Meet My Main Character, Blog Hop!

I’ve been tagged by the fabulously funny Chicklit Sisters, Pam Burk and Lorraine Campbell, authors of several quirky novels that are loaded with hilarious and tender moments. I thoroughly appreciated How To Survive Your Sisters (being one of three girls in my family). Be sure to read this book and their other novels, penned under the name Ellie Campbell.

What is the name of your character? Is he/she fictional or a historic person?

The main character of my work-in-progress is named Kathleen Ehlers, and though she is fictional, she is larger than life. She sprang to life in my first novel, one of five friends in a very close sisterly relationship.

Reappearing from Charlotte’s Restrained are Charlotte, Tiziana, Hillary, Marian, Liam, Ted, and the King of Romantic Comedies, Des Bannerman. Adding to the witty and sometimes vitriolic banter is Sébastien Langevin, who takes Kathleen’s ordered life and flips it upside down.

When and where is the story set?

I love to travel, and so do the characters in my books. This book primarily takes place in Paris, France, during Fall Fashion Week, 2008. However, we’ll take jaunts to London, Rome, Saint Tropez, and Seattle where we’ll explore Kathleen’s inner-workings at some of the finest restaurants and establishments these beautiful cities have to offer.

What should we know about him/her?

Kathleen is an elusive character in my first novel Charlotte’s Restrained.

After I finished writing the book I found myself wondering about her. Why does she flitters here and there in the background? We feel like we get to know her, but really, we don’t. I wanted to explore this further, and decided to write a sequel, casting her as the central character.

What is the main conflict? What messes up his/her life?

We learn straight away that Kathleen is a very artistic person (her current outlet is in remodeling apartments across Paris) but works in a world of facts and figures as a Product Acquisition Lawyer for L’Oreal Paris.

She’s done a great job at having it all; professional success, financial security, a glamorous life amongst the who’s-who in Paris. She’s brutally independent and content with living life on her own terms, and there lies the crux of the story. Why is she so determined to fly life solo?

What is the personal goal of the character?

Kathleen would tell you her goal is to take Paris on, one apartment at a time, one acquisition at a time. To be a real estate mogul and break the glass ceiling at L’Oreal Paris.

However, in witnessing the major changes in the lives of her four closes friends, she begins to consider letting go of the past and living in the present. But to do this will mean bringing all of her friends that we’ve met in Charlotte’s Restrained, up to speed on who she really is versus who they think she is.

Is there a working title for this novel, and can we read more about it?

Kathleen’s Undressed. I really like two word titles.

When can we expect the book to be published?

Fingers crossed, Fall 2014.


If you’re enjoying the ‘Meet My Main Character’ blog hop, I’ve tagged to follow me the very talented Daphne DuBois, author of Fairies and Creatures of the Night (2013) and The Seller of Fortunes (2013). Also meet Laurie WJN, author of The Misadventures of Me and My Uterus (2013) and a YA novel (yet to be named) about Anna, and the Spanish Flu Epidemic of 1918. And, we have the talented Glynis Astie, author of French Twist (2013) and French Toast (2014).

Thanks for reading!

Blog Tag Tour - My Writing Process

I’m always up for playing a game, especially if it is a word game! Author Laurie WJN invited me to join fellow Authors and Bloggers in a game of Blog Tag. Yes, I could probably use physical exercise, but the temptation to write is too great. My promise to myself is that after writing this, I will run a couple miles… or eat some chocolate.

I had the pleasure or reading and reviewing Author Laurie WJN’s book, The Misadventures of Me and My Uterus. Make sure to visit her site, where you can appreciate more of her writing and great sense of humor.

The game is afoot, er, ahand!
What are you currently working on?

I am currently working on Kathleen’s Undressed. This is a sequel to my first book Charlotte’s Restrained. After I finished writing Charlotte’s Restrained I realized that Kathleen, one of the five main characters in the book, had a very elusive nature, and there is much to explore here.

These two books, though primarily lighthearted comedies, are very much about the bonds of friendship between women. In leaving Kathleen’s nature a little more abstract, I realized that I could build a story that would allow these five lovely ladies to once again come together in real hotels, restaurants, and other locations in London, Paris, Seattle, and Rome. We continue to explore their evolution via their witty banter, brutal candor, and admirable lives.

How does your writing process work?

I studied Landscape Architecture, and in my very first design studio a professor asked, “Why should a client hire you?” To be honest, being only two weeks into the program, I was stumped. One rainy November afternoon, a few months later, I found out what my process is: a cup of coffee, a molasses cookie, and a cloudy Pacific Northwest sky. The perfect cozy atmosphere to ponder solutions from as many perspectives as possible! …while doodling! Doodling keeps my brain in a foggy state, letting the right and left sides hammer out a solution that is unique, and meets the needs of the client.

I apply the same process to writing that I apply to landscape design. It might seem odd, but the old saying, “write what you know,” relates. Do what works for you in other aspects of your life. If you figure out how to solve a problem while doing yoga, do yoga. If you need listen to music and dance, crank the radio and do your dance!

How does your work differ from others of its genre?

In my own life I have found that laughter, candor, commitment to love and friendship, good food and wine, as well as the opportunity to travel, consume me. An urgency for them all co-exists. When one dips off the radar, all of me gets out of whack.

In women’s literature, I think the Damsel in Distress concept exists because readers want to be consumed by the heart thumping passion that true love or new lovers possess. Life doesn’t end after the declaration of eternal love! All parts of life get woven together; we introduce our lover to our friends and family. We have first, second, and third arguments. We run out of toilet paper.

How our love grows and changes can be just as heart stopping. That’s the stuff of life, what I want to write about.

Why do you write what you do?

“Because I must,” seems so cliché, but it is the honest truth. Years ago, long before I found any of the passions of my life, I was talking to a friend about his passion, physics. Hours could pass and he wouldn’t notice. I wanted that.

One rainy day, in March 1990, I watched a landscaper planting pansies in the rain and I thought, “I’d rather do that.” So I quit my job at Microsoft, and signed up for classes at the local community college and found art history, which lead to Interior Design, which lead me to the University of Washington to study Architecture and Landscape Architecture.

