On ghosts, impermanence and osteoporosis

In 1990 I moved with my three-month-old daughter to Tallahassee, Florida, where I had gone to graduate school for a master’s degree in creative writing in the mid-80s. I had re-enlisted in grad school to get a Ph.D. because I figured if I was going to be a single mom, being a college professor was a wiser choice than working 12-hour days as a freelance journalist. My daughter’s father was having a temper tantrum because I’d gone and gotten myself pregnant against his express wishes. How I did that without his participation I’m still unclear about. But two years later Hank arrived in Tallahassee, too, with toys for his little princess and a check for me. I took him back.

My mom lived in Edenton, NC, by this time and we’d make occasional forays up there to visit. The drive from Tallahassee to Edenton took an eternity -- especially the one time we got off I-95 and decided to take the scenic route along Highway 17. Somewhere in an alternate universe a man and a woman are still on that highway with a little girl in the back seat, asking, “How much longer?” The parents automatically answer, “About an hour.” Our destination was always about an hour away.

My mother also came to visit us in Tallahassee at least once that I can remember. I know this because I have a picture.

My mother became old in fits and starts during the 1990s. Every time I saw her, I noticed some surprising new mile marker in the aging process.

On this particular visit I discovered she could no longer keep up with me when we walked anywhere. I found I needed to walk very, very slowly. Her heart, she explained . . .she had congestive heart failure. WTF? She never had anything wrong with her heart before. The past 20 or so years she’d been an inveterate walker. Walking was what we did together: long, brisk walks. That was her exercise, as well as a wonderful way for us to spend time together, to talk and laugh. And now all of a sudden (or so it seemed to me) we were cr-aw-ling. We’d become characters in a movie, moving in slow motion, each step exaggerated and excruciating as the world seemed to stop spinning in space. Of course, I hadn’t planned for this when I got her and Emmy in the car to go to the opera at the university. I carved out just enough time for us to speed over to campus, find a parking space and sprint to the opera hall. That was my normal M.O. I didn’t know there was a new normal in town.

Somehow we got to the opera before the curtain rose though I’m sure I had a mental breakdown as we moved with glacier-like speed along the sidewalk.

I kept thinking there was some way to “fix” my mother. At the time I had come across some “Tibetan rites.” The man who had gone to Tibet to discover them claimed they’d have old bodies dancing like teenagers. Oh, I was always onto something.

“Here, Mom, just do this,” I said. With my lithe 37-year-old body I demonstrated the rites in the living room of our little ranch house. Spinning was the first one. I got my mom to slowly spin three times. (You’re supposed to build up to 21.) She couldn’t do it. She was out of breath and a bright red blood spot suddenly bloomed in my mother’s left eye.

Shit, I thought, I’ve killed my mother. She’s had an embollism or something. She somehow survived my improvements efforts. Of course, she was a big disappointment to me, having gone and grown old like that. Where was my playful friend?

In the picture I have of her from that visit she is standing by the fountain in front of the auditorium at Florida State, wearing a dark velvet dress and holding the hand of four-year-old Emmy, who has one leg out in an arabesque and is balancing on the wall of the fountain. My mother is heavier in this picture than she had ever been before -- not fat, by any means, but solid, seemingly immoveable.

This is the last picture I have of my mother without a walker.

The Buddhists teach impermanence. An idea that still confounds me. In my mind my mother is permanently laughing and vigorous -- physically strong and intellectually at the top of the mountain. But right now, as I sit on my front porch on a chilly autumn morning, yellow poplar leaves carpeting the ground, I am aware of my own mortality slowly ticking away inside my body. My doctor has informed me that my bones have already begun the process of deconstructing themselves. One day my daughter will look at me in shock and dismay as I can no longer keep up with her. And I -- this I of this moment -- will just be a ghost in her mind.

The Reluctant Self-Promoter

Heretofore, I have never had the opportunity to use the word “heretofore.” But I do now. Heretofore, I have not blogged about anything in particular. Oh, I always planned to do a “writing” blog but never got around to it. Instead I would blog about missing my kid or taking care of my mother or taking walks or occasionally about politics. My blogging was sporadic and random.

Now, however, I am blogging for a purpose: to track my journey as I attempt to promote my new novel, Picara (note inclusion of title for promotion purposes, which I had to go back and add). I am doing this because that may be the only way I can stand it. If I write about the rejection and the humiliation and all the other things I dislike about self-promotion, at least it will serve a purpose. Something enjoyable (writing) will take place as a result. Also, I think it will keep me on track. I will continue to put myself out there like a youtube wannabe movie star because that is what I am supposed to do if I want to keep doing this thing that I love. Keeping a blog will nudge me (I hope) in the right direction. And maybe some other reluctant self-promoter will realize he or she is not alone.

