I do, and sometimes, as long as I have the darnedd thing out…

When it comes to my writing, prevaricating is very handy. “I’ll just read over what I wrote yesterday….” “I’ll just buff the last scene, add a little dialogue…” “I’ll just get out one scene, then have a cup of tea….” If you ride the right horse, if you’re patient with yourself, and you don’t judge yourself for nibbling your way through life’s challenges, you too can complete twenty-five manuscripts without ever once pressuring yourself  to finish a single book.

 Have you ever walked your way to a significant accomplishment? Tried just one date, signed up for a single course… tell us about it. To one commenter, I’ll send a signed copy of “Lady Eve’s Indiscretion,” which is also a story about taking small steps toward a big goal.

 

New Year’s Insights

December 30, 2012

I don’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions. Statistically, most of them are bad history by Groundhog Day (and what fool put Valentine’s Day within six weeks of all those anti-chocolate resolutions anyway?), and more to the point, if something is worth resolving, it’s worth resolving on December 17, or July 11.

I do, though, believe in focusing on insights that have befallen us, and on the new behaviors those insights can inspire. Here are a few of my recent insights:

1) When your house is not just the place you look after when the day job has wrung you out, it can become a creative refuge, and also a source of that creativity.

2) To quit the day job and become a full time writer will involve a lot of risk—as did becoming a single mom, opening my own law practice, marrying, divorcing, buying a house, or signing any publishing contract. I am good at managing risk and I had forgotten this.

3) Seeing new horizons is good for me.

4) Seeing Scotland was very good for me.

So, what am I going to do about this? Well, most of you know I rented a roll off dumpster, and I can cheerfully report that it’s mostly full now. My living room echoes, and I love that. I will move my writing space into the living room this spring, and spend the intervening months looking for the perfect rug, etc.

With respect to new horizons, I’m thinking of booking a trip to Scotland, to parts I haven’t seen yet, and with friends I haven’t met yet. This will cost much money, so I had better write some really good books. Fortunately, I love to write.

And with respect to the day job… that’s a tough one, but there are ways to readjust it that won’t involve as many days in court, which is a step in the right direction.

And steps in the right direction are all any insight can inspire us to.

How ‘bout you? Any interesting insights this year? Any resolutions you simply can’t resist? To one commenter, I’ll give a $25 Amazon gift card.

We’ve Been Nice!

December 23, 2012

This is a simple blog because we all have better things to do this week than hang around on the internet (I hope).

I believe in cursing the darkness. I believing in airing the best, most creative, specific, vivid, forceful vocabulary I have when I’m naming my woes and miseries. Naming has a power to contain, to render an enemy concrete and thus, defeatable.

I also believe in lighting candles, in doing the next necessary thing to bring kindness and honesty forward in the world. When I was parenting a Strong Willed Child, one of the best pieces of advice I got was, “Catch her being good, and praise her for it.” To catch somebody being good, you have to pay attention to them. So I’m paying attention to you in the comments. Tell us something you did this week that was kind, that lit a small candle, even if nobody else saw you. I am Facebook friends and Likes with a lot of my regular commenters. I’ve seen you this week baking cookies, hanging with the grandkids so Mom and Dad could get some wrapping or shopping done, dropping off books at the homeless shelter…

Modesty deters us from tooting our own horns, usually. Put the modesty aside, please, as I shall now demonstrate:

I was in my little local post office when closing time came, and the line inside the door was looooong. I had many books to mail all over the world, so I peeled out the line and went to the end, allowing everybody else to get out of there a little earlier.

Your turn! And I’m giving away a fistful of Amazon and Starbucks gift cards this week…

 

 

 

 

 

Onward

December 15, 2012

Once upon a time while pursuing a master’s degree in conflict management, I had to take a course called, “Disciplines for Sustaining the Peacemaker.” I tromped into the class ready to hate it with a rabid, unrelenting passion, because for me, discipline itself—structure for its own sake—is a dubious, if not impossible, source of sustenance.

And yet, the class had value. My classmates were from all over the world, dealing with deadly, entrenched conflicts. They’d seen first hand the kind of tragedies enacted in Newton, CT, had gone eyeball to eyeball with genocide. A later student in the program, a Liberian lady named Leymah Gbowee, ended up winning the Nobel Peace prize. They were warriors for peace, and to examine how they’d maintain physical, spiritual and emotional health under the most trying of circumstances was a worthy pursuit.

The idea being, once the bullets started flying, time or motivation to reflect on self-care would be scarce.