All these areas of design have a lot in common with writing. They all tell stories about a period of time, a place, and the people who occupy the space. They are life. It all just… captivates me.

Who's up next?

Authors Mary Ann Bernal and Lorrie Farrelly.  Mary Ann, and is the author of The Briton and Dane Collection of novels as well as several short stories. Make sure you swing by her blog.

Thanks for Reading!

Making it Real with help from Jane Porter

About the time I was fully committing my mental self to being an author, I read She’s Gone Country by Jane Porter. Life has its serendipitous moments, I’d picked her book up at the local library around the same time I published a blog confessing my love for country music.

 

I was immediately hooked by the book and Ms. Porters writing style, so I took five minutes off from reading and requested that any and all of her other books get shipped to the local library, which turned out to be about five miles from where Ms. Porter lived at the time. Within a month I had read three or four of her other works. The two that stood out the most were Odd Mom Out and Mrs. Perfect.

The blurb from Mrs. Perfect on Amazon: As a young California girl growing up in a blue collar neighborhood, Taylor Young dreamed of being popular, beautiful, and acquiring a wardrobe to die for. Not to mention marrying a handsome, successful man and living happily ever after in a gorgeous house with three wonderful children. Now, at 36, Taylor has reached the pinnacle of her dreams, but is it all about to unravel? As the new school year approaches, Taylor prepares herself for playing the perfect alpha mom: organizing class activities, fund-raising, and chairing the school auction. But the horror! Her archrival, bohemian mom Marta Zinsser, is named Head Room Mom of Taylor's daughter's fifth grade class. As tensions rise at committee meetings and school activities, the two rivals seem to be destined for a final confrontation. But as Taylor plans her next move, she is floored by a more serious blow at home-her husband has been secretly unemployed for the past six months. With her posh lifestyle crumbling, Taylor struggles to maintain her alpha image-but could Marta, who cares little about appearances, be her only true friend?

Ironically at the time I was the PTA President at my children’s elementary school. My life, outside of trying to write my first novel, was all about volunteering at the school and supporting my children's endeavors. I would like to say that this book was just a caricature of life for a stay-at-home mom, and while I didn’t really identify with most aspects of Taylor’s life, I had experienced people like her, and understood my own desire to be the perfect mom and successful volunteer. Which really scared me! I needed a Marta in my life.

So I moved onto Odd Mom Out, because if I couldn’t have her in real life, I wanted at least the fictional version.

The blurb for Odd Mom Out by Publishers Weekly: Marta Zinsser has made her nine-year-old daughter Eva, conceived through sperm donation, her whole world. The two move from Manhattan to a wealthy Seattle suburb, where Marta plans to run a successful advertising agency from home and be close to her ailing mother. Soon however, Marta's bohemian ways stick out like a sore thumb among the impeccably groomed housewives of Bellevue. Pressured by a tenderly and believably drawn Eva to be a real mom, Marta signs up for school chaperoning and committee duties, with near-disastrous results. And when Marta falls for a handsome billionaire, she must decide whether to refocus her lone wolf self-image enough to allow a man to enter the picture. The alpha moms Marta detests are cartoonish, catty villains, and self helpese creeps into the plot gaps. But Marta is an intriguing heroine: she values freedom and toughness, but her jeans and combat boots mask vulnerability, heartbreak and fear of change.

This book was an epiphany for me. I’ve written about my tumultuous past in previous blogs, so with any luck, you already know that I’ve bounced around the world and country, changed professions a time or two, and have a relatively interesting life. When I read this book, I honestly felt like you could have stuck my name in instead of Marta. Or at least you could have, if I hadn’t met MacGyver.

In my late twenties, when all hell was breaking loose and I was studying Landscape Architecture, I honestly thought I was going to grow old on my own. I studied very hard to become the best LA that I could be, because I was quite certain that financially I was on my own and that the center of my world would be my work and the community of this profession. Having gone through a very torturous relationship, I pushed a connected relationship and children to the farthest recesses of my brain.

I was having these “Whoa!” moments while reading Jane Porter’s work. How had I gone from being Marta to becoming Taylor? Clearly all of us are a jumble of personality profiles. Some we throw away as we get older, thinking, “My grunge days are behind me,” or “I was never meant to wear a chignon and pearls.” (If you’re curious, since I started writing daily, my standard uniform is top to bottom fleece.)

After reading Easy on the Eyes, I found out that Jane Porter was going to be at a book signing nearby. I was very frustrated when I realized I couldn’t make it, so I got very brave and sent an email to her. No, I didn’t stalk her! I found her contact information on her website and sent an email gushing my praise of her work, she very kindly responded.

My mind was blown. I was absolutely touched that she would take the time to respond to my email. After that, I began emailing various authors whose work had grabbed me – Marian Keyes, Margaret Atwood, and Peter Mayle to name a few. Not because I wanted to be a groupie. There was something about the interaction, the  knowledge that these authors were approachable human-beings that made my dream of being an author feel tangible.

Now, five or six years later, I still feel all twitter pated when one of my favorite authors, comedians, artists, and musicians comments on a tweet I’ve posted. I know that I stand on the outer fringes, but I thank all of you on Twitter, Facebook, Google+, Tumblr, Pinterest, and all other social media platforms, who take the time to be real people, sharing your experience and knowledge with me and all other newbies.

For more information on the lovely Jane Porter, go to her website: http://www.janeporter.com.

Thanks for reading.

Music and Lyrics

One of the greatest lines ever written is Every Life has a Story. Five short words which sums up an absolute truth. Not just the lives of those noted in the history books, on film, or printed on a brass plaque.

 

The phrase is the voiceover on the Biography Channel, which I love to watch. When stories unfold one can see the thread along which a dream travels. Determination making anything seem possible. It is this which draws me in to books, newspapers, blogs, tweets, Facebook, Pinterest, music, and social events. I love a good story. Chances are if one listens long enough, one will hear several.

Someone recently posed the question on a writer’s blog, “How do you rejuvenate yourself when your creative juices are depleted?” My immediate response, listen to music. Ironically the next day a friend asked, “Do you listen to the lyrics? I don’t. I have no idea what they are saying. I just listen to the music.” I almost keeled over. My life generally functions in absolute silence or in lyrical saturation.