To clarify, I don’t actually mind giving readings and book signings. I like it. I like meeting people who have read my work or who are planning to read it or who just like the cover of a book I wrote. And I love doing workshops for people who write or who want to write or who think they might want to write. That stuff is fun.

What is not so fun for me is getting out and pushing myself. I’m not sure why, but that part is painful. Just the other day I was reading a chapter in a book on women’s health as research for a freelance gig. And I came across the definition of “borderline personality.” This was interesting to me because about 20 years ago I was married for all of about three weeks. My then husband and I saw a therapist once who later told my husband that I might be a “borderline personality.” I had no idea what that meant, but I damn sure didn’t appreciate it. I mean the guy had talked to me once. And I was not the one screaming and kicking doors in. (BTW, former husband and I are now friends again; we have forgiven each other.)

So now, 20-something years later I read the description of a borderline personality: “poor self-image; unstable relationships; mood swings; impulsive behavior; extreme fear of being abandoned; self-destructive behaviors. . . .” Damn, that was me at one point in my life. For the most part, I’ve managed to quell the craziness. No one who knows me now would call me impulsive or self-destructive. My moods aren’t any worse than any other menopausal maniac. I am separated from my current husband, but we were in a stable relationship for the past 18 years. As for abandonment, well, I’ve experienced it bigtime and handled it okay. So . . .all that leaves is poor self-image.

I’ve been working on that. For a long time. So part of my mission here is to be honest while at the same time not berating myself. My Science of Mind friends and mentors say to be careful of your words, be careful what you own. I think it’s okay to own up to the fact that I’m a reluctant self-promoter, but that I’m willing to do it. So tomorrow I’ll call up the local B&N once more and mention that the girl on the cover of my book goes to a high school near their store and that we might get a few of her friends to come for a book signing. And I will call up the funky little import store on Central Avenue again to see if they’ll be willing to be the venue for my party. And I’ll call the bookstore in Durham and try to convince them to have me do a book signing there in conjunction with a local radio interview. I mean, I’m not Pat Conroy. I’m Pat MacEnulty, and they haven’t heard of me in spite of my five books. So they don’t jump up and down like they’ve just won the lottery when I call ‘em up. This is going to take some effort.

In the meantime, I am grateful for Lorri, who is redesigning my website and serving as a stand-in publicist. And for Lynda, who invited me to San Miguel de Allende, and Heather at the Portland Library for saying, “Come on up!” Their support balances out the not-so-great things about this venture. It’s a beginning.

A Day at the Medicaid Office

On Monday I had to leave work early to see about getting my mother re-certified for Medicaid. She’s in a rehab center while her broken ankle heals. Medicare covers 20 days in rehab but she’s in some insurance HMO plan that sucks out the Medicare money and doles it out the way they want to. For some things it’s better than Medicare. But for others it’s not. This, for instance. Instead of covering 20 days in rehab, it covers ten. She’s on day seven. After that I have to start shelling out one hundred bucks a day to keep my mother there. That’s why I’m driving to the Medicaid office instead of sitting in yet another meeting at my school.

During my lunch break I had called the SSI office. A message told me I was “caller number twenty in queue.” I finally got to a human, but he managed to cut me off. So I dialed again and in only fifteen minutes I had another human.

“Please don’t cut me off,” I said to him. “It takes way too long to get to a human.” He promised he wouldn’t.

I told him my story: my mom had been on Medicaid 18 months ago, the last time she was in the rehab center. I explained that when she got better we put her in a private pay facility because there were no long-term Medicaid beds available. But now she was back in rehab and we needed the Medicaid again.

He transferred me to someone else and I got a voicemail. She didn’t call me back. So a few hours later I leave work and call her again. Lo and behold, she answers. In my utter naivete I was sure that this was something that could be done by phone or online. Wrong. I am required to go to the office and fill out an application in person.

As I drive to the office, I wonder how this would get done if I were not here to do it – or if I had the kind of job where I couldn’t leave to go take care of my mother’s medical problems. Or what if I was sick myself, or disabled? This is how people’s live spiral out of control, how they go bankrupt, how they die forgotten and alone.

The Social Security Administration building in Charlotte is an imposing brick building not far from uptown. As you approach the entrance, you join the huddled masses yearning for healthcare. Most of the people milling about are minorities. According to a Healthcare Forum I went to recently, 35 percent of African Americans are without health insurance. I don't know what the figures are for Hispanics. For whites, it's 6 percent. But I've been part of that 6 percent. I know what it feels like to simply decide you can't get sick. Many of the people here are women. They have children or they are pregnant or both. I wonder why so many Americans are poor. Why aren’t there enough jobs for us? What happened to the idea of affordable childcare?

