I write novels.

I deal with some harsher topics in them, and I try real hard to add humor to balance things out.

My novels are about life, which is often messy and difficult, miraculous and magical, as everyone knows.

Writing novels is my main job.

However, I have also written short love stories with sexy men, happy endings, and nothing too harsh, in anthologies.

For example, this one…

And this one…

 

And this one…

and this short story, coming out in June…

 

I’m working on a fifth short story right now.

These stories are falling in love stories with, I hope, interesting, quirky, flawed, and captivating people who are trying to find that soul mate they know is spiraling around and about out there.

I love writing them. I love dancing with those characters.

But what I find endlessly touching is the real life love stories.

For example, yesterday I was in Starbucks, trying to write, and not minding my own business.

An older couple hobbled in. And, I mean, they hobbled. They were eighty five, at least, if they were a day. White hair, faces that had known a lot of smiling and a lot of laughing, hands that had hugged thousands of times. I assumed they were married because of their wedding rings and their familiarity.

He helped her, she helped him, they shuffled on in, leaning on each other.

The gentleman settled his wife, who was slender and dressed so prettily, at a table, pushed in her chair, then wobbled over to order coffee and doughnuts at the counter.

When the order was up, the gentleman brought it over, hands shaking only a bit, to his smiling wife and carefully, no fast movements, sat down, his body seeming to melt into that chair. He was glad to be sitting.

About a minute later, the gentleman rose slowly from his seat, weighed a hand heavily on the table, then plodded on out of Starbucks,  his balance precarious. He walked back in in about three minutes carrying a pillow, one foot carefully placed in front of the other.

He smiled at his wife through his glasses, put the pillow beneath her on the chair and helped her to resettle herself, tucking the chair in for her once again.

She smiled up at him through her own glasses and said, “Thank you, that’s so much better, dear.”

The gentleman smiled back then gingerly, slowly, hand again heavy on the table, sat himself back down, and they chatted. No, I did not eavesdrop on their conversation. That would have been too much, even for me.

But, you see, that scene, right there, that’s the real  love story. That’s the true romance.

That’s what we all  dream about, I think:  A relationship where the husband, who is very creaky and poorly balanced, who struggles to stay upright, would love his wife enough to happily teeter back out to their car and grab a pillow so his wife’s bottom would be more comfortable.

And the wife, in turn, smiles up at him, always appreciating her husband’s value and worth, and says, gratefully, “Thank you, that’s so much better, dear.”

The couple enjoyed their coffee and doughnuts, at Starbucks, together, smiling, while I pretended not to watch or tear up.

They were old together, growing older together, and still laughing, still smiling, still loving.

Now there’s a true love story. A true gift. It’s love into eternity. It’s love straight into heaven.

And no matter what I write, no matter how hard I try, I can never, ever top that.

 

 

 

I have a writer’s bag.

It matches my laptop case.

 

 

Inside I always have a journal. The journal is for all of my scribbling.  I must have a journal to write my books. Some books take one journal. Some books take four journals. Inside the journals I sketch out characters and plot lines, conflicts and personality quirks, changes and deletions, additions of new characters and the reasons for getting rid of old ones.

I get to know people initially in my story in those journals, although they change as I write the book because characters do that as they take over their own lives. I write down any personal stuff I’m dealing with, prayers and hopes, baggage that needs to be dealt with, and plans for the future. I write down blog ideas, too.

 

 

 

I always have the book(s) I’m currently reading. Without it, I’d feel lonely in a literary sort of way. I’m writing about a farm right now and I need more info, so I’ve started this book. The writer’s voice is excellent. Recent favorites have been Unbroken, The Help, The Vagina Monologues, and Love, Loss, and What I Wore.  Seabiscuit is next.

 

 

I always have an inspirational writing book.   The book could be Bird by Bird by Annie Lamott, On Writing by Stephen King, Writing Out The Storm by Jessica Morrell, or one of Julia Cameron’s or Natalie Goldberg’s. I feel better when they’re with me.