Pick one artist, right now… Eminem, The Beatles, Frank Sinatra, Blake Shelton, Stevie Wonder, Three Dog Night, Bruno Mars, Pink, Tony Bennet, Amy Winehouse, One Republic, Metallica, Mary Chapin Carpenter or Justin Timberlake. We know these people, not just for their antics, but for their ability to convey intense emotion in the story that they sing. We hear a performers name and immediately feelings of like or dislike, happy or sad, run through us. If we don’t sing along, we push the button, turn the station. A song can remind us of when we were ten years old, first dates, high school prom, vacation, a smell, weddings, birth.

I would say that music is primal. Like sight and smell, it is trigger happy.

In thinking of how a lyricist moves through the arc of a story in three to four minutes, I began to understand the need to distill images and emotions with similar brevity. Whether blogging or writing a novel, extra is distracting. Around the time that developing this skill became my OCD, I attended a workshop on self-branding and social media. As far as I can tell, Twitter is the social media of brevity. I, who am wordy, tweet off and on throughout the day to practice.

I don’t want to follow everybody on Twitter. So, I go hunting with discretion. I found Andy Roddick (tennis player, sports commentator, married to Brooklyn Decker, seriously opinionated, very intelligent). Yesterday he wrote, “When is One Direction gonna go in five?” If my math skills are up to par it only took fifty three characters to express very clearly his opinion.

But how does a salmon swim upriver? I haven’t written a blog in forever, in part because my life has been fraught with big experiences and these occupy a great deal of thought and emotion which cannot be neatly packaged, let alone distilled into 140 characters including hash tags. My brain feels like it has been broken down into boxes with lids neatly labeled: “For Later,” “Deadline,” “Grief,” “Job,” “Feet,” “Social Media,” “For $#@% Sake!”

So I do what I always do in these situations, look for something to focus on while my brain quietly meanders through the maze of containers, taking lids off and sifting through, bit by bit, one by one. All this occurs in the background while I keep my hands busy typing, knitting, hugging, kneading bread, weeding, chopping… even my hands are wordy!

I return to lyricism and biographies. They are hand in glove. The words to a song rarely focus on inanimate objects or emotionless voids. I actually looked for examples, because every good writer enjoys research. The song I am a rock by Simon and Garfunkel came to mind, but that is all about despair and isolation. I searched Water on YouTube and found a perky little song by Brad Paisley about swimming holes, courage, and bikini’s. A similar search for Purple pulled up a list having mostly to do with drug induced states. A similar search for Void directed me to a band with a song entitled, Who Are You. After listening to two screeching minutes of it, I found myself thinking, “I don’t care.” I pushed the stop button.

As is true with literature, music induces discussion. Little Mac and I were in the car the other day and had a wonderful conversation trying to discern the dividing line between Hip Hop and Rap. That line is becoming more blurry to both of us. As we pulled into the driveway, the conversation had become how we had surprised each other. While I know he is a great lover of music, I had no idea his repertoire was so broad and so emotionally directed. He was shocked to find out that I love Eminem!

This conversation reminded me of when our children were young and how we would crank the radio up after dinner and dance with them. Our Fluffball chose Elvis Presley’s A Little More Satisfaction over and over, while Little Mac danced to whomever. It was him who brought Bruno Mars, The Lazy Song, to our attention when he was a boy of eight. Of course we reached a place where our dancing was too embarrassing for our kids to endure. There were a couple of years where they pleaded with us to NEVER dance in public. Fortunately, enough time has passed that whether they think we are awful or not, we find ourselves dancing in the kitchen again.

I’ve long believed that the elderly are not hard of hearing, they are just replaying a lifetime of memories in their heads, while staring off into the distance. When I am old and grey, I will see our family singing and dancing in front of my eyes, humming Don't Blink. 

Thanks for reading!

It's There When I Look In Your Eyes

Tis’ the season… no not The Holidays. Tis the Season of Love! The lyrics to Love is in the Air by Tom Jones and Love is All Around Us by Billy Mack (a.k.a. Bill Nighy) orbit and swirl through my head on a regular basis.

I’ve broken out in song at Target, the grocery store, Jazzercise; well, pretty much everywhere. Except for one place. Wherever my kids are. Because as we all know, once you become a parent you are not allowed to sing in public. I’m sure even the likes of Paul McCartney, Gwen Stefani and Celine Dion get told to shush if they so much as hum a tune once their kids turned ten years old.

Why those two songs versus all the others, I have no idea. If I play the game, "say the first thing you think of" this is what comes to mind. A few years ago I was on the same flight as Tom Jones … he’s much shorter than you’d imagine and the way his head swiveled around baggage claim he gave the impression that he was looking for adoring fans. To be fair, a few women (myself included) were staring at him, but I think we were all trying to see what had induced women to throw their knickers on the stage. Bill Nighy is a seriously fascinating man to watch; his eyes are full of devilment, his voice oddly soothing, and as an actor he is quite quirky. This list of words is important: short, swivel, confusion, acting, quirky.

Back to the question, where does this focus on love come from?? Well, I’ll tell the story, but will keep names to myself as I want to remain loved by those in love.

It’s Middle School! The Hypothalamus kicks in and screams to the Pituitary Gland, “Make Estrogen!” Or “More Testosterone needed!!” The body chugs and churns, producing more and more of these little critters, 24/7. Soon the body is pulsating with the stuff. It ripples through the minds and into the veins of Middle Schoolers in quantities mostly forgotten by those over the age of 20. And all this churning takes place inside short, confused, quirky people who are trying to act cool and in control.

Though I know love is alive and well everywhere, I think there is nothing quite as amazing as witnessing the seemingly overnight transition of kids who’ve never before noticed the opposite sex to suddenly realizing they might like to talk to and possibly make physical contact with the object of their amour.

Not all that many years ago I held tiny infants in my arms and wondered all sorts of things. Would they like broccoli? Would they like to read? Would they be able to carry a tune? (MacGyver has an issue with this particular skill.) Every day has been about learning the answers to these many questions and so as one piece of the puzzle gets placed, the picture becomes more complete.