I go inside and a woman at the information desk gives me some form to fill out. No pen, but I’ve got my own. I find a little desk and fill out the form, then I go stand in a line. When I get to the front of the line I have to sign a piece of paper. Then go sit in another area and wait. Hmm, I think. Okay, maybe this is what the crazy “keep your government hands off my healthcare” screamers are picturing. I know it doesn’t have to be this way. Government manages to do a lot of things pretty damn well. Education, road building, libraries, policing, fire fighting. But maybe this sucks because it’s for poor people. Maybe if it was for everybody they’d get more efficient. Then again, maybe it would be like the DMV. Whatever. No one should die or go broke so that Insurance CEOs can wipe their butts with hundred dollar bills.

This place has kind of a festive air about it. I watch a preteen girl herding her younger siblings; a dad and his severely disabled son; a lean, athletic young black man in a wheelchair with his hands in bandages. Everyone has a story. After an hour of sitting I’m still wondering what about this whole experience couldn’t be done online or by phone. A couple minutes before five, just before the place closes, a case worker leads me back into the warren of cubicles for an interview. The cubicles are small; the walls brown. I sit down in a plastic chair and stare at a line of screws sticking out of the wall.

The case worker, a strapping bald man, seems like a really nice guy but I’m remembering a guy I knew who worked for social security in another town and who had a predilection for smoking pot and exposing himself to teenage girls. Whatever this particular guy does in his spare time, he seems perfectly willing to approve my mother’s application.

There’s just one problem. I’d forgotten that when you get on Medicaid, they take your social security check and leave you thirty bucks a month for spending money.

“But . . .but . . .how will we pay for her room at the assisted living place?” I ask. “Her social security check pays for a good chunk of the rent. Then my brothers and I make up the difference.”

“My hands are tied,” he says with a shrug.

Tears start marching down my tear ducts for a general meeting just under my eyelids. Words of doom and desperation swirl around my brain pan.

“But . . . but . . .” I begin again. “She’s only supposed to need rehab for a couple of weeks and if she loses her place, then where will she go?”

“I understand,” he says. “Some people have mortgages and they have to choose between their homes and their healthcare.”

This makes me feel so much better.

“It’s not going to work,” I tell him, trying to keep the whine out of my voice. We continue with the application.

Like a rat backed into a corner, my brain begins scurrying around the problem as I wait for him to print out the forms. What can I do? Will I need to yank her out of rehab? Surely the assisted living place won’t take her back in this shape. She can’t put any weight on her right foot. She needs so much help getting off and on the toilet, getting in and out of the bed. Will I need to go over to her place and move all her stuff out? Money for movers, money for storage. What will I do about that albatross of a bed she has? Is it time for her to move in with me? Will my new roommate be willing to help me out with her? Is she moves in with me, will I ever get any work done again? Will I ever be able to travel? What about sleeping? She needs a lot of care. A lot. And how can I get her in and out of my house without a ramp? What about bathing her with no shower downstairs?

Finally, I stop. I realize I can’t make any decisions without more information. Tomorrow, Scarlett. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.

Cold, cold hand

My mother is in the hospital. Again. Every year it’s something different. This time it’s a broken ankle and a blood clot. I’ve learned a few lessons from years past.
“No morphine,” I tell the emergency room doctor who calls me as I’m driving late at night from Tallahassee, where I’ve been taking a mini-vacation, to Charlotte where I live.
The next day when I get to the hospital I tell them again: “No morphine. I know she says she’s in pain. She’s always in pain. But no morphine.”
The doctor agrees with me, but that night someone gives her morphine anyway. The next day the doctor writes that she’s allergic to morphine in her chart.
The last time she was in the hospital they loaded her up on Sister M. And she got so loopy we thought she’d had a stroke. She couldn’t complete a sentence. Thoughts were amorphous things floating like clouds far above her grasp. It lasted for weeks, months really. She tried to communicate but couldn't.
The next day I am sitting in the green chair in my mother’s hospital room and she’s methodically examining her cover sheet. She has a pen in one hand and a partially completed crossword but she is not doing the crossword puzzle. Instead she runs the edge of that sheet thru her fingers. When I ask her what she is doing, she has no idea. Finally, she drifts off.
My friend Patti says, “So many of my women friends have been taking care of their mothers longer than their mothers took care of them.”
Good God, I think. Decades.
Now my mother is sitting staring blankly out at nothing, wearing a green hospital robe, a purple DNR wrist band and a heart monitor. She has expressly stated that no rescue attempts should be made in the event she gives out. But she’s not really that sick. She’s 91. She’s in constant pain. She’s often confused, but there is nothing drastically wrong with her, nothing a few months of blood thinner and ten or so other pills a day can’t cure.
My daughter is entering her first year of college. I hope she remembers the instructions I give her on my cellphone as I sit in the parking lot of the hospital.
“Honey, if they want to give me blood thinner, if they want to give me antibiotics, if they want to give me anything, just say no. Let nature have its way. Do you hear me?”
She says that she does, but who knows what it will be like when we're there.
My mother said to me in the hospital: “When my time comes, I don’t want you to be sad. I want you to be happy for me. My life as me is effectively over.”
“I will miss you terribly,” I answer. “But I will be happy for you.”