One assignment was just to make a list of all the things we did that we considered “self-care,” whether we did them daily or infrequently. I sat down, prepared to be stumped, because at the time I was a single working mom, running my own law practice, and “self-care” was not an indulgence I felt I could throw many resources at.

The list surprised me:

Journaling, going for a walk, having a hot cup of tea, reading novels or watching movies with happy endings, meeting friends for breakfast or lunch, seeing the naturopath regularly and being treated at least monthly with acupuncture. Petting the cat or the dog, meditating, lifting weights, taking vitamins, pursuing an education, finding solitude, sleeping, having sex, listening to music, nature and natural beauty, long drives, gardening, prayer, keeping flowers on hand, laughing, wearing the clothes I want to wear…

Other people had things on their lists I did not: Dancing, going to church, the occasional alcoholic drink etc, making music, painting, reading to their children, cooking, cleaning, yoga, team sports, running, reading scriptures or various denominations or favorite authors, knitting, throwing pots, reading history…

What came home to me is that my identity and sanity are protected by measures great and small, everything from a cup of tea to pursuit of an advanced degree. I was surprised to realize I had a bag of tricks—a big bag—and that I was engaged in sustaining the (insert identity of choice here) without realizing what I was doing.

So are you. This week has been hard—awful, in fact—for most of us, and yet, you’ve carried on, you’ve tended to your obligations, you’ve possibly even tended to others as they’ve coped with shock, horror, and sorrow following the Newton shootings.

I’m not giving anything away this week. Instead, I’m asking you to share what you’ve done to keep yourself moving forward. What are your mantras, your cups of tea, your playlists for when it hurts to be human?

A Very Good Two Years

December 8, 2012

My daughter called me up a few years ago, in the middle of one of those weeks when the spare went flat, the rent check bounced, and the professor sprang a pop quiz on the one assignment she had forgotten to read.

“Why doesn’t anybody tell you being a grown up is HARD?” she wailed, and my heart went out to her. As a child, adulthood looms as a golden land free of boiled asparagus, a place where we can stay up late every night, and never have to get on another school bus again. Time passes, and we see that staying up late isn’t all we dreamed it could be.

Being a published author is a little like growing up. Two years ago this month, my first book hit the shelves—a dream come true! And yet… I’ve learned a few things too, not all of them happy. Some of my lessons learned:

1)      Romance readers are among the kindest, most together people on the planet, and most romance authors are cut from the same cloth. We have our priorities straight, and for the most part, we treat each other decently. Yes, there are a few people, some of them reviewers, who must believe being snarky and narcissistic is some sort of contribution to the marketplace of ideas, but those people are by far in the minority, and they are not unique to the publishing industry.

2)      Luck has a lot to do with whether a writer succeeds commercially, the same as it affects the careers of doctors, ditch diggers, teachers, and everybody else trying to earn a living. One author’s book is chosen for some award, another’s gets into the hands of a mean reviewer on a mean day. When I realized that luck is not the exclusive plague of the fiction writer, writing became no more risky than lawyering, parenting or riding horses—all of which I’ve done with some success.

3)      Writing professionally is hard, not only because there are deadlines, reviews, and financial anxieties, but also because the manuscript I write becomes the property of an organization intent on maximizing the book’s commercial appeal, though how that’s done is still largely a mystery. In some ways, as an author, I have the least say over how the finished product is polished and packaged. In any survey of self-published authors, they do not cite increased revenue as their primary reason for turning away from traditional publishing, they cite an unwillingness to surrender artistic control as the reason they abandon the traditional publishing model. That’s significant.

4)      The final lesson learned is probably the most important: I love to write romance. I wasn’t sure I would, once the royalty checks, deadlines, and sales figures started showing up, but I do, I do, I do love to write. This is a Big Gift, because having a passion in this life is an inoculation against all manner of woes and miseries that a mere paycheck cannot cure.

I hope twenty years from now, I’m still writing romances, and still feeling mighty, mighty grateful to have that privilege.

What’s your passion? Is it the same one you had twenty years ago? Two years ago? To one commenter below, I’ll send a signed copy of “The Bridegroom Wore Plaid.”

 

 

 

Appropriately Attired

November 24, 2012

I did not go tearing into the office this past Monday morning, but instead opened up my WIP (work in progress) and set to work on a new scene. This WIP is giving me fits—most of ‘em do, though a few have not—and I have the sense if I don’t beaver away at it, the story will evaporate from my imagination, along with the motivation to write it down.