When your kids are little, they are your whole world, and you are theirs. Gradually more and more people enter the story. Yet, at the very beginning it is just you and them. In quiet moments when I wondered about broccoli, algebra, and having rhythm, I couldn’t fathom the day when their heart would be entrusted to someone who could nurture them or break it to smithereens.

What is fabulous is that while your kids become more of who they are, so are you evolving. As time has passed I have watched in awe as tentative conversations and sweeping gestures have been made. Way back when my fluff-ball was in First Grade, a lovely boy gave her a charm bracelet just before he moved far away. He wanted to give her something to remember him by. The charms were well thought out, it’s made of real silver, and she has kept track of it all these years. (No small feat given three moves, the transition of toys to make-up, and the revolving/evolving clutter that is in her room.)

The boys’ mom and I watched them scamper down the path to a tree they always hung out in and watched the tender exchange. The only sadness I felt was that he was leaving and that she would be without her best friend. Of course, they were six years old. So, gentle for us all. Though he remains in her memories affectionately, she moved on gracefully.

This past summer my kids, who are in their early teens, started hanging out with me less and less and more and more with other kids. Trying to do the right thing, I read parenting articles, called friends who had already turned this corner, and then went with my gut. I must say, it was a summer unlike any other. Though there were roller coaster moments, there were many, many more where I watched clusters of kids chat and laugh. Music is a really important medium for kids to bond around, so while I chauffeured herds around town, I listened to them sing… loud… and mostly off-key.

Then, wham! School started. New kids came their way, old friendships were re-established, and with just a few weeks of the three R’s barely under our belts, the lyrics to Love is in the Air began to swirl. Because, So-and-So is dating What’s-her-Name and You-Know-Who is crushing on That-Guy-Who-Wears-Contacts-But-Now-Has-Braces!”

“Love is in the air, Everywhere I look around! Love is in the air, every sight and every sound!”

I will simply say that as the parent of a child who is smitten and is being smitten back, my thoughts are no longer about broken hearts or feelings nurtured. I am trying keep my child focused. While I rejoice and am touched by the exploration of feelings, experiences, and all the rest, I need homework to get done!! Chores to be remembered. And one other tiny thing… other relationships. No, I am not jealous. It is about teaching balance. There are still only 24 hours in a day and all the usual needs to happen, as well as the Cutie-Pie waiting for the phone call. (Incidentally, I am starting to understand my parents better and better.)

Okay, more love to be witnessed! My lovely niece married her Bride recently. Both wrote their own vows and while I don’t know if either knew what the other had written beforehand, the words spoken were heartfelt, funny, in sync, and deeply personal.

“Love is all around us, it’s everywhere we go.”

We need love, much like we need water. And we find love in places unexpected. As I sat looking at the calendar a few weeks ago I realized that all my nieces and nephews have been married in September. This September also marked my knowing my man MacGyver for half my life. I fell  headlong into twitterpation with him in September. It is the month of love!

My parents met Mac the day after we were engaged (to be fair, he and I live a few hours from them and it was less than three months into our relationship). I invited Mac to attend my father’s ordination into the Episcopalian priesthood with me. We had decided beforehand that we wouldn’t share the news as it was my father’s big day and my mother’s birthday. Two days before I had seen my brother, and being the savvy guy that he is, he sensed something was up. At the reception following the ordination he asked me what was going on. Mac and I shared a moment of telepathy and then happily announced we had become engaged the night before. Like wildfire, my siblings found out. To stop the random strangers, who were overhearing this news, from congratulating my parents, we decided we’d best tell them. So, standing in a huddle in the midst of a few hundred people I shared our joy with my parents. Because love is like that. When it is in you, it wants to burst free and work its magic on anyone within proximity.

It was only after we’d been married a few years and had faced a few bumps in the road that I realized the true enormity of commitment vows. Two people making ginormous promises to see each other through all kinds of stuff... stuff that most of us can’t know about until time passes, decisions are made, and then decisions are lived with. Our parents sit back and watch us take these vows and I’m sure they hold their breath and wonder when they can exhale.

It’s mostly easy being the aunt, watching beloved nieces and nephews grow up, follow their hearts, and make commitments. Not because I don’t worry about them, but because I know and love them differently than their parents do. Maybe it is objectivity. I don’t know. I’ve actually tried to put words to my feelings, but all I come up with is that their choices feel right. My beloved family is happy and there is nothing I want more.

As my kid’s mom, I have to say that I’m sure along the way I will have moments of trepidation, many experiences will not go according to plan, and even if they do, something is going to end with a splat. I’ve said it a thousand times, but my kids dazzle me. They are pretty solid people. Yes, they are works in progress, but I feel excited about this phase that we are entering. It’s a lot like the broccoli question. Of course, way back when, I also wondered who they would find interesting, attractive, and trustworthy. They have shown amazing judgment in life so far and while the path isn’t long, the path has been easy to follow.

So, while I expected a blonde and not a brunette, this new young person is helping us spread our wings, and we'll be forever grateful to sit on the sidelines and learn about love in a new way.

 

Finally, to witness one of the most interesting duets EVER, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOXLgBmvJNo !

 

As always, thanks for reading!

Venus Rising

What is writing? Is it an art form, a craft, an innate skill, something that burns to be released from the belly of the beast? When I read that question, the following visuals ran through my head: Renoir painting, a homespun art project made of pasta and Popsicle sticks, and Moby Dick.

Clearly the answer is “D: All of the above.” In every good book, not even a great book, there need to be moments where the writer and readers' souls surrender to the power of the word; the descriptions captivate and take the breath, cause laughter to bubble up, and tears to fall.

Like all of you, I pick up books and at some point I am either engaged or disappointed, because I see every book as the potential to travel and explore. It can be time travel, travelling to another world, exploring the hazards of tangling with a vampire or the social etiquette of Victorian England. For the most part, I will read any genre, so long as it moves me, because in every book there is self-discovery.

Ideas for books flit through my head all day long. It is extraordinarily challenging to figure out what ideas are worth pursuing, because every moment has potential. I recently read a book, Circle of Grace, where one of the main characters is introduced to us as a student at the Iowa Writers Workshop. To get to the meat of this part of the book, the director of the workshop helps his students realize that not only is it important to write what you know, you must write what you feel, you must be willing to explore and then expose your emotions to be an effective writer.