Homage to Wendy

Wendy Bishop was a writer who died in 2003 of a tumor wrapped around her heart. My friend Dean was her husband. He lives in Alligator Point now and protects sea turtles that come to the beach to lay eggs.

Dean and I walk the beach, talking of sea turtles, guitars, old friends.
“Tell me the name of those again,” I say, pointing to tiny clams that disappear bottoms up in the brown wet sand.
“Donax,” he says.
“That’s right,” I say. “I always think it’s gonads.”

Returning to the thin arm of sand, stretched before the low beach house, Dean sits on the towel while I wade into warm water, my joy meter ticking upwards as the waves canter toward me. And I dive into the murky Gulf, thick with salt and seaweed. Far across the water, the horizon stretches in a long flat line.

“It always changes,” Dean had said. And he’s right. It used to be you had to walk miles for the water to reach your shoulders. And now I’m just twenty or so yards out and it’s plenty deep enough. And yet it’s always the same, too, I think, laying my body on the surface as waves jostle and knead and tease me like a cat with a toy mouse.
Yes, God, this is why I came, for this, for this. And a voice in my head says, this would make a nice poem. Not my voice, of course. It is Wendy whispering, not wondering why I turn up – bad penny that I am. She never scolded me when she was here, just gave me that look sometimes that said, “simmer down.”
And now she exhorts me to clutch the seaweed, the long water grass, brushing my fingers, to breathe in the pungent, ancient scent, to stop simmering now, and live life at a full boil.

Merlyn the Iron Dog

Merlyn got sick. Listening to a dog cry is excrutiating. So we took him to the animal emergency hospital late Sunday night. We left at 2 a.m. sans sick dog. Poor pup. Something is wrong with his lower spine. Monday night my husband came downstairs and said they called and said he had degenerative bone disease. I don't think I've ever cried so hard.
Merlyn is a poor excuse for a dog. He hates to ride in cars. He has allergies that cause him to stink. His anti-allergy medicines are expensive. He is quite smart and will be obedient just long enough for you to actually trust him, then zoom he runs off, laughing at you for being such a fool.
And yet I find it impossible not to love him. I love him more than any of the other dogs we ever had. The thing I love most is that if you yell at him, he won't slink away but will come stick his nose in your hand, as if to say "You know you love me so stop being angry."
We were despondent Monday night. I drove H to Backyard Burger so he could get a burger. I just needed to get out of the house. Then we went to the video store in what we figured was a futile attempt to find a movie we could both enjoy. We needed distraction big time.
Of course, nothing looked appealing. Two heartbroken people stumbling around the video store, one of whom doesn't really like many movies to begin with. We were just about to walk out when I saw the box for Iron Man.
"Hey, I heard this was good," I said.
And it was. And for two hours, we kept the grief beast at bay. I love the way fantasy and reality mixed in this movie. It was hilarious in spots; Robert Downey Jr was a revelation, something very Deppesque about his performance. Of course, the big fight finale was OTT. Hollywood endings always are. But the very end of the movie? The last line? Brilliant.
So now, three days later we are on our way to pick up the prodigal dog. It's not degenerative bone disease. And it only cost $2000 to find this out. We'll see how he fares. Maybe he'll turn out to be as resilient as Iron Man. Whatever. You only get so many years with a dog, so if he smells bad and doesn't behave like a good dog should, you love him anyway. Cause when they're gone, you're in for a big hurt.

Fasting

The directions said nothing about not ingesting any liquid after midnight the day of the procedure. I guess if I were the sort of person who did this regularly I would know better than to drink apple juice, peppermint tea and then a full glass of water before going in for a colonoscopy. You know? But I am not the sort of person who gets these things done. I won't even go get a friggin mammogram. I hate these things. Hate hospitals. Don't hate doctors but don't like to see them on anything other than a purely social basis. So I get there and you would have thought I was an utter moron for having ingested liquid. I didn't get the procedure. I had to go back home and starve for two more days.

BUT I figure there is a measure of spiritual growth in this. It can't be a bad thing not to eat solid foods for four days and four nights. So I use the time to read Eat, Pray, Love and of course all I feel after that is envy for her cool experiences and her smashing success. I also use the time to do my Kriya, and the chant I learned at the Tennessee Ashram in March. I do a little but not much work. My side doesn't seem to hurt much anymore.