 

 

I am considering getting a kindle or an IPAD, but I like the feel of  books. I like that I’ve highlighted different parts of my most special and treasured books. They’re part of a reading and writing journey for me. They are mine in a way that having books on an electronic thing-a-ma-doodle could not replicate.

For writers, artists, knitters, thinkers, inventors, sketch artists, dreamers, science – followers, builders, idea – pushers, miracle – believers and jugglers of all sorts, get yourself a bag, or a basket, even a decorated box.   Go for polka dots or army fatigues or a white stork or lace and satin.

Think of it as a treasure chest for your creativity and your favorite stuff, a place for hopes and chance, wisdom and fun, luck and laughter, and those perfect magical moments when you…can…just…be…you.

Just you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today on Facebook someone asked me how I get all my “off the wall”  ideas.

My answer? I watch and I listen, and I watch and I listen.

I take a spark of an idea, whirl it around, juggle it, give it one more spin, and it’s on the pages…

For example…

1.  In my novel, Henry’s Sister’s,  a young teenage daughter named Kayla is exploring different religions, much to her staunch Catholic mother’s dismay. Kayla is currently wearing a full length, head to toe, black burka and her mother, Cecilia, has just about lost her head over it.

The spark for the teenage rebel came from a close friend of mine whose son was trying out different religions. Mormon, Lutheran, evangelical Christian. He had even made a shrine to Jesus and genuflected in front of it.

My friend is Jewish.

2.  In Julia’s Chocolates the women have Breast Power Psychic Night and Getting To Know Your Vagina Psychic Night, etc. I needed the women to have a reason to get together, but not the usual chat – fest. I had a bra on that day. (As usual). It wasn’t too comfortable. I took it off. Hence, taking off a bra, hence Breast Power Psychic Night.

3.  In The Last Time I Was Me, Jeanne Stewart drops peanut oil into her cheating boyfriend’s condoms knowing he will use them with another woman. The cheating boyfriend is allergic to peanut oil. How did I come up with that? I was super mad at my husband one night.

He is allergic to nuts.

4.  In Such A Pretty Face Stevie Barrett needs a second job.  She dresses up as a giant chicken for a chicken restaurant and stands on a street corner waving at passing cars.

I saw a chicken doing the same thing in my neighborhood one afternoon. I thought that if things got bad, I could cluck around like that.  I knew I’d make a good chicken.  That night, it was in my book.

5.  In The First Day Of The Rest Of My Life, a teenager named Shoney insists on using spray paint in the thick of the night to paint pictures of naked women on the backs of buildings and on any free wall in town he can find.

I was inspired by graffiti I saw in Portland and a renaissance painting in a museum that day of those naked, voluptuous women next to flying baby cupids.

6.  In A Different Kind Of Normal, out in August, I have triplets who wear Halloween costumes. For example, they dress as bananas, lady bugs, dragons, and pirates. They refuse to wear normal clothes. This was inspired by my own children who dressed in some very creative outfits when they were young.

My son wore layers of clothes. He would often hang them up in the living room by hangars, as if the living room was his closet. I don’t know why he did this.

My oldest daughter wore only two dresses, switching off each day. One was from a garage sale, the other a hand me down. This went on for two years.  No other clothes. My youngest daughter wore one ponytail on the side of her head, the other a braid.  She also liked to wear a yellow tutu.

7.  In Suzanna’s Stockings in the Comfort and Joy anthology, a woman rams her car into her own store, glass shattering, wood breaking, because she’s ticked off at her husband. I had a friend going through a divorce from a nasty son of a gun. I pictured her ramming her car through her husband’s shop. (He would have deserved it).

8.  In Whale Island in the Almost Home anthology, there’s a character named Gina who is a pet communicator who is also obsessed with the care and safety of animals.

My sister loves animals and has rescued many horses, dogs, cats, and pigs. I soon had Gina sneaking into a barn of an abusive horse owner and stealing a skinny, ravaged horse and putting it into my main character, Chalese’s, dining room to hide it.