Last week I published Venus Rising. The original goal was to write as a comedic fifty page short story, yet when my fingers hit the keyboard the idea morphed into something quite different, because I listened to my heart and it needed me to write big feelings.

It was very important to me to really understand the world I dared stepping into. So many hours were spent researching the hows and whys of the world we live on. Venus Rising isn’t loaded down with dates and data. My hope is that my research pours you into the skins of Akshaya Bertrand and Jared Harrison; makes their journeys palpable and their travels tangible.

The following are the first two brief but critical chapters of the book. I hope you enjoy them.

Thanks for reading!

 

Venus Rising

Early March 2011

His head pounded, he felt his eyes pulsing! His chest heaved as he gasped for air and there was nothing to be done. The strain on his body felt unbearable, and at some point the release of so much emotion was just too much. He fractured. The two pieces, body and soul, fractured. Never having been a spiritual person, he could only assume this was what an out of body experience would be. The body and soul were at war with each other.  The soul’s way of accepting that the body had endured enough. He took in the visceral experience and accepted it for what it was. A death of sorts. Years of observing the world from a distance had led to this outburst.

And so he wept.

How long did he sit there? He had no idea. It was the shadowy flutter on the wall that attuned him to his body. He felt the easing of his balled up muscles and the last of his tears leaking. The last sobs wrenched from somewhere very deep. A quake echoed through his body and it was this echo that seemed to initiate the reconciliation of the two halves of himself.

In an effort to calm himself, he stretched out on the couch. It wasn’t lost upon him that he was finally doing as his therapist had been suggesting for months. He was lying down.

He chuckled, “Has this couch always been this comfortable?” His voice thick with emotion and mucus.

From a close distance a voice devoid of emotion said, “Yes.”

“God, I feel like shit.”

Silence sat in the room with them.

A final long tremor ran through his body, signaling that the emotional overload was at an end. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair and parked there, his other hand rested on his stomach, clenched. While he lay staring at the ceiling, he did what all people do, he counted the dark blobs on the white sound proofing ceiling tiles. When this proved overwhelming, he tried to sort out what he was feeling and what he wanted to say. It was all a jumble. The image of a tornado flitted through his mind.

Giving up on creating order from chaos, he sat up, blew his nose, and started collecting the pile of used tissues from the floor. The number of white wads scattered about startled him.

“What are you thinking?” He asked the other occupant in the room. Uncertain whether it was because he felt exposed and wanted to find out if he had finally revealed enough of himself or if it was because he was killing time.

“Both.” He thought to himself.

The bland face said, “I am wondering what you are thinking, what words you would put to your feelings.”

“That answer feels like part of the problem. Why is it that when I ask questions you always redirect them back at me?” Jared asked with anger in his voice. He put no effort into disguising it.

“Alright. I’ve been wondering when you’d get pissed. I think it is really sad that even now, in here, you still suppress your real feelings. I wonder if you do that to protect me or yourself.” Dr. Jackson answered.

Staring at the clock straight across from him, Jared saw that there were only a few minutes left. “I don’t like feeling this way. It seems pointless.”

Dr. Jackson followed Jared’s gaze and saw the time. “Do you think the Lexapro is helping?”

Evaluating his behavior from a distance he answered, “Yes, better than Zoloft. The headaches and nausea are gone.” He registered he hadn’t been feeling quite so overwhelmed by the past and felt like the future was, usually, manageable. “I’m sitting here wondering if I will feel like this in an hour or a day or a week.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ll be here in a week. Unless you want to come back this week, I can check my calendar.” The psychiatrist answered. Similar to the couch issue, the doctor had been endeavoring to get his patient in more than once a week.

Attending therapy more regularly only added pressure to Jared’s life and it wasn’t a pressure he wanted but perhaps needed. Given the imminent future, maybe now was the time. He gave it a long moment’s thought and said, “Do you have any appointments open on Thursday?”

Minutes later he sat in his car and noticed that the trees all had tender lime green leaves tightly balled up, waiting to unfurl. A few more warm days were needed. His eyes surveyed the area and touched upon the bright yellow tulips and an unknown shrub with tiny white berries.

He blew out a long deep breath and fully absorbed winter was over and spring was now. Summer would be next and summer would be long.

**********

Mid- March 2011

Grimacing at the clock, Akshaya realized it was time to pack up for the day. Thursdays! She had a love-hate relationship with Tuesday and Thursdays. Not always, just for the last four months. Four very long months.

She stepped out into the fresh air and smelled the promise of spring. Walking along the concrete path from her office to her car she searched for the sun and upon finding it squinted into the pale sunlight. She stopped and closed her eyes. She let the moment hold her and she felt buoyed by the promising warmth.

Giving in to what must be done, she continued on her way, gingerly stepping around a small pile of slush, a last remnant of winter. Quickly and efficiently she loaded her things along with herself into the car and headed away from the known, and steered herself towards the unknown.

On thirty-two occasions, over four months (twice a week, an hour each day) Akshaya had walked through the medical building’s double doors. Walked down a long gloomy hallway, passed through a dark wooden door, flipped up a switch, and then sat down in a lobby, waiting for the doctor. Dr. Meyers was usually on time, so the wait was short. Today, she scrounged through a pile of magazines, looking for something to read.

Flipping through a Smithsonian Magazine, she was surprised when she heard a door open, and heard footsteps approaching. Out of courtesy, she diverted her eyes back to an article on “The Wonders of Alexandria.”

There was muffled walking, the sound of a door closing, and then a few minutes later, the same door reopened. More muffled walking brought Dr. Meyers to the switch, which she pressed down, and greeted Akshaya with a smile. Once inside the doctor’s office, she said, “Sorry to keep you waiting. We’ll adjust your appointment and go later if that works for you.”

Inwardly Akshaya felt two emotions equally. Angry for being kept waiting, and unaffected because she really didn’t think she needed to be there anymore. Internally she knew that the real problem lie in the fact that she wouldn’t tell Dr. Meyers her true feelings. This is what kept her coming.