I also come to a realization. I must walk. I must walk a lot. How this idea comes to me is that I'm finally working on the fantasy novel I've been wanting to write my whole life. It's not like it's pouring out of me or anything. I'm sort of just slugging away at it. And I have the girl going on a walk, a day's walk to the sea. It occurred to me that I should walk to the beach. Now, it's about a three and a half hour drive from here in Charlotte to the beach. I don't know how much time that equates to in foot steps. But I figure if I take my credit cards and stay at motels and am not in a hurry, it should be do able. Hell, I've got a great pair of hiking boots.

But first I have to eat some food again which can't happen till tomorrow. In fact, I'm not going to walk to the beach right away. I'm going to just start walking around town. Maybe walk to my mother's place first. See how long a walk a fifteen minute drive translates into. Then walk every day for at least an hour or so. Build up my walking stamina. Learn what I need to carry with me.

The thing is that is very clear to me. I mean, I am dealing with a big old shit bag of self-loathing right now. I have accepted things someone with the tiniest shred of self-respect would not accept. No details now. Too personal. Too painful. But I think the cure for me will be to walk. Not go hiking in the mountains. It's too easy to put that off. I'm going to walk in the city. And walk. And walk.

And when it gets cool enough, maybe I'll walk to the beach.

A Certain Slant of Light

Emily talks about a certain slant of light.
Emily -- that was almost your name, changed somewhere, sometime a year or so before you divided cells, then multiplied them and built upon them, the little bricks, the little morsels of toes, fingers, soft little belly, landing on the planet with a smile. Happy to be here, you seemed to say, and right at home, too.
Odd little thing but then I remember you in Cinderella blue and Casey, at five, remarking in wonder at how very pretty you were. Were you three or four? Walking the dark haunted suburban street, you ran to the big kids resting on the corner and called out, "Trick or Treat," your plastic pumpkin outstretched. "We're trick or treating too," they said with a laugh. You took that piece of wisdom for your treat.
Now you're seventeen, the favorite babysitter of crazy little kids. And might I add you paid some dues, my young one. You did the things you did not want to: those awful classes, winding your hair in zombie dreds, holding the shattered chin high. You pushed your head through plate glass windows and smiled. Right at home, and happy to be here, you said.
You must be tough, I always said and pulled out that old story like the Queen of Swords I kept in my backpocket: my grandmother comforting the sheriff, who came to evict her and her children from their home on the hill. "This is how strong the women in our family are," I told you.
Why am I writing all this? Because I must call up those moments -- gone!
Like so much dust.
But here's a moment: the two of us walking up the hill, the dog on his purple leash. Twilight. Magic hour the moviemakers call it. And you always say how this time of day cuts into your soul and leaves it gaping open and raw. And I tell you how this time of day made me mad when I was young. Not angry but crazy like my life was a straightjacket and I had to get out -- go out -- sieze the night and drink it like blackberry wine.
There is a certain slant of light, Emily says, that falls heavy. Heaven hurt, she calls it. Heaven hurt.

Free Write -- The Pier

This place is black and dark blue and dark steel gray. It is endlessly moving. It is alluring. I stand on the edge of the pier at night. A night in June. The soft skin of my daughter's arm bumping against me. I glance at her wise expression, wondering what is she thinking, dreaming of, wishing for. I am busy framing my own wishes, desires. And intermittantly wondering what would it be like to plunge like a stone into that black mass below. It seems that could do it, that you could jump into that water unscathed and the surface and swim to the shore. Someone must have tried it. If I had come here drunk, I'm sure I would have.

But I am not drunk. I am also not suicidal. This is not a suicidal thought. But the urge is there, to let go, to fall through the warm air, forgetting, forgotten. A challenge, I guess. It seems like a test of courage, of strength, of fortitue. Is that what I crave even now? The courage to let go, to trust, to fall, to plunge and then steadily swim to the shore.

All year I dream about the ocean. Two nights ago I was there and for a brief interlude content. I am dark as that ocean, I have no idea what is there in my silent depths.

Kaleidoscope 2006

(I wrote this about six months ago at the end of Kaleidoscope Summer Arts Camp for brilliant teenagers)

No drama, no drama -- that was my mantra. And for once! my life was relatively calm. No one dying or being diagnosed with cancer. All those gloomy poems and stories I worked out in years past. But of course there were dramas; my heart was a big dart board and it was pierced once, twice, three times at least. Mellow, I thought. But it wasn't always mellow. In fact, a few times far from it. And yet for the most part, I didn't stress as much as usual. We wrote less than last year, but wrote just as well. Stories and poems emerged in their own good time. I delivered the goods, the ones I have at any rate. Were they received? Did the lessons find their mark? I may only find out years from now.