I would not put this past my sister. (Sister is pictured below.)

9. In A Very Merry Christmas in the Holiday Magic anthology, there is a minor character named Katie who is a devout Christian with many children but falls asleep in church every Sunday because of her husband’s escapades in bed the night before.

She and her husband play games called “the twister,” and “the hurricane,” and she sometimes has to wear a trench coat. One time her husband stood naked on top of the stairs and blew a duck whistle at her, as a “mating call.” She got dressed in her waders and suspenders, no shirt, grabbed a gun and started chasing her husband around the house as foreplay, while he duck whistled at her.

This was taken, and spun about a bit, from a story my cousin told me about a friend of hers and her duck whistling husband at the top of the stairs.

That’s how I got the sparks for a few of my off the wall ideas.

Remember writers: Watch and listen, watch and listen.

 

 

Another novel is starting here tonight.

Or, at least, is should start tonight. I am at the dining room table drumming my fingers.  It’s 10:37 p.m.

The sky is black and the night is young, at least for me, a person who does not like to see the sun early in the morning.

The cat has not gotten into another cat fight with her boyfriend. The kid is upstairs asleep or, at least pretending to be asleep. He may have his cell phone under the covers.

It is finally quiet and I have the plot for this next story in my head swirling around and about like a literary river. It’s almost all there.

Details are missing, not all characters have arrived or are fully developed into real people. Some characters are still a bit faceless, I don’t have their quirks and faults in line yet. I’m not quite seeing enough humor, except for the humor a horse in this story offers. I need a clearer past for my main gal character, clearer conflict, clearer depth, motifs and metaphors.

But the basic story is good to go. I have the setting. I have some of the past. I have part of the conflict. I know where it will end. I know who I have to invite into the book as minor characters.

I can scribble out that first draft. The first draft is just that, a draft. It’s practice. It’s the shell. It’s the wood construction in your home.  The drywall, the sinks, the toilet, the cabinets, all will come later in the revisions.

To help me along in this blackest of nights, I remind myself of this bit of wisdom I gained from a writing teacher named Jessica Morrell, “I can edit crap, I can’t edit nothing.”

That line has helped me immensely during my years as a writer.  If you write something down, you can fix it if it’s bad. You can delete it later. But you’re starting, you’re moving forward, the project has begun.

If you have a blank page, you can’t fix it. Blank is white. Blank is nothing. You must add words to the blankness.

But, you see, I cannot start writing a book, even with that mantra, even way late at night, unless I have the perfect first sentence for my stories. I have to have that.

Once the first sentence of the first chapter is written, I’m good to go. The second sentence is pretty important, too, but it usually flows straight out of that first, all important sentence.

So, even though the guts of my next story are right there and the wood frame is ready to be nailed up by handsome carpenters in tank tops,  I just can’t start yet.

I am scribbling in my journal. I am staring into space. I had a good laugh with Innocent Husband. I even conversed with KC The Cat. She meowed at me and was no help. I drove to Portland and people watched while guzzling coffee. I saw Madame Butterfly. I watched the Big Bang Theory. I poured sweat at my gym.

So I wait, and I blog, and I hope that first sentence jumps into my head because I have 10,000 words I need to write this week and I can’t write a single word until sentence number one is good and done and well done at that.

Maybe ice cream will help.

I am so glad my Victoria’s Secret bathing suit catalogue arrived last week.

Every year I just cannot wait to pick out my bikinis for the summer!!

How, I ask myself, will I possibly choose between a gold, shiny string bikini and a strapless white bikini top with a brooch in the center that surely would be see – through if a drop of water hit it?

How will I choose between colorful bikini bottoms that are not meant to cover any bottom at all? How will I choose between flowered tops that are so little they should be called nipple covers, not bikini tops?

Oh, my choices, my choices!  Heaven help me!

I study a pink bikini top, no straps so, obviously, one cannot go in the water and swim with the fish. It is called an “iridescent bikini.”  It says if I wear this I will, “shine on in the sunshine.”

