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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am often asked, in book groups and at speeches that I give, about my husband. What does he think of my writing? Is he supportive? Does he read my books?

Here is a bit about Innocent Husband. (I will call him Innocent Husband in this blog and all future blogs because he is a wee bit clueless about what goes on in his wife’s head and he is not to be blamed for anything I say, write, or do).

Innocent Husband and I met through a mutual friend who was an undercover vice cop busting drug dealers. The cop was one tough dude, good in hand to hand combat, and he responded quite calmly when a jacked up drug dealer put a gun to his temple. But this man had a romantic side, believed in love, and put us together.

Innocent Husband jokes that he was being arrested at the time by this cop. He has an odd sense of humor. Do not believe him.

We have been together for twenty years. I cannot believe I have been with any man for twenty years. Some days I can’t believe I’ve been with any one man for over two years. Surely, I tell myself, we women should be allowed a change in player rotation? Surely we should be allowed to choose a new quarterback?  Perhaps another lineman? Can we get a newer and younger model that doesn’t scratch or burp or bore us with intestinal difficulties?

Alas, I joke. (For the most part).

Innocent Husband likes to fly fish. He has black hair with some “wisdom hair” thrown in. He makes me laugh.  He has nice brown eyes.  He loves the kids and the cat is in love with him.  He calls me a lot. We like to watch movies. We like Yellowstone, coffee, and poker, which I am very bad at and can’t remember the rules.

That said, I have, on several occasions, wanted to hire a knight. Not to rescue me, but to take Innocent Husband out of my castle forever on a white charging horse. And, after twenty years, I can tell you that some years were longer than others, if you know what I mean.

But even as I write that, I have to be fair. I am sure he has wanted to hire a knight on a white charging horse to not only take me out of our castle but to spirit me away to a remote place in Africa where there are no people and no phones, with only hairy spiders to make conversation with and leave me there.

When I am mad at him, now and then I have to stop because the truth is this:  I cannot imagine being married to me.

Here are my most glaring, brutally honest faults as a wife:

1) I am almost rabidly independent. Marriage, the very concept of it, doesn’t actually suit my personality in many ways. That sometimes makes me difficult to live with.

2) I am not patient.

3) I can be – if I don’t really watch it – too critical and a mite controlling.

4) I talk one of my husband’s ears off, then I start on the other one.

5) I can, and will, do things how I think they should be done. If he doesn’t like it, I will do it my way when he is asleep or not looking. He will not remember the next morning that we ever disagreed, or that there was a topic to that disagreement, so I do not get caught.

6) I daydream. A lot. This means I can be a “fuzzy wife.”

7) I go to bed late – usually past 2:00 in the morning. Men like their wives to go to bed with them. I shine a flashlight every single night on whatever book I’m reading because I have insomnia. I must hug him before I go to sleep or I cannot sleep. I know this wakes him up. That must be very irritating for him. He does not complain.

8) I like to be alone often so I can think and write.  This means he is not to be with me.

9) I cannot watch football with him unless the Ducks are playing in the Rose Bowl. I just can’t sit that long. I know he wants my company and it is selfish of me not to watch grown men chasing and tackling each other, but football is so mind numbing and brain cell destroying.

10) When I am on a deadline, and I pretty much consider “deadline time” to be six weeks before a book is due, I am a mess and in my own helter skelter world. It is like he is on Jupiter and I am on Mars. I am in flannel pajama bottoms, dinner is dicey, the house drops into chaos, I don’t wash my hair that much, and I pretty much dive into my storyline and that’s that.

I could go on. I won’t. That’s enough lashes for me tonight.

Is he supportive of my work?

Here is the most supportive thing, in terms of my writing, that Innocent Husband has ever done for me. Years ago, when the kids were all  in school full time, and I was freelancing articles for The Oregonian, I said to him,  quite unhappily, “I need to go back to teaching to make more money.”

He knew I did not want to go back to teaching. Teaching is exhausting. He knew I wanted to become a writer more than I wanted to keep my arms attached to my body.

He knew we really needed the money that my teaching job would bring in.

But Innocent Husband looked at me with those nice brown eyes, gave me a hug and said, “Don’t go back to teaching, honey. Concentrate on your writing.”

And that’s what I did. I concentrated. We sucked it up financially. I kept freelance writing and working on my book, Julia’s Chocolates, into the star – filled hours of the morning.