What I discovered is my own discomfort with change. I love the new but hate to lose the old. And then there we were last night - Conner, Elizabeth, Kemper, Chad, and Alysha. The actors and writers not even enrolled this year, but sitting together in the quiet of the Johnson Lobby. We sat around the campfire of long-burning love and I read from Picara and they laughed and commented as if we had all jumped into Eli's world as in Mary Poppins when they go into the paintings.

And all was right. All was complete within my world. I felt that I could let go of them and even let go of the book soon. Soon enuff. After all, I still have Nat, Dee and Kel. And now this new crop, these young faces and their words like torches in the night. I have watched them evolve and it has surprised me, but not really. Just gotten me caught up in a new adventure. What will we learn over the next year? What will bring to the table on July 3, 2007?

End of a trimester

School's out for . . . Thanksgiving. So this fall I was back behind the plow for the first time in a while. I think it went well. I really enjoyed teaching the lit classes. The best part was how they reacted to the novels. Well, I probably should have steered a few of them away from Brave New World. It's an important book, but not particularly entertaining to many nineteen year olds. However, several of them really enjoyed it. The students who read The Bell Jar responded to it with enthusiasm. I was surprised at how well it held up. Plath's writing style implants the material into your brain with surgical precision. I loved that book the first time I read it, and I was impressed this time as well. I think what I like about the book is that even though she is writing about a fairly horrific time in her life, it is not a grim book. The contemporary fiction I've been reading lately has an unrelenting sort of heaviness, a gloomy misanthropic view. It turns me off--after it depresses the hell out of me. (A notable exception: The Harrowing, a great, scary but well written book that I devoured.)
As for the other two books. I was so glad to get to read Slaughterhouse 5 again. I laughed out loud at the same time that I felt rage for the war machine that destroyed Dresden. And of course, Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. Beautiful. This time I really lingered over the part where they really are "watching God"--something in that passage captures such hope and pathos. And the hilarious riffs of the card players! Once the students got past the dialect I think they appreciated the poetry of the book, and of course the love story.

Election Night & Head-On Collisions

So my daughter had a head-on collision on Saturday night right down the road here. As soon as I heard her voice on the phone I knew she'd been in an accident. But I knew she wasn't hurt too badly -- at least she could call me and let me know where she was. The scary part after that was wondering if other people had gotten hurt. But I managed not to worry about anything. I went into that numb get thru the ordeal and freak out later mode. When I got to the accident site, it was bad. Two smashed cars, glass and car parts scattered on the ground. My kid shaking in the cold night air. At least she had on my jacket that Mike G. had given me when she was a baby. Guardian Angel Mikey. And those good, good people who took care of her. Who were they? Fortunately, the guy who hit her was not seriously injured.

The next day I began to think that we've really gotten into a bad situation in this country. We on the left are pretty sure the right wing is evil, and they think we're stupid traitors. Both views are out of line with reality. But we've fallen into a vortex of hate and anger and blame. It's self-defeating. We have to start looking at our similarities. We all want the same things really -- a safe environment for our children, good schools, streets without potholes, an effective police force. We're not asking for a lot. But we're like dogs. You can throw any old bone out there and we'll all fight over it. Illegal immigration! Instead of seeing a problem and talking reasonably about it, coming up with solutions and making a few compromises, we grandstand and bicker and do nothing but make it worse.

So how do those two things relate? I wasn't worried about the politics of those people who stopped to help my daughter. And they didn't ask about mine. Maybe it's time to cut the bullshit. Stop believing in separation. It's a myth. We need to take care of each other. We need to work with each other to solve problems. When you need to paint a house, do you stand around slinging paint on each other or do you put the paint on the house?

Finance Corporations from Hell

So I bought a Toyota Prius. I'd been wanting one for a long time. Well, I'd been wanting a Hybrid for a long time. Thought I might get a Fusion, but then they decided not to come out with a Hybrid and I realized that any car I would get would cost as much as a Prius, so I went on the internet, selected the color and I wanted and got my car a week after I ordered it. By the way, I almost went with the package that had the MP3 hook up--an extra 300 bucks and then found out that you can get these little adapters for your Ipod or whatever for about forty bucks.

Anyway, came time to make a payment and I thought I'd just go on line and do it. They wanted to charge me a $9.95 "convenience" fee! Wow. I guess they really don't want you to pay on-line, do they? Not unless it's a monthly thing where they get to just go in and take your money out every month. But what if one month you're running a little short and you need to pay a couple days late. (I mean, there is a grace period.) So I tried to pay by phone. Same thing! I thought, are they crazy? It's got to be a lot better for them for you to pay by Internet or phone than by mailing in a check. Anyway, I wrote out a check and mailed it with a 39 cent stamp.