This is not true. If it wore this there would be no shine in the sunshine and it would inevitably fall off, due to its teeny size, alarming everyone, most particularly, myself.

I look at another bikini. The bottoms are called, “Cheeky HIPKINI bottom.”  Victoria’s Secrets thought of this name, I can only assume, because only half of the model’s rear end, at best, is covered. If they even had my size in this bikini, most of my ass would be falling out like unrestricted play dough. Again, alarming for everyone.

There are bikini tops called, “Push – up bandeau.” Ha. I like anything that will give the girls a push up. The bikini top is pretty, but here is the problem: If I am wearing a bikini my stomach shows. I have given birth to three children, two of them twins. I no longer let anyone get a good look at my stomach, except for Innocent Husband, poor  thing.

But Victoria’s Secrets says that I should, “Go wild for a hot print in colors that pop.”  What do they mean, exactly, about “going wild?” I look for instructions on this, but see none.

Does it mean that I order two mochas at Starbucks instead of one and guzzle ’em down?

Does it mean that I watch two Keanu Reeves movies back to back, instead of one, while eating two bags of buttered popcorn?

Does it mean that in my Zumba class I shake it extra hard, without throwing out my back?

What exactly does “going wild,” mean for a forty four year old married mother of three teenagers? I am confused. Baffled. I will get in my pink robe and green slippers and ponder this later tonight with  my ice cream.

I am also offered a “bombshell of a bra,” in a bikini. The image I have of a bombshell is a dumb, white – blonde haired woman who deliberately tries to make men feel macho with vapid, insipid, giggly chit chat that means nothing.

Now, I used to have blond hair, still do because I highlight it, so please understand I am not criticizing blondes. But I have never admired women who try to come off as dumb, ditzy, dizzy, silly people, especially if they are trying to impress men. Why on Earth would one do that? My kind of man would not want a dumb, ditzy, dizzy, silly gal anyhow.

Therefore, I cannot possibly consider buying a “bombshell”  bra, just because of that loosey goosey connection.

There are bikinis with jewelry, bikinis in animal print, bikinis with polka dots and bikinis that were clearly made for girl mice. There are bikinis for “cleavage craving” women, which might be me, I will have to think about this, and bikinis with padding for extra lift.

I look for a bikini that will take fifteen pounds off my stomach, called “fat suckers,” but alas, they are not selling those this month.

There are one piece bathing suits which are very cute, but I prefer wearing my bathing suits with a little skirt attached. That way the tops of my thighs are – how shall I say it – covered from all those prying eyes and paparazzi.

Do you remember seeing photos of those old fashioned bathing suits with the stripes that covered most of the body, neck to knee? That’s what I want to wear. And, if it comes in iridescent pink, animal print, or polka dots, all the better.

Maybe I can then, “shine on” or “go wild.”

 

 

 

 

I love walking.

I really do.

I try to walk at least once a week, hopefully more.

I don’t think there’s a better thing for me to do for my messy and convoluted mind than walk. It cleans things out up there, calms things down, adds color and vibrancy to my life.

What’s not to like about a good walk? I’m outside. I’m watching the weather, squirrels, slobbering dogs on leashes, leaves rustling, sun rays and sunsets. (Never sunrises. They’re scheduled to arrive too early.)

Sometimes I’m with my friend, Joan, who makes me laugh until I make strange noises.  We often walk at night when it’s good and dark, around and around a lake.  She is clever and insightful. She’s like Erma Bombeck only her name is Joan.

Most of the time,though, I walk by myself. (Joan, alas, cannot always walk every time I want to walk because she has a life and it is a busy one)  I walk in my neighborhood, often to the top of a hill so I can watch the sunset.

I walk in a park near my house because I like the pathways, the willow trees, the stream, and the wetlands.  I walk through Portland sometimes, too, because, for me, it’s like walking through a bombardment of story ideas.

I like the quiet of my walks. I like to think freely. I like to let my mind travel and leap about.

