New Developments

I've been neglecting this blog for quite some time now, but at last I have something new to pass along!

The second edition of my historical romance, The Truth Seekers, will be available on 5 July 2016 on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes, and other channels. The e-book is available for pre-order now, but the paperback is still being sorted. It will be available soon, though!

Also, some may note that I'm blogging and publishing under a different name these days. I've decided to stop writing as Elizabeth M. Lawrence going forward, so all of my future publications, including The Truth Seekers, will now be available only under the author name Mavvy Vasquez.

I'm working on some new projects, as well, and I will keep you posted on their development as they progress. Hopefully not too much longer.

It's good to be back in the saddle again!

The Unanswered Question

     There once was a girl who knew too much. She went to the river, but she knew its path. She went to the garden, but she knew its growth. She went to the hills, but she knew their height.
     The girl wanted to have questions again, so she packed up her bag and began to walk. She slept on the ground, but she knew its pebbles and grass. She ate fruit from the trees, but she knew its taste. And still she kept walking.

     One day, she came to a small village. She knew its people, its houses, its trades, and its songs. Still, she thought she would stop here a while to rest.
     It so happened that there lived in that town an old woman named Alma. When the girl approached Alma’s cottage, the old lady welcomed her inside.
     “Please,” she said, “come into my home and share supper with me, for I am all alone and would enjoy the company.”
     Being quite hungry, the girl agreed and entered the woman’s house.
     Alma gave her warm, crusty bread and a bowl of nice, rich stew. A steaming pot of tea sat ready on the table, along with a jug of milk. The grateful girl thanked the old woman and began to eat.
     Then Alma asked, “Why do you travel, dear girl? The world is a mysterious place, and you are so young.”
     “I know too much,” the girl replied. “I want to have questions again, for I love to learn, so I am searching to find new things I do not know.”
     “Ah,” said Alma. “That is a worthy effort indeed. How did you come to know so many things?”
     The girl answered, “I asked questions. I asked until all my questions were answered.”
     Alma leaned back in her chair and folded her hands across her plump waist. “Why do you need to know the answers?”
     Confused, the girl paused to consider this. At last, she said, “The purpose of questions is to receive an answer. It is the natural way of things.”
     The old woman chuckled and shook her head at the girl. “You may know too much, but you still have much to learn. The greatest questions are those that cannot be answered. The only thing they will teach you is to know your own heart.”
     “Where can I find a question without answers?” the girl asked eagerly.
     “Stay with me here for one month, and I will show you.”
     The girl agreed. Soon, she was settled by the fire with tea and a book, and she and Alma were quite comfortable together.