So that was crazy but my experience with Ford Credit the previous month was truly lunatic. I had somehow missed a payment at the beginning of summer. So they called me, and I was pretty surprised. I was just about to make the July payment, so I told them I was planning on paying the car off anyway that month. The person on the phone asks me when I was planning on doing that and I say, around the 20th. Then the person says, okay, pay one month now and then we'll expect another check from you on the 20th. So I go online and make a payment (no "convenience" fee, by the way). Then the calls start. The "confirmation" calls. I was out of town and when I got back, there were about seven messages from a computer telling me to call Ford Credit immediately. I was like, what is the problem? So I call them and a nice woman says, "oh it was just a confirmation call that you're going to pay on the 20th." And I answer, yes, that was the arrangement, right? And I think it's all over. But no! I get more "confirmation" (read harrassment) calls. I mean, it was their idea for me to pay on the 20th since I was going to pay it off. For crying out loud, I would have just made a monthly if I'd known they were going to freak like that. So the 20th comes and I pay a major chunk of what's left. (I decided to pay off some other bills as well). And on the 21st I get this message from a woman named Judy at Ford Credit--call immediately! Very important! So I call. Turns out it was another "confirmation" call. I had paid them several times over what was due and they were calling again because it hadn't posted yet. Well, you'd think they would know that it takes a day or two to post since it's their system. I'll make the last payment on the Ford this month, and guess what, I'll never buy another car with Ford Credit.

Agreement Number 2

The most important to me of the four agreements is never to take anything personally. When am I going to learn it?

Writing a Novel 1

It takes incredible faith. Or incredulous faith. To write, to finish a novel. I am at slightly more than 64,000 words in the Kaleidoscope Novel. It needs to be 85,000 or 90,000. I write scenes not knowing if they fit, if they belong in the book or not. In fact, when I start to write a new scene it seems ridiculous. Why am I writing this scene? What is the point? But it doesn't matter. It can't matter. As soon as it matters, you're tied to a sword and blindfolded, standing on a barren field with other swords stuck in the ground surrounding you. The reason I say it take "incredulous faith" is because you don't believe in what you're doing and yet you do it anyway. I mean, you don't believe in it intellectually. Intellectually, you know it's not right. It's not good enough. It can never be good enough. But to write a novel you have to amputate that tongue.

Kaleidoscope 2006

Incredibly awesome--once again. Playwriting really took off this year. Stefond's monologue on bootyology will be remembered by all. Two new young writers arrived this year and were impressive: Anna Fulghum and Leigh Galpine. Natalie, of course, was my right hand. Seems to have grown more comfortable in her skin. Kelsey's writing was marvelous as ever. And Ridge, oh Ridge, how much he has grown as a writer.

Sun Writers Conference 2006

The Sun Writers Conference (Into the Fire: The Alchemy of Personal Writing) was phenomenal this year. It took place at Rowe Conference Center in Western Mass. A place I had never been. There were apple trees blossoming, gold finches darting about and best of all--bears! Sunday afternoon Sy, Angela, Genie and I were sitting in the living room of The Orchard House when I saw something black between the rails of the deck. At first I thought it was a dog, but it was moving fast and I stood up to see what it really was and suddenly I burst out: "Jesus! Is that a bear?" And we all jumped up and crowded at the window--and saw three bears. So then we went a little nuts and followed the bears from window to window till we wound up going out the side door and then we were all laughing in excitement. The bears heard us and looked at us but then ignored us as they started sniffing around this tent in the field. Then, finding nothing of interest, they ambled away.

Of course, the conference entailed a lot more than seeing bears. I wrote something at the end which I'll post if I can find. Suffice to say, the workshops were fabulous. I was truly humbled by the quality of writing I heard. And my fellow presenters were great. Oh, more on all this later. I haven't rested up yet, and we're completing the "bathroom project" from hell here. And Friday is C's birthday. Too much going on.

Breathe, Baby, Breathe--My Interview with Bob & Sheri

Wow. I just got off the Bob & Sheri show. That was kind of nerve wracking. I mean, it's not like I've never been on the radio before. I had my own show on public radio in Tallahassee after all. But you know, it's different when you're talking about YOUR life and your work. And I knew they were going to ask questions about my "bad girl" past. But when Sheri asked how I got from being a bad girl to being a writer with a boring life, I just thought, man where do I begin?? And so after first I was stammering and sounding like a major idiot. A friend had told me that if you stand while you're talking, your voice will have more energy. Unfortunately, I already had enough energy to power up all of the McMansions in Ballantyne. So I wisely sat down after that first question and forgot about all the things I intended to say and just answered the questions. So I think it got lots better, and I even remembered that story about my teenage boyfriend Mike being a litterbug and how at 17 I was so impressed with his rebelliousness. Hadn't thought of that in years. So, I am just glad I was on the show and didn't freeze up or say something incredibly stupid or embarrassing. Sheri is so quick-witted that it's a little intimidating, but both of them were really, really nice. And I thought they asked great questions.
I'm going to be on Charlotte Talks on May 26. That will be a very different experience, I'm sure.