I think about the people in my life, problems I’m dealing with, worries… but I try not to dwell on anything negative for very long. It truly is my goal to  keep my walks peaceful. I’m not always good about this, especially if there is something particularly difficult going on, but it’s my intent to enjoy the walk and deal with all the other crap later.

I think about my books, the characters, the problems I’m having with the plot, the subplots, etc., but a lot of the time I daydream.

I am well past forty, and yes, I still daydream. I remember daydreaming constantly as a kid. I had these huge, active stories going on full blast in my head like 3-D pictures. I had daydreams that would last for weeks or months, that would branch off into this story or that one, down that straight path and around that squiggly one.

Sometimes the daydreams were fun and magical, and sometimes they were real plans for my life.  Not much has changed since I was a kid in that regard.

My daydreaming often leads to ideas for my books.

For example, a walk through a lavender field gave me part of the setting for A Different Kind of Normal. A walk in Welches, Oregon, along a river, gave me the idea for Jeanne Stewart’s naked run. (No, I did not run naked. That would be alarming for all involved.) A walk in Helena, Montana, gave me the setting for my story, A Very Merry Christmas in Holiday Magic. Walking on Orcas Island gave me the setting for Whale Island in Almost Home.

Go walk.

Go daydream.

Just don’t take Joan. I need to hear one of her jokes tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At almost every book group I attend, and every speech I give, I am asked about the research I do for my books.

Here is a list of the more difficult topics I have had to research/talk to experts/study over the course of seven years of writing for my publishing house.

1) Depression, including manic depression

2) Schizophrenia

3) Abuse of all types, physical, mental, emotional, sexual

4) The mind of a stalker

5) Delayed grief

6) Migrant workers’ lives and the conditions they live in in America

7) Germaphobia

8. Agoraphobia

9) Promiscuity

10) Other mental illnesses

11) Down syndrome

12) Post traumatic stress from being in a war

13) Bariatric surgery

14) Anorexia

15) Abused wives and mind control

16)  Child porn

17) Germany’s invasion of France

18) Escaping from the Nazis

19) Songs on the violin

20) Brain operations, shunts in the brain.

21) Drug Addiction

How much research did I have to do for these topics? Lots. Endless. Piles of it.

My research goes on and on and on until I am dizzy with it and I know what I need to know, and about a hundred things I don’t need to know.

I want to get things right. I owe it to my readers and, more importantly, I owe it to people who have struggled with the above named issues to be accurate, knowledgeable, and respectful of their painful journeys.

So, when I need help, I call the best people I can find.

When I needed information on schizophrenia, I called the head of the Oregon State Hospital.

When I needed information from the police about what charges would be filed for this or that, I call ’em up. (No, I do not call 911, you silly readers) One time I specifically called the head of the sex crimes unit at Portland Police. We talked for quite awhile. He has a tough job.

When I needed information on general medicine, I called Oregon Health Sciences University or I called my awesome doctor, Dr. H, who makes me laugh even when I’m having a pap smear.

When I needed information on brain operations I called Dr. W’s office at Emanuel.

When I needed information on hospice, I called Hopewell House.

When I needed information on criminal activity from the FBI, I went and visited with two agents downtown.

Everyone calls me back.

Everyone except our current Oregon governor, Dr. John Kitzhaber.

I called him years ago when I was writing The Last Time I Was Me.  Jeanne Stewart is working on the re – election campaign for a current governor. Who better to talk to about how a gubernatorial campaign is run while still in office than the governor of our state who had to do this very same dreary and torturous thing?

His secretary was so kind and polite when I called. She said that Dr. Kitzhaber always likes to help people in Oregon, no this wasn’t a problem, he would call me back, what was my number, and could I forward the questions?

Sure! I could forward the questions. I was dee-lighted to do so.

Now I do not recall the exact words for my questions and the computer I used to write on exploded so I don’t have a copy but they were something, somewhat, like this:

1) If, Governor, you hired a woman to work on your campaign and you found out that woman had been arrested for putting peanut oil in her cheating, ex-boyfriend’s condom and he had a rashy reaction because he is allergic to nuts, would you fire her from your campaign?