     Not many days later, Alma said to her, “Come with me to the market, for I have something to show you.”
     Excited, the girl sprang up from her chair at once and donned her cloak. Alma gave her a wide basket to carry and, hooking another over her own arm, led the girl down the path to the market.
     The pair moved from stall to stall, and the girl’s basket began to grow heavy under the weight of the vegetables and fruits Alma had selected. At last, when both baskets were full to the brim, Alma declared she was satisfied.
     “It is time now to travel to our next destination.”
     “Where are we going?” the girl asked, for she always wanted the answers to her questions.
     “You will soon see,” replied the old woman. “Come along.”
     The girl came along, following Alma down the path, which grew more and more scraggly and unkempt the farther they went. At long last, they came to a hovel that looked as though a strong wind could bring it down. The door stood straight, but the walls and roof listed and bowed with age, the drooping windows seeming to squint at the women as they approached.
     “This is our destination,” Alma told the girl.
     “Why are we here?” the girl asked at once.
     “You will soon see.”
     Alma approached the hovel, and with great care, knocked on the ancient wood of the door frame.
When the door opened, the girl took a step back in alarm. There stood a very old man, his body more twisted and frail than his home. The man’s hair was a scattering of yellowed white wisps that hung down limply to his collar. His eyes were far too large for his face, the corners damp and the irises dull. The skin of his face and hands was brown and leathery.
     His near-toothless mouth gaped in a smile of welcome for Alma, who took his gnarled hand in hers.
     “Joseph, it is so good to see you. Are you well?”
     “Ah, Alma! I am as well as I need to be. Please, bring your young friend and sit with me a spell.”
     The girl did not want to enter, but seeing Alma march in without hesitation, she straightened her spine and followed.
     Inside was a small table with two spindly chairs on either side. Not far away was a sleeping pallet covered with tattered blankets. The crumbling fireplace sheltered some burning twigs, which must have been all the old man could manage to gather. A precarious stack of books, their spines broken, stood upon the dirt floor like a column of defeated soldiers.
     Feeling quite awkward, the girl stood quietly, watching her guide speak with their host. Alma asked after his health in some detail, for it seemed they were old friends. She bade the girl rest her heavy basket on the table and take a seat and be comfortable.
     The girl did as she was directed, and Alma claimed the other chair for herself. Joseph maneuvered himself to sit upon his pallet, his rheumy eyes sparkling in the scant light. While her elders talked together of the past days of their youth and laughed, the girl began to think.
     “What is the question that Alma wants to show me here?” she wondered. Although she was anxious for the answer, she knew what the woman’s response would be.
     You will soon see.
     So she didn’t ask her question just yet, resolving to wait a bit longer for the answer to come on its own.
     When the visit finally ended, Alma stood to say her goodbyes. After giving a quiet word of thanks to Joseph, the girl took up her basket from the table and went outside to wait for her friend to join her.
Alma emerged, but the girl noted that she was not carrying her basket.
     “Oh, Alma,” she said, “you have forgotten your basket!”
     Undisturbed, Alma continued to walk down the path. “I did not forget, my dear.”
     “You meant to leave it?”
     “Yes.”
     “But why? And who was that man?”
     The old woman chuckled, then spoke. “He was the friend of my elder brother, years and years ago. When we were in school, he would tease me and pull my hair and trip my feet and steal my primer. He never had a kind word for me in all those years.”
     “And yet you visit him?” the girl asked, confused.
     “One day,” Alma continued without answering, “he went away to make his fortune. I was glad, for he had been a constant source of unhappiness for me. Time passed, we all grew up, married, had children, and lived our lives as people do. My youngest was grown and gone before Joseph came back.
     “He had seen and done many things, some bad and some not so bad. When he had money, he’d spent it without reserve. When he had food, he ate his fill. When he did not have those things, he stole or cheated them out of someone else. After a lifetime of living without care or conscience, Joseph had nothing left. He had cheated all his friends, and now no one would help him. He had stolen from all the merchants, and now no one would trust him. So, hungry and alone, he made his way back to the village of his youth.”
     “And did he apologize for how he’d treated you?”
     “No, he never did,” Alma said. “He came to that hovel and hid away from the world, surviving as best he could on what the forest would provide. And since everyone here remembered his behavior in the past, no one approached him.
     “But I had gone out walking one fine day, and I happened to see him. He was limping badly, trying to get back to his shelter, but it did not look as though he would be able to reach it on his own. So I went to him and took his arm, and he leaned on me until we reached his home.”
     “Did he thank you?” the girl asked.
     “No, he never did. I helped him inside and got him to sit on his bed. I cleaned his wound as best I could, fetched him some water, and told him to rest. Then I went home.
     “That night, I thought a long time about Joseph. He needed help and had no one to give it. So the next day I went to the market and filled up a basket, and I went back and left it on his table. He grumbled at me a bit, but he let me change his bandages and put ointment on his leg to aid the healing.”
     The girl considered this. “And so you keep going back to help?”
     “I do.”
     “But he was so mean to you! And he never apologized! Never thanked you!”
     “No, he never did.”
     “But…” The girl was more puzzled than ever. “Why would you do that?”
     Alma looked at her with a knowing smile. “You do not know charity?”
     “Well, yes of course I do, but… he was so awful to you!”
     “Do you not know forgiveness?”
     “Yes, of course,” the girl repeated. “But he did not ask for it. There are far more deserving people in need of aid. Why him, Alma?”
     “My dear, when one gives a gift, whether deserved or not, it should be without condition. The receiver need not be deserving, or humble, or repentant. All that is required is that the giver wishes to do good for another.”
     The two walked in silence for some time, until at last they came to Alma’s cottage and went inside.
     Once they were settled by the fire with their tea, as had become their habit, the girl asked once more.
     “Why help him, Alma? I understand that gifts should not come with expectation, but why in all the world choose him as the beneficiary of your kindness?”
     “That, my dear, is the answer you must seek in your own heart.”
     No matter how many questions the girl asked that night, Alma would say no more on the subject.