Dr. Meyers clearly understood emotions were unsaid because week after week she said, “I’ll see you soon.”

“That’s fine.” Akshaya responded politely. She spent her days with students and knew very well that appointments ran late, short, but rarely as scheduled.

Once settled, her eyes drifted to the clock to see what the actual time was. Their appointment was for 6:00 pm and it was now 6:14 pm.

Breaking the ice, she led with, “I will have to leave at the usual time. I have a massage scheduled.” Irritation now leaked into her voice.

“Okay.”

“I usually have a massage on Thursdays after I leave here.”

“Is it to relax or part of your treatment?”

“Both. I’ve had weekly therapeutic massages for years. It might help with the procedure.”

“How is that going?”

“Fine, I’m still floating the idea around.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No. I need to think about it by myself for a while longer.”

“We could talk about it, together. That is one of the conversations we could have in here.”

“I know. I just… don’t want to. Honestly, I just need to process.”

For Akshaya, saying that she didn’t want something was a big step, so Dr. Meyer contented herself with, “Okay. How is everything else?”

“Fine, the same. Tension is high. The work is harder than I could have ever imagined possible, part of me wonders if I should have just bailed.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because, I have dreams, this dream I didn’t even fully understand until he made it happen. Now there’s the possibility and I’m unwilling to pass it up.”

“So why do you wonder about bailing?”

“Sitting here I’m removed from the stress, so I am unwilling to give up, but when he and I are together there is so much tension. What if all this time and effort is wasted?”

“But, that is what you do, your modus operandi, you have the mask that you wear that says ‘stay away’ and then you have you. The person that needs you to come here. You could talk to him. He doesn’t have to talk to you. Would that make you feel better?”

Akshaya began pacing the office. Not something she did often, but today she felt like she was in a cage, needing out, but leaving wasn’t an option. She tugged on the cuff of her sleeves, fiddled with the scarf around her neck, and paced. She was aware of the tension in her neck, her throat feeling squeezed shut.

“Which dream are we talking about exactly?” The doctor asked, sitting on a stool in front of an easel, blobbing paint onto a canvas. Painting something quite indeterminable.

Akshaya walked over, grabbed a sturdy wide fan shaped brush and set about blending some of the colors together. Unconsciously she loaded the brush with watered down ochre and started to blend a patch of darker brown with a golden splat. Dr. Meyer slid her stool slightly aside to give Akshaya all the room she needed to paint.

After a minute or two of muddling, Akshaya loaded a filbert brush with Robins Egg Blue and set about building swirling bands of color in the back left corner. When out of paint, she returned to the present, dropped the brush in a glass, and then sat in the familiar oversized chair in front of a window. She flipped her legs over the arm of the chair and pressed back into the cushions, staring straight ahead, at small patch of empty white wall.

“Dreams… I can’t even think about my dreams. Right now I’m angry. As if there weren’t enough complications, he told me today that he asked two contacts to check into my past. What right does he have? He should have asked me. What if these two idiots do something I don’t want, what if…” She stopped mid-thought, not entirely certain that she wanted to understand what might follow.

“What if what happens?” Asked the always pressing doctor.

“Forget ‘what if’. What about whom? Why didn’t he ask me if it was okay for people I don’t know to root around my past? Shouldn’t I be the one who gets whatever information they find out? Why does he get it first? They should be telling me what they find out and not him!”

“I don’t know. Maybe he is trying to protect you.”

“Fuck him. I don’t need protection. I can manage my own life.”

“When is the last time you sat down and truly talked to him?”

“Just after Christmas.”

“Do you think you are the same person now as you were at Christmas?”

“No, obviously not.”

“How obvious is it to him, when you haven’t had a personal conversation with him since Christmas?”

“I know!” She snapped! Anger rushed out with the response. Akshaya moved back to the easel. After letting go of the initial urge to pick up a palette knife and spread a thick layer of black, she kept her hands clenched at her sides, studied the painting and then decided that the blue needed a hint of grey.

“So?” Dr. Meyer prompted.

“He’s different. He’s not the same guy at all. To him I am just a woman who has skills he needs, nothing more.”

“Is it possible that he is simply treating you the way you asked him to treat you?”

Anger poured out of her and she let it loose on the canvas. She picked up a large paint brush, loaded it with white paint and brushed long powerful strokes from left to right. The bristles dug into the existing paint. The results were horizontal bands of color, white to brown.

**********

The Tail of Two Kitties

Not long ago, in the pastoral township of Redmond, found nestled between the wooded shores of Lake Sammamish and a verdant valley, whose rich dark soil grew an abundance of plants, sat a house.

This house, unique in many ways; its vivacity in color and texture, expression of self-sufficiency, and commitment to historical relevance, was the subject and focus of many a discussion. The inhabitants of this unique dwelling were a happy lot and carefree in every way, but one.

The oldest child of the handsome couple had a lifelong dream of being lulled to sleep by the deep and melodious purr-ings of a kitten. In vain she endeavored to gain her parents' favor for many, many a year. Promises of pleasant company, an effort free coexistence with the felines and child, and an on-going sally finally gained a favorable outlook by the patriarch.

A witty and comely maiden, the child took advantage of delay in travel and forayed her mother into a shop whose sole purpose was the sales of dependent creatures. Upon one of the shelves sat a gracious feline whose pelt was a unique shade of smoky blue. The color one would expect to find in the early morning light, as the sun rises on a cloudy day, and that light is filtered through the risings of the hearth's fire.

Alas, there was no assistant available, and so the shopkeeper bade them to return in three days. With a loose promise and a strong hope to distract her daughter, the mother took her child to another shop along the row that sold sweets and other pleasantries.

Many hours had passed, finding the family gathering after the evening meal had been finished and the remnants stored away. The determined child engaged her father in a witty debate regarding the charms of the smoky-blue creature. Moderating the conversation, the mother was quick to support the father in the reasons to not engage in such a responsibility and debt, but she also expressed the many joys and travails learned that only a pet could teach.