2) If that same woman got in a bar fight, leaped on the back of a man, threw a few punches and ended up in a paddy wagon on the way to the police station, would you believe her to be no longer competent to do her job?

3) What if you met that woman when she was running naked along a river at night and she crashed right into you and called you a “creep,” and said, “Shit yourself, asshole,” after slugging you in the jaw, then showed up in your office for an interview. Would her naked run and poor language preclude you from hiring her?

4) Finally, what if she was a real smart mouth and said things like, “Slick dick,” and “Jared Nunley will get money from me as soon as the moon becomes purple and Canadians adopt Swahili as their national language,” and, “Welts, redness and rashes – cheating men should watch their asses.” Is she still a keeper?

He never called.

Poor me and woe is me.

I can’t say that I blame him. Answering questions about condoms would make any politician nervous.

And no politician wants to envision being tackled by a naked constituent along a river at night, either. It’s bad policy.

Plus, he’s busy with Important Stuff.

I will say that D.L., who runs Republican campaigns, including Senator Gordon Smith’s campaign, did call back. He did not even laugh at my questions, as if women running naked were something he saw often and poisoned condoms were run of the mill. We went to high school together and D.L. takes things seriously. He took my questions seriously and I liked his answers.

I also talked to a woman named M.B., who was an aide to US Rep Earl Blumenauer.  She took my questions seriously, too, and gave me all the inside scoop about running campaigns, personalities, strategies, etc.  I threw all their information into my book.

But Dr. Kitzhaber, Governor, I don’t know what to say.

You’ve wrestled with legislatures filled with Strange People. You’ve dealt with some politicians who would have just as soon challenged you to a duel on the steps of the state capitol wearing flamingo suits rather than agree with your policies.

But I voted for you! Three times!

I’ve got a witch and a few spells in my next book. Maybe you’d like to comment?

 

It is easy to get too cloistered as a writer.

You have to be alone a lot.

You have to make time to think.

You have to notice things, notice people, watch carefully, imagine, create, devise, edit, expand and follow the stories in your head until their natural, organic ending. This can all be very tricky, and often above my brain’s capabilities, but I do know that I have to do it alone, without chaos or carnage.

I also know I gotta get my tail outside, for health, and to clear my head of my literary puzzles and troublesome characters, so I force myself to exercise.

I have been obsessively charting my exercise since I was fifteen.  It has not helped me lose one single pound, ever, but I believe in the other health benefits and I know when I die God will look at my Exercise Regiman and give me a gold star. I think that’s written somewhere in the Bible.

I plan the week before what I’m going to do. In the right hand corner of my calendar I write a W – for walking, or an R for running, or an X 12:00, for my Wednesday step class which kills me every time, or a W/X when I walk to the club and exercise on a bench there by myself. I write a Z for Zumba.

Zumba, for those of you daredevils who have not tried it, seems to me like  a mix of salsa, Latin, hip hop, rap, and rock. There’s a lot of hip shaking, butt bouncing, arms swaying, and shoulders shaking, with the rhythm beating and bopping.

I am terrible at it. I am sure I look like a weasel stuck on a stick that some kid is shaking in the air.

It’s quite possible I may also look like I’m having a seizure or am auditioning to be the scary monster in a horror flick.

The first time I went I watched the teacher. I could have sworn she was made out of the same rubbery stuff Gumby was made out of. I could not (still can’t) move my hips like she can. Even when she was only supposed to do one swing, and boom – boom, she was fitting in a second or third boom – boom.

My bones actually creaked. They were stiff, rigid. They were not used to making rotating hip circles or even slightly improper hip thrusts in front of a whole group of people.  I stood there, like a rigid pencil, not knowing what to do.

I was raised a proper Catholic girl and this kind of in – and – out wiggling, and swirling about with the hips, would not have been tolerated unless I was in my bedroom with my long married husband and the door was shut, locked, and hopefully there was a rope to keep the handles together just in case. Lights would have to be off.