Without those two sentences from him, I am pretty sure I never would have published. I could not have taught school full time, handled three kids, a house and house work, and written a book. I would have been too scattered, too exhausted, too busy. My whole life would have turned out differently, and I would have been mighty depressed that the career I had wanted, that I had planned for and dreamed of, since I was sixteen, was not going to happen.

That’s a little bit about Innocent Husband.

I think I’ll keep him.

 

Lots of my own life ends up in my books.

Let me tell you a tiny, sweaty story so you can get an idea of how this works – or in this case, will work for a character in the future.

I hit full blown menopause at the ripe old age of 37. It came on like a thief in the night, only the thief cast a spell on me and gave me night sweats, hot flashes, and a raging desire not to take an ounce of crap from anyone ever again. So, a physical change and an attitude change from the above mentioned sneaky thief.

I would have night sweats five or six times a night. When it happened, I would wrench all the blankets and sheets up and fluff, arms pumping, sending waves of cool gusts of air straight at Innocent Husband and I. Each and every time this alarmed Innocent Husband, sleeping beside me.

The first time it happened he sat straight up in bed and hollered, “Oh my God. What are you doing?” in a rather  impatient and exasperated tone.

I replied, in a loud and don’t –  mess – with – me – or –  you – will – wake – up – missing – a – piece – of – your – body tone, “I’m having a night sweat! Back off! Ya hear me? Back off!”

He did not bother me much after that. I believe I frightened him. Or, perhaps, the Green Menopause Monster that dwells within me frightened him.

When the night sweat finally subsided, and I covered up again, I would soon become cold. For warmth I would hug Innocent Husband until the thief in the night blasted me with yet another hot flash, where upon I would, again, rip up all the sheets and blankets and fluff us until the rolling sweat ceased.

I will not stop and say how sexy I’m sure Innocent Husband felt this was.

Imagine this from his perspective: He is woken up many times during the night, all blankets and sheets flipped up into the air, then he is fluffed as if he is a Pharaoh and a hundred servants are waving thick feathers around. Only he is not a Pharaoh, there are no servants, there are no feathers. There is only a sweating, sometimes swearing wife (that would be me)  her legs fighting with the covers, fluffing as if she’s got a white sail in her clutches and if she stops fluffing the boat will sink.

She is not hot for him, she is hot because of skipping and diving hormones. She tells him about this, endlessly. He is not to touch her when she is sweating. He is not to say a word, lest the raging Green Menopause Monster emerges. She then lays there, dripping, and within minutes is hugging him again like a python, freezing cold. Within thirty minutes, the process begins again.

It made for exciting nights between us.  My husband, me, and a potential visit with the Green  Menopause Monster.

The hot flashes during the day were another matter. My hot flashes were not triggered by warmth, stress, exhaustion, nothing I could put my finger on. They just arrived. As in, “Hello, hello, Cathy! It’s time to take a sweat! Let’s release all the water in your body through your pores, atta girl!” And I would.

It was so inglorious. So indelicate. I wanted to walk around with a mini – fan in front of my face.  At first I was embarrassed. This embarrassment lasted about ten seconds. Honestly, I am too old and cranky to be embarrassed about much anymore.

I was not coming off drugs, I was not out running from a bounty hunter, I was not in a bikini being sprayed by a hose in a public square, and I was not being chased by a weasel or parrot. Nothing to be embarrassed about, really.

I was simply in menopause, brought on by the sneaky thief. Early. Like my mother and her mother who were struck with this in their early thirties.

How long did it last? Five years. Yep. Five of ’em.

Men have mid life crises. Women have hot flashes and night sweats.

I would rather have a mid life crisis and a red Corvette any day but I do not have time. I suspect other women feel the same. They would like to get a younger boyfriend and a fast car and claim to, “Want to be free,” but there is a job to go to, children to feed, laundry to do, carpools to run. So we have Menopause.  They get the Corvette.

I think I will soon create a character in the midst of menopause.  She will have a mid life crisis at the same time. She will dump a ridiculous, unappreciative husband and annoying, psycho in laws. She will tell her boss that he is a cyclopse. A condescending, narcissistic ant eater. A weak and spindly witch. She will quit everything, but she is not an idiot. First she will liquidate her assets, give as little as possible to ridiculous husband, and take off.