The father was willing, happily, to be persuaded at this point, for he had seen the longing over the years in his daughter’s eyes. Three days passed and the family journeyed to the shop. Upon arrival the shopkeeper assisted the family in engaging the cat. It was a tearful and disappointing moment when the cat turned her claws upon them all. She had suffered abuse as a kitten and needed solitude to be happy. The parents quickly surmised that for their daughters dream to come true, kittens were the answer.

Three days passed again, and in that time the family had searched the lands and found what their hearts hoped for. A brother and sister who bounced about like Spring Lambs, were sweet in disposition, engaging to the eye and appreciative of their adoring new family. Names were dispensed, one from each child. The girl naming the girl, the boy naming the boy. Thus, Tessa and Milo came to live and happiness overflowed.

The happiness remained for quite some time, until an evil force descended upon the land, causing mayhem and mischief to follow. It was to the sorrow and concern of the mother when she entered her bedchamber to find a malodorous scent saturating the air. Quickly she rushed to find the source, but could not. It was a sad, almost tragic, moment when the daughter, the arbiter, found the source.

Concern worried her face when she quietly dispensed to her mother that one of the kittens, the female, had relieved herself on the bed. Sensing her child’s fear that the kittens would be banished, the mother quickly hid her disappointment and spent considerable time and effort rectifying the mishap.

Leaving the most grotesque and repulsive minutiae to the reader’s imagination, it suffices to add that the original deposit had been expanded upon and that much effort was spent over the length of the evening. The mother, a woman who generally was found to be meticulous in her appearance, could be found damp from her exertion. The father, similar in nature, was in a state of discomfiture.

The daughter’s willingness to assist had impressed both parents. For the sake of expedition, she stowed away in another chamber of the house with the kittens, hoping that their removal from sight would prevent removal from home.

The woods behind the inhabitance grew dark as the sun set, and still the parents toiled. Opened windows drew in the fresh scent of warm summer air, and with it, the sounds of the snapping branches in the woods.

Catching his wife’s worried eye, for many creatures lingered in the woods at night, the husband stated, “Not to worry, perhaps only raccoons.”

The wife, who was in need of relief, swiped her arm across her glistening brow and said, “We could wrap the kittens in bacon and see what happens.”

After much laughter at such an indiscreet and audacious comment, the couple finished their toil and eventually found their way to another, more cool and pleasant smelling location, and found deep, deep sleep.

It remains lost upon the family as to why the kitten exerted such careless disregard. As is generally the case, caution was applied, and the kittens suffered a smaller range of territory to stalk and purvey. The child who had longed for such company was joyful to see affection for her beloved creatures applied to them by her parents. She knew that all was well, that it was not only her that truly loved the kittens, but they as well.

It should always be Memorial Day!

(I wrote this blog quite some time ago, planning to publish it on Memorial Day. As you know, a lot of my time has been taken up trying to write books, market published books, chase my kids, chase my tail, and then have a few spare brain cells to write an interesting blog! In any case, I do truly believe that every day is Memorial Day, so I am taking advantage of a few quiet minutes, and sending this out into the universe.)

Recently I had the pleasure of watching The King's Speech, with Colin Firth, for the first time. For those of you who haven’t seen it, I can only implore you to do so. Don’t worry, this blog is more than a movie review! It is an extraordinary tale that touches me personally and deeply. While the movie is about King George VI and his speech impediment, more importantly it is a beautiful tale about love and friendship.

Sidebar: As a lifelong over-the-top fan of Jane Austen I am a slave to any actor or actress who has brought one of her books to life. I doubt I am alone when I say that I carefully watched the scenes with Colin Firth and Jane Ehle in The King's Speech. I longed to see an elegantly aged Elizabeth gaze at a distinguished Mr. Darcy. How they kept the love from beaming out of their eyes as King George VI and Mrs. Logue I have no idea...

I committed myself to about thirty minutes of research into the movie for this blog and in that research I found three interesting facts.

The writer of the script, David Seidler, began voraciously researching the King in the late 1970’s as a result of learning that he and King George VI shared a speech impediment. Sadly, Seidler could learn very little about Lionel Logue, the King’s speech therapist. “Eventually Seidler contacted Dr. Valentine Logue, who agreed to discuss his father and make his notebooks available if the Queen Mother gave her permission. She asked him not to do so in her lifetime, and Seidler halted the project.” When the Queen Mother died in 2002, he resumed his research, received Logue’s diaries from his son, and built his story.

Apparently a fair amount of liberty was taken with the timeline, historical figures (such as Cromwell and Chamberlain’s presence in an outer room when the speech was delivered), and one I must admit I did find quite odd while I watched the film - when the Royal Family stands on the balcony at the end and waves to the crowd.

Though the film and actors received awards and accolades in the US and England, Prince Andrew of Britain took great exception, he didn’t like it. Considering Andrew's antics and constant bad press, I am hesitant to take his film reviews too close to heart. However, “Queen Elizabeth II, the reigning queen and the daughter of King George VI, was sent two copies of the film before Christmas 2010. It was reported that she watched the film in a private screening. A palace source described her reaction as being "touched by a moving portrayal of her father". Seidler called the reports "the highest honor" the film could receive.

As the final credits rolled I found myself wondering how my family, living in Lowestoft England, took the news that September 3^rd evening in 1939.

My Great Grandfather, Ernest Grint, had served in WWI. From his first marriage he had four children. His second wife, my Great Grandmother, Elizabeth, had been married to a solider during WWI, with whom she had one child. He was not fortunate enough to return home. My Great Grandparents had five children together. If you add them all up, there were ten total.

Were they sitting around the radio, listening with their nine sons, full of worry? Worry, I presume that word to be an understatement.

My mother would have been nine months old. My grandfather, Edward, was Ernest and Elizabeth’s oldest child together. He was a mere twenty years old.

After the nine boys had signed up with the Royal Navy, Royal Marines, Royal Air Force, and Royal Army, the house, which surprisingly still stands on Normanston Drive, was left in solitude to my Great Grandparents, my Great Aunt Beryl (fourteen years old), my Grandmother Dorothy, and my mother, Daphne.