A Hail Mary would be suggested for later, hands on a rosary chain.

For Zumba I was supposed to do all that wriggling, thumping, twirling in a gym in front of other people?

I snuck a peek around during class, sure that all the other women would be awesome, perfect zumba dancers, every beat in place, each hip click – clocking to the right rhythm.

Now, I am not criticizing anyone’s zumba – ing, but I will say this: There were a lot of women in there who clearly had been raised as I had: Bedroom door locked. All lights off. Keep your hips straight.

They did not care how they looked. They were off and groovin’.

So, I muttered to myself, what the heck?

Shake it, baby.

I shook it.

Exercise to me, except for walking, isn’t really what I’d call “fun.”  But, I am telling you, Zumba is pretty darn fun. It makes me shake my tail feathers so I can get the energy to sit in my chair into the late, dark hours of the night, fix my literary puzzles and troublesome characters, and write through until morning.

Plus, it gives me an excuse to eat more cookies.

 

 

My best writing takes place between ten and two in the morning.

I write during the day, too, and I plot when I’m driving and listening to Kid Rock or Sara Evans, and I can get some cool ideas when I’m wandering around Portland, or staring at tulips, laughing with my friend Joan on a walk, and thinking about what I would dare to do if I was a wild kind of gal and not a proper mother.

But in the middle of the night, scribbling away, the only company I have is my cat, KC.

I think of her as KC The Cat With Emotional Issues.

She is needy sometimes, a little clingy.  Sometimes aloof and entitled. Often huggable – but only for about fifteen seconds. She has commitment issues and a hug longer than fifteen seconds, well, that’s pushing it.

She would make a good spy if she was human because she is stealthy, can fade into shadows because she’s black, and she doesn’t say too much.

KC The Cat With Emotional Issues has an unusual attachment to Innocent Husband. When Innocent Husband is lying down anywhere, she climbs on his chest, settles about two inches from his chin and stares at him. I know what she is thinking, “You are mine. You belong to me. You do not belong to that cranky lady over there with the dyed blonde hair and the tired expression. You know, the one who always nags at you.”

Innocent Husband seems to get along with her well. Now and then he’ll pet her and they don’t argue. He gives her tuna.  When he’s outside mowing the lawn she sits under a tree and keeps him under surveillance.  They have staring contests which she seems to enjoy in a cat – like way. It’s a bit obsessive.

Innocent Husband treats her like a dog.  He’ll say, “Come on up here, KC.”  He’ll pet the couch, and she hops on up. For me, she usually doesn’t. I’ll pat the couch and say, “Come on up here, KC.”

She looks at me and I know what she is thinking, “I am not a dog.  You cannot tell me what to do.  You may not even suggest it. I do not obey. I will do as I please. Right now, I am not listening to you. Do you see that? I am not listening.”  Then she will turn around and leave, tail up, butt in my face.

KC The Cat  With Emotional Issues is also attached to the children. She likes to sleep on their beds, or outside the hallway of their rooms. That way if they wake up and go anywhere, she knows, and can follow them. When they are outside playing, she hides under the car and acts as their protector.  When I see her, I will lean down and say, “Hello, KC.”

She doesn’t bother to look at me. I know what she is thinking, “I am watching the children and I will not be distracted by you, the woman who nags at my husband. I am their protector. I will defend them against all enemies, landing 747’s, comet strikes, or ostrich attacks. Move along, floosy. You are blocking my vision.”

She knows when we’re going on vacation. She sits on the top of the car. The kids and I like to have Innocent Husband be the one who chases her off for Lamb Family Comic Relief.

Only KC The Cat With Emotional Issues does not like to be chased off. She does not like when we all leave together. It makes her insecure and trips her separation anxiety. She scampers from one end of the car roof to the other, and back again, while Innocent Husband tries to catch her, circling the car and trying to be quicker than a cat.

But KC and I have a special relationship, too.

Sometimes she meows at me.

I meow back.