Phone rings, and whoopsie, there’s a good possibility I’m going to be called into the courthouse. Foster care laws are written so if the state should snatch your children, you at least get a judge to look the situation over in short order. Sometimes, I get an hour’s notice that I have a hearing, sometimes a day. When the holidays loom, business always picks up.

Scheduling court hearings is like trying to make a Rubik’s cube come right. Certain matters can only be heard in certain courtrooms (with a jury box); others have to be proximate to the holding cells or have AV equipment for evidence presentation purposes. For a foster care case, as many as four attorneys have to be rounded up (for kids, mom, dad, and local child welfare department), along with social workers, witnesses, parties, and supervisors.

So there was a good chance Monday’s case would not be heard Monday, and an equally good chance it would. I live more than twenty country miles from the courthouse…

So, you ask, why not just change into courtroom attire, hop in the truck, and work on the WIP at the office, which is twenty steps from the courthouse? Makes perfect sense, right?

Nope.

One cannot wear jammies to court. Not only is it frowned upon (the courthouse has a dress code), but an offended judge can hold counsel in direct contempt, which involves a one way trip to the local hoosegow.

I’ve written fiction on the office computer on occasion—romantic fiction, that is. I’ve spent many and many an hour trying to be productive while waiting to find out if a hearing is going forward. Sometimes this means I judge contest entries, draft blogs, or even work on the WIP at the office.

But having a tenuous hold on the current story, I did not want to change out of my writing clothes unless I had to.

Huh?

Writing clothes? I was utterly bumfuzzled to learn that writing Regency romance has come to mean, for me, that I’m wearing yoga pants, tie-dyed Maggie Moo organic wool socks, a fleecy top, and Nike slides rather than outfits that flatter me or present me as a courthouse professional. And somehow, these clothes make it more likely (in my mind) that what I’m writing will be Good Stuff, as opposed to words produced in an effort to feel productive at the law office.

When did this happen and what’s the significance of it? I know I can’t lawyer in my jammies, but when did I decide that I can’t be a romance author in my lawyer duds? Because, apparently I have.

Hmm.

Do you have wardrobe quirks that surprise even you? Favorite socks? A laundry sorting hat?

To one commenter, I’ll send a pair of Maggie Moo Organize wool tie-dyed Writing Socks, and a signed copy of “The Bridegroom Wore Plaid,” my first Scottish Victorian romance, and a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2012.

 

Promoting Domestic Tranquility

November 18, 2012

For the past twenty years, my day job has involved providing legal representation to children in cases of abuse and neglect. If you must be a lawyer, this is a terrific way to go about it. My clients are regarded as having problems rather than being problems, and it’s the court’s job to solve those problems as best it can, with limited time and resources.

I go about this work as an independent contractor to the State of Maryland, and periodically, the State competes the work to ensure the taxpayers are getting the best bargain for their money. I won the contract through the competitive procurement process, and I’m prepared to lose it the same way.

Fair is fair, and twenty years is a long time to labor in any one vineyard.

And yet, there’s a part of me that thinks, “I have learned so much in the past twenty years, I’m better at this gig than I’ve ever been before. I know the players, I know the rules, I know the rhythms and rituals. I AM the best bargain for the taxpayer’s nickel, and oh, by the way, I’m a single mom with a kid still in college and could really use the steady paycheck.”

We’ll see what the universe says to that. Meanwhile, the idea that I could have a lot more unstructured time has given me an opportunity to poke my head out of my prairie dog hole, look about me, and see my immediate environment with new eyes.

New, not very impressed eyes. I’ve been living in the same small, rural house for almost twenty five years, and I’ve shared this place with one daughter, and a herd of cats, dogs, rabbits, guinea pigs, white rats, birds, fish, and once I found a possum helping himself to the dog food in the kitchen (at 3 am, oh-what-a-night). Having horses on the same property didn’t exactly contribute to a manicured look.

House beautiful, it ain’t.

If a door to the legal profession is closing, then of course, I want to write full time, but I have to ask myself: If I’m going to be working from home, how can I make this space optimally conducive to writing wonderful stories? The house itself is a 150+ year old log cabin with addition. It has character, but needs charm. My first step in the direction of preparing for a career change was to rent a roll off dumpster.

Dead clothes, ancient romance novels, defunct CD players, hamster wheels that won’t turn (note to self: excellent metaphor there), ribbons from some horse show ten years ago, broken Christmas lights… “Kill them all, Mr. Smee!”

It feels good to purge—also a little scary—but then what? How do you make the place you live more than just a long term campsite without it becoming a time and money suck too?

To one commenter below, I’ll send an audio version of Richard Armitage reading Georgette Heyer’s “The Convenient Marriage.”