Lowestoft for many centuries was a blip on the map. The most easterly point of England, where villagers fished for survival. In 1831 the harbor at Lowestoft was created, where the Grint family proudly owned a fishing trawler or two. In 1847, railway entrepreneur Sir Samuel Peto built a branch line to Reedham, joining the mainline between Norwich and Great Yarmouth. This immediately opened up markets inland for fish. Lowestoft grew from a small fishing village to a thriving market town.

Stories about the fishing heydays of my family are quite entertaining to listen to, all sorts of mishaps, battles with the North Sea, and “the one that got away.” My Great Aunt Beryl tells the story that upon arriving back at port and emptying the bowels of the ship to the local fish merchants, my Great-Grandfather was greeted with the news of her birth by a friend working on the docks. “Great News!” He said, then everyone disappeared into the pub to celebrate, leaving my Great Grandmother to wonder about his whereabouts.

In the summer of 1939 the Admiralty purchased 67 trawlers with a further twenty newly constructed vessels at the outbreak of World War II. I have yet to uncover if my family’s trawlers were some of those purchased. I’m curious about that. Mostly because these trawlers served as Mine Sweepers, on which my Grandfather served as a member of the Royal Navy.

My Grandfather told me that after having been at sea for quite some time, searching for bombs the Germans had dropped, food supplies were depleted and the men were hungry, so they dropped one of their own bombs. Soon enough all kinds of fish floated to the surface. They ate well for a time, having put what fish they could into the food storage area.

In my imagination, a black and white image of a barely visible small boat waits as fish breech and then plop on their sides. Fish of all shapes and sizes, lying still on the seas calm surface. Why this image instead of others? Perhaps the possibility of adding color makes the idea of my Grandfathers experience too real, too frightening.

I believe my Grandfather served aboard three Mine Sweepers that were blown out from underneath him. Leaving him and the other survivors praying for help and swimming towards what they hoped was land. Once he washed up on the shores of Norway and was taken in by a fisherman and his family. He couldn’t remember how long he stayed there, but the last time I visited with him, he still had the sweater the wife had knitted for him.

I came upon this quote, “After about 18 months I was recalled to Lowestoft and drafted to an anti-submarine trawler in Iceland, in the most inhospitable seas and weather possible, working into the notorious Russian convey routes (although we did not go all the way there, being coal-fired, would not be able to make it).” Ronald Fredrick John Hearn

Back to Lowestoft, and the house on Normanston Drive. My Great Grandfather died of lung cancer at the start of the war. This left four women, Great Grandmother Elizabeth, Auntie Beryl, my Nana, and my infant mother, alone. The house was built directly alongside the railroad tracks that Sir Samuel Peto built through the town. The garden was long and narrow and had to be given over to soldiers encamping.

Lowestoft, being on the sea and the most easterly point, was the point of departure for boats crossing the English Channel to France. Apparently the streets teemed with soldiers and tents were pitched on every empty piece of ground. Naturally this drew the attention of the Germans, who regularly flew over the town, the railroad tracks, and harbor, shooting up and bombing everything from time to time. My mother grew up knowing how to run in a zigzag pattern to avoid bullets. How to lie flat on the ground to make her a less visible target.

So many stories and which to share?

Oh, this is a favorite! Once I was looking through old photos with my aunt and I noticed that her wedding dress looked similar to my other aunts. Upon closer inspection it turned out that their cakes were almost identical. The town had essentially one or two dresses, which the women would carefully tuck and pin to make it look like it fitted. The cake was made of cardboard tubes, and the families would pool their sugar and butter ration coupons so that frosting could be made. Since weddings often happened on short notice, they couldn’t worry about whose looked like what, they made what they could.

So, the wedding’s ended up mostly looking same. A small price to pay to get to marry the person you loved.

One lovely summer day in 1991 my aunt told me a great story, still makes me chuckle! My Aunt Beryl has an infectious laugh and a fabulous sense of humor, but I think that laughter is part of her survival toolkit, so she tells this story while she’s belly laughing. My aunt and Nana were returning home from spending their ration coupons on what was available when the Germans flew directly overhead strafing the road with machine guns and dropping the occasional bomb. The two women jumped into a hedge for protection. While standing in the hedge she realized it wasn’t deep enough for them to be enclosed, so she started laughing about how only their backsides were visible, and how odd this must look. Apparently my Nana, was a feisty itty bitty thing and she was plain old fashion pissed that her one good dress was probably ruined.

“The Normandy landings, codenamed Operation Neptune, were the landing operations of the Allied Invasion of Normandy in Operation Overlord. The landings commenced on Tuesday, 6 June 1944 (D-Day), beginning at 6:30 am. In planning, as for most Allied operations, the term D-Day was used for the day of the actual landing.”

The best story of all… My nine uncles (my Aunt Beryl married my Uncle Len during the war) and grandfather landed on the beaches of Normandy and all survived.

According to the Director of the National D-Day Memorial Foundation in Bedford Virginia the number of casualties range between 2500-5000 soldiers. Remains are still being recovered. 12,000 citizens of Normandy died during the invasion. 14,000 Allied Soldiers died between April and May of 1944, while performing tasks that would allow for D-Day to be incredibly successful or disastrous.

Whenever I visited Lowestoft I would inevitably end up at the Sparrows Nest. It is a lovely old building with a large sweeping green lawn. Here we would attend concerts and picnics, and my Grandfather and Aunt would see friends who’d weathered the storm of World War II with them. The music was quaint and time seemed to move slowly, but there I looked into the eyes of people who had struggled and won a hard fought battle. It was only today, during my thirty minutes of research, that I learned that the HMS Europa, was known as the Sparrow’s Nest. It was the Central Depot of the Royal Naval Patrol Service, located at Lowestoft, and then the closest British military establishment to the enemy until decommissioned in 1946.

“For the second time in the lives of most of us, we are at war.” When King George VI spoke these words he wondered how it was possible to have two such wars in one lifetime.

If someone you love has been a casualty of war, my heart goes out to you. I know that my family’s survival is extraordinary, and though the stories they told could make my heart standstill, I heard them first hand. I’m not a spiritual person, but I do pray every day for all those affected by war. I pray for quiet days. I pray for parents to be able to provide their children with food, shelter and safety. I pray that the sound that breaks the silence is laughter.

Thanks for reading!