It is perplexing that I would engage in this type of chat with a cat. The meowing can go back and forth for awhile. I can’t stop meowing when she meows at me because I think it’s rude to stop the conversation.  I wait for her to call it quits. That I think it’s rude to stop the meowing conversation with a CAT perplexes me further.

When I’m done writing late at night, the moon all glowy above me, KC will pop open an eye when I finally trudge upstairs, about two. I know what she’s thinking, “If you slept more, you wouldn’t look so dreary.”

When I sleep in a wee bit the next morning and KC The Cat With Emotional Issues wanders up to the bed I know what she’s thinking: “Laziness is equal to slothfulness. You are a slothful sloth.” (As if she isn’t)

But what does she know?

She is a cat. She is a cat who doesn’t have any deadlines.

She is a cat who is sitting on my lap as I write this blog.

Maybe I should give her some tuna. She’d probably like me better.

 

 

 

 

When people ask what I do for a living, and I tell them I’m a writer, I often get this comment, with a long gush, “Oh, I have always wanted to write!”

My response is, “Then do it.”

I understand these people, you see.

I feel the same way about being a painter.

I wanted to be a writer more than I wanted blood to run through my veins, but my second career choice would be painting.

I envisioned myself out in a cozy yellow studio, huge windows, with a view of the sunset. (I don’t get up for sunrises).  I would drink coffee, and wear cool paint – splattered size six jeans and a white t- shirt. I’d capture my curls, which would be, miraculously, not frizzy for once, on top of my head.

KC The Cat, who has many emotional issues, would be wandering around. I would listen to Mozart and Vivaldi, Def Leppard and Kid Rock, depending on my mood, as my brushes flew through the air, tubes of rich paints piled around me, next to vases filled with wildflowers.

I would have easels up and stunning canvases hung. The canvasses would be blasts of originality, color, and emotional beauty.

Early on, though, I recognized that there were some serious flaws with this delightful daydream: I have almost zero artistic talent.

I am not being falsely modest here. It is a fact. It is good to know where you fall flat in life so you can quit banging your head against a brick wall that won’t fall down.

If you asked me to paint a person to save my life, you would have to settle for a semi-stick person who looked like she had a broken neck or a sixth finger. You would wonder if the stick person was on drugs or having a nervous breakdown. The stick figure would look like a seedy man dressed as a buck – toothed woman, crossed with a dragon.

Paint and I don’t get along.

But it’s a fun vision.

When I was a freelance writer for The Oregonian, I interviewed a lot of creative people, many of them artists.  When I met the painters in their studios, I felt like diving into an artistic swoon right there.

One of my favorite artists of all time, Katherine Ace, http://www.katherineace.com/, had an entire lower level built with 15 foot tall ceilings and skylights. She used all sorts of neat things in her paintings, newspapers, twigs, nature, and she had this imagination that tripped along the edges of heaven.  She also had cool hair.  My mind about exploded looking at her work.

Another artist, Sharon Bronzan, http://www.augengallery.com/Artists/bronzan.html,  had my dream studio in her backyard. It was small, warm, private, and all her amazing, gripping paintings, paintings that were filled with women, birds, leaves, and mystery, somehow spoke to me.  When I looked into the eyes of the women in her art I knew we were having a conversation through the paint.

Sherrie Wolf,  http://www.sherriewolfstudio.com/,  had a house off 23rd street in Portland. Built in 1906, they remodeled it and in the process Sherrie got a 1000 square foot, white walled studio with – brace yourself – a rooftop garden.  Her paintings looked so real I wanted to touch them or eat them. There was always a bit of whimsy or magic, too.

Those painters had studios that one would protect with two swords and a group of shady hit men.

Now, back to all those people who have told me they really want to write a book:  Start writing. For those of you who are writing now, keep writing. You do not need a yellow studio or an emotionally stunted cat.  Write because you love to write.  Go to classes with other writers. Join a writing group. Do it because you love it.

And hey. Maybe one day I’ll take a painting class.

Or…I’ll sit at my kitchen table, squish out some paints, make sure KC the Cat doesn’t walk across the canvas, and begin.