     Several days passed before Alma again said, “Come with me to the market, for I have something to show you.”
     Not knowing what to expect, the girl followed her to the village marketplace once more.
     Alma went to the wizened old man who sold second-hand books. Not many people wished to buy such extravagances, but he greeted Alma as though she were a customer of long standing.
     “My dear Alma! How are you on this fine day?”
     “Quite well, Marcus. Do you have any new treasures to show me?”
     The girl stood in silence, observing while Alma and Marcus pawed through his collection. Now and then, Alma would lift a book from the pile and give a delighted laugh, and Marcus would nod and smile at her choice. Each so favored book found its way into the girl’s waiting arms, until her burden became quite heavy and unwieldy. Alma paid Marcus for the books and bade him goodbye, taking half the books from the girl’s aching arms.
     “Come along, my dear,” the old woman said, so the girl came along.
     This time, they took a neat, orderly path that led to a neat, orderly house in the glen. The house was well-kept, with brisk white paint and merry red trim. A profusion of flowers danced along its border, and a sturdy wooden fence ringed the property.
     “This is our destination,” Alma told the girl.
     “Why are we here?” the girl asked.
     “You will soon see.”
     They entered at the gate and over the pebbled walk until they reached the door. Alma gave three brisk knocks.
     The door soon opened, and there stood a woman not much older than the girl. Her hair was wrapped in a bright orange scarf, and her skin was as dark as night. The woman beamed when she saw them, the whiteness of her teeth bright against her complexion.
     “Alma! What a delight! I did not know you were to come today!”
     Alma moved forward and hugged the dark woman. “I love to surprise you, Ashai. My young friend and I have brought some marvelous books to share with you!”
     Ashai opened the door wide and said, “Please, come in! Let me see what treasures you’ve discovered this time!”
     The parlor of her home was clean and crisp, the fabrics bright and welcoming, the wooden furniture gleaming and warm. The girl found it comfortable and was quite glad to visit with this woman in such a room, now that her initial surprise at her skin had passed. It was clear that Alma saw nothing objectionable about Ashai, and the girl trusted her friend’s judgment.
     Soon, the trio were seated comfortably, looking through the selection of books Alma had bought. The girl discovered that Ashai was wonderful company, intelligent and kind. She was sorry when it came time for them to leave, but she was not surprised that most of the books they’d carried remained behind when they went.
     “You left those books for her,” the girl observed.
     “I did.”
     “Why did you do that?”
     Alma looked at her with an appraising eye. “Did you not like Ashai?”
     “I liked her very much,” the girl answered. “I just do not understand why you brought her books.”
     “Ashai is a very smart person. She loves to read and discuss what she has learned.”
     “But she cannot buy her own books?” the girl guessed.
     “She could afford them,” Alma said, “but it is difficult for her to go into the village.”
     The girl was confused once more. “Why? It is not a long walk, and she appeared to be in good health.”
     Her friend explained. “Ashai came here several years ago. She had inherited a modest fortune, enough for her to buy a house and live at leisure. However, when she arrived, not all of the village welcomed her.”
     “Because she is so dark?” the girl guessed.
     “Yes. One day, some men who felt this way threatened her and told her not to return to the village or she would be beaten.”
     The girl shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. “What a horrible thing for them to do! She cannot help the color of her skin, and she is such a good person. They were wrong to act that way.”
     “Yes, they were,” Alma agreed. “Ashai did not wish to leave her new home, but she recognized the danger these men posed. So with the help of those who had welcomed her, she arranged to stay on. Everything she might need at the market is brought to her by a neighbor of mine, and he only takes the money needed for her supplies. He is a very kind young man.”
     The girl nodded and then stayed silent the rest of the way back to the cottage.
     That evening, when they were settled at the fire, she asked again.
     “But why do those people hate Ashai? It does not make any sense.”
     Alma looked up from her knitting. “Many people hate for reasons such as theirs. A person’s color or poverty or religion determines how some folks treat others.”
     “But…” The girl was more puzzled than ever. “Why would they do that?”
     Alma smiled, although there was sorrow in her eyes. “You do not know hatred?”
     “Well, yes of course I do, but… Ashai does not deserve it!”
     “Do you not know anger?”
     “Yes, of course,” the girl repeated. “But she did nothing to deserve it. What those men did was far worse. Why her, Alma?”
     “My dear, when one is prejudiced against another, whether deserved or not, it is without logic. The object of scorn need not be deserving, or malicious, or evil. All that is required is that the hater wishes to do harm to another because that person is different in some way.”
     “Why hurt her, Alma? I understand that some people harbor hatred for others, but why in all the world choose her as the target of their violence?”
     “That, my dear, is the answer you must seek in your own heart.”
     The girl asked many more questions that night, but Alma would say no more on the subject.