She will be hot flashing AND driving a red Corvette, all windows down, of course. She will take that zooming Corvette and head to Mexico. She will explore Mexico and refuse to pay policemen bribes unless they do a strip tease dance for her. She will wiggle her hips during flamenco dancing and eat tortillas with guac. She will learn how to make pottery. She will go to Central America and learn how to surf. She will go to South America and do … something.

She will find her true self in that red Corvette and when she is hot flashing or night sweating she will jump in the ocean and swim with the dolphins, naked.

It will be a menopause kick off to a whole new life.

See? That’s how my life ends up in my books.

 

For two weeks I’ve been going to sleep with human cells dancing through my head.

Before that it was brave African American maids, a boy locked in a cupboard, growing up poor and wild on a ranch in Arizona, hiking in the Appalachian mountains, and white women who become the wives of Indians. Oh, and I can’t forget the Muslim woman in the Dutch Parliament, ghosts in London, and escaping slaves.

I have insomnia.

I picked it up in college about the same time I picked up my red cowboy boots, and it’s never let me out of its spiky teeth. The only way I go to sleep at night is if I read and read and read, until the book thunks on my face.

After I turn off my light I have to make sure I don’t think of any of the following things: Worries, which include, but are not limited to: any aspect of my children’s lives. I can’t think of anything that might, possibly, in the most remotest of ways, happen to my children that would be scary or horrible. For example, what would I do if one of my kids got a flesh – eating worm in their bodies and the only serum that could cure them was from a purple flower that bloomed once every seven years in the middle of a war torn African battlefield? How would I get there? How would I get past the African war lords? How would I know I had the right flower? How would I get the flower back to Oregon with its life saving serum? One thought there, and I am done for. No sleep. All night.

I also refrain with all my strength worrying about: My sisters, specifically their health, often for my younger sister who has all sorts of animals, like horses, that could kick her teeth out if they so desired, which would hurt and maybe smash her nose in. Younger sister drives a tractor, (What if the tractor rolled down a hill with her in it?), mends fences (What if a wild wolf ate her while she was doing this?), and plows her way through feet of snow every winter in weather so cold it could freeze your entire face into an icicle in seconds. (What would I do if my sister turned into an icicle?)

I worry about my brother. He is a lieutenant with the fire department. What if there is a fire? What if he is riding his bike and is chased by a space alien? What if he IS a space alien? What if he won’t bake me chocolate treats anymore?

I worry that I don’t spend enough time being nice to my husband. I worry about my husband. I worry because he doesn’t exercise enough. I worry he’ll find a skinny blonde. If he found the skinny blonde and left me, I worry that I would fillet him like a flopping fish and end up in jail with a roommate named Sal who would like me in a way that I don’t like her. Orange jumpsuits are so not me, either.

I worry about my very slight case of hypochondria.  A hurting leg?  I just know the bone is cracking. A cough? I’ll be dead in two weeks. Thinning hair? I bet I have a head tumor. The tumor is probably the size of a football…no wonder my hearing is going, the tumor is coming out of my ears!  And why am I so damn fat? When did I get this fat? Will I ever be thin again? Maybe I have a fat-making disease!

I worry I’ll lose the gig I have now and I’ll have to find another job, one where I have to work from nine to five in an office with a bunch of silly women and they’ll gossip and hate me and I’ll feel insecure and like I don’t fit in.

I don’t like feeling like I don’t fit in. It’s happened a lot, but I do try to avoid it when possible, it makes my life more pleasant.

So I have to read before I go to sleep to distract myself from me. And I can’t read my work, can’t think of any draft of a book I’m writing. Oh no. Done that.  I turn off the light and lay frozen, like a non-melting popsicle, with intermittent hot flashes, worrying about every plot point in my book and why the heck did my characters do or say that, that’s not right, that’s not who they are. Do I have a brain? What if this book makes a list of Ten Most Terrible Books Ever On The Planet Earth?

I talk to my characters. They talk back. It is strange. I am strange. I am a loser writer. My leg is hurting again.  I’ll never be able to find that purple flower. Are there wild wolves in Montana who want to eat my sister?

I should try to get a real job at that pretzel place. I could eat all the pretzels I wanted. I like pretzels.

So I read at night so I do not worry.

Tonight I am reading about the Holocaust.

Pleasant dreams to you, too.