The Classics! Oh, the classics

So why, I wonder, is my tenth-grade daughter reading "Girl with a Pearl Earring" and "Things Fall Apart" for her English class? I remember that I loved Chinua Achebe's novel about Africa--IN GRADUATE SCHOOL. What I see happening and have seen for a long time is high school English teachers and middle school teachers, too, ruining literature for young readers. In tenth grade, you ought to be reading Grapes of Wrath. You ought to read The Old Man and The Sea. You ought to read Jane Eyre. I have taught so many college students who never read Tom Sawyer, for pete's sake. And none of them have read Jane Eyre. My friend Chauncey says that The Great Gatsby is too sophisticated for high school students. Maybe. Unless, I suppose, they have a really good teacher.

It seems to me that some English teachers or whoever it is who designs the curriculum decided that the more advanced reading material they forced young readers to read, then the more advanced students they will produce. But how can you be ready to read Huck Finn if you haven't read Tom Sawyer? Save something for college. Spend time with the classics. Instill a love for literature, for story into them, before the theorists in college get their hands on them.

That's my rant for today.

Weeks later: I have to amend this post because now they are reading MAUS by Art Spiegelman (Not sure of spelling). Anyway, I think that's a terrific book for tenth graders to read--or anyone for that matter. So there are good contemporary books out there for that age group. I just wish they had the foundation in the classics.

Book Fest in Virginia

Just got back from the Virginia Festival of the Book. Got there Friday evening, brain addled because I hadn't slept the night before and there was this "soiree" for the mystery writers at a very cool place called the Gravity Lounge. It was like a library, bar, tea house kind of place. Had some great books. One I wanted but didn't get was a book about the seventies from Rolling Stone Mag. I probably really need it too for the Kaleidoscope book. I've decided that's the next book I'm going to write. The crime novel series will just have to wait. Anyway, I didn't know anyone at this soiree and didn't have the inner resources to go around being all friendly, so I slunk down in a chair with a book, ate a few cookies and then disappeared, back onto the highway to Richmond where I spend the night at Nikki Turner's gorgeous new house. That was the respite I needed.
Saturday started off great because I ran into Richard Peabody. He's a gem. Funny, smart and political. Well, I guess we're all political these days as we watch our world being blasted into oblivion by the neocons and their drones. Anyway, the luncheon was fine. I was seated next to a small arms analyst for the military. Yes, that idea is scary but also quite useful if you're a writer and you want to write about things that are really going on in the world. Went to a good panel on getting in the publishing business. Then, oh then, I signed up for a video interview with "Author Views" so there's an interview of me somewhere on the internet. I thought it was good practice for the whole media thing.
My own panel went fairly well. The other panelists were best selling authors and I wasn't sure I was supposed to be there with them, but my so-called academic background, I guess, provided something to talk about. The only thing is that I've been away from academia for quite a while and they don't seem to be clamoring for me to come back. Still I guess if you've once learned to be pedantic, that never leaves you. But some interesting points were raised--especially the whole divided between genres. Karin Slaughter was very funny and pointed about the issue. Anyway, it's something I'll be thinking about for a while.
The trip culminated in my nightmare drive home. Thick wads of fog dotted the highway. It was night, I was tired. I actually thought of that scene in Psycho where Janet Leigh is driving at night and her eyes keep flicking to the rear view mirror and the lights behind her hurt her eyes. And that music was running through my head. I finally realized I would never get home if I had to drive twenty miles an hour through Virginia, so I pulled off in Lexington because there were signs for motels, but OF COURSE it was false advertising. So there I was driving around Lexington in fog thick as cotton--SNOW on the side of the roads--on roads that were crazy with construction. I think when I drove onto the VMI campus I almost cried. Stopped at Hampton Suites which is not what I wanted--and they had only exorbitantly priced smoking rooms.
So I crawled back to the highway, and fought through the fog to the next exit and pulled up to . . . THE BATES MOTEL!!! I swear to God, from the crummy wallpaper to the horrible smell to the window unit heater/air conditioner it was the absolute prototype for Norman Bates' hotel--except that it was much smaller, the room I mean. The room was tiny, the bathroom tiny, the bedspread smelled like b.o. but I couldn't bring myself to leave. The scariest part was sitting on the toilet and seeing the drain in the shower. Fortunately, as I said, I was already on the toilet.
But I did manage to sleep some and in the morning when I woke up and saw an orange blaze over the mountains and the snow on the ground and the wooden fence all rustic looking and picturesque, I didn't mind it. In fact, I felt grateful. We forget how much we have in our lives. I got back on the road. The fog was gone, and I was able to drive through the only piece of winter I had all year. It was transcendent.