     When the girl had been with Alma for nearly a month, the old woman said to her, “Come with me to the market, for I have something to show you.”
     The girl rose up from her chair at once, curious to see what new conundrum Alma would show her. Her friend gave her a bright ribbon for her hair, for the day was windy, and she led the girl down the path to the market.
     At the butcher’s shop, they met a boy who was wrapping cuts of meat in tidy parcels with paper. He smiled when he recognized Alma.
     “What can I get for you today, ma’am?” he asked.
     Alma gave the boy a wide smile. “Have you taken Ashai’s order out to her yet?”
     He nodded. “Went this morning before it got busy. If I’d waited, all the best cuts would have been gone.”
     The girl realized that this was the boy who brought Ashai the supplies she could not get for herself in safety. She inspected him with an attentive eye. He was tall, she thought, with dancing bright eyes and ruddy cheeks. His arms and shoulders were strong from years of honest work, and his open expression warmed her. So involved was she in her observation that she started when Alma turned to introduce her.
     “This is my young friend who has been visiting with me these last weeks,” Alma said.
     The butcher’s boy turned shy, but managed to stutter a few words of welcome. The girl thanked him, and then they stood for some time, blushing at each other in awkward silence.
     Alma broke the moment with a chuckle. “If I’m not interrupting, I’d like to get something to cook for our dinner.”
     “Of course,” the boy replied, blushing even redder than before.
     With many more shy glances at the girl, he managed at last to attend to Alma. The transaction complete, the girl answered his breathless farewell with embarrassed pleasure. Her friend said nothing, and they returned home.
     The boy began to call at the cottage every day with one excuse or other, and the girl found herself looking forward to his visits. As the time for her departure drew near, she told him that she would miss him when she left.
     “Then don’t go,” he said, taking her hand in his.
     Her heart jumped a little at the contact, but she said, “I must move on. Alma has been more than kind, but I do not want to outstay my welcome.”
     “You would always be welcome in your own home.”
     “Well, yes. But I have no home here.”
     “You could have,” the boy said, “if you married me.”
     Air left the girl’s lungs in a rush. “You wish to marry me?” she asked.
     “Yes, I do. Very much.”
     “But why?”
     He smiled, his expression quiet and confident. “Because I love you, dear girl.”

     The girl asked for time to consider his proposal, and the boy agreed. She returned to the cottage in some agitation, and at once petitioned Alma for advice.
     “He says he loves me. Why should he love me? I have no special beauty or wit or talent. I am just an ordinary girl.”
     “None of that matters, if he loves you.”
     “But he is so good! And he never asks for thanks! He’s never anything but kind!”
     “No, he never is.”
     “But…” The girl was more puzzled than ever. “Why would he love me?”
     Alma looked at her with a knowing smile. “You do not know admiration?”
     “Well, yes of course I do, but… how can I know I’ll make him happy?”
     “Do you not know hope?”
     “Yes, of course,” the girl repeated. “But he did not ask someone better. There are far more deserving women in need of love. Why me, Alma?”
     “My dear, when one gives love, whether deserved or not, it should be welcomed. The recipient need not be deserving, or beautiful, or wise. All that is required is that the lover wishes to spend their lives together.”
    “Why choose me, Alma? I understand that some people fall in love, but why in all the world choose me as the object of his affection?”
     “That, my dear, is the answer you must seek in your own heart.”
     “You always say that,” the girl complained. “How can I find answers inside my heart? What am I supposed to find there that I cannot learn another way?”
     Alma shook her head at the girl in obvious exasperation. “Why do people forgive? Why do people have faith? Why do they hate? Why do they love? These are the questions that have no answer, my dear. Embrace the mystery. Have faith. Choose to love, even if there is no reason. Let the answer be you love because you feel it, and he loves because he feels it. There is no better answer than that.”

     The girl lay in her bed that night and considered Alma’s words. The old woman had found forgiveness and charity inside herself, and she had refused to share the hatred others held. And she was right. There was still no good explanation for why some love and some hate, or why some believe and some doubt. Alma’s choices showed her heart to the world, and that was where her reasons could be found. She forgave and loved and trusted because that was who she was.
     And the girl looked into her own heart and found love for the boy, even though she could not explain why she felt that way. The next day, she went to him and said, “I have considered, and I have found that I do love you. I also believe that you love me, even though I do not understand why I would be your choice. So I am choosing to be with you, as well.”
     So the two were married, even though they weren’t sure why, and the girl discovered that some questions need no answer.

Balancing Mind Ogre Patterns

On Wednesdays, I get toothpaste in my eye. I’m not sure why this occurs every week without fail. It’s not intentional. Wednesdays are not good days for me in general.

There’s a pattern.

Sundays, I forget to do everything and wind up frantic at 10:00 at night, wondering how I’m going to do it all with no time.

Mondays are like New Years Day. I’m bright and shiny with intention and purpose. It will be a phenomenal day. I will exercise, plow through my pending work, clean the house, volunteer for a charity, and find a cure for the common cold. I wait until about 3:00 to admit none of that happened, but the dream has not yet died.

Tuesdays, I take another stab at it, but it’s like January 2nd. You can’t recapture the magic of that electric determination. By lunchtime, I stop even pretending to be a productive member of society.

Wednesdays are toothpaste. There’s often an afternoon nap involved, too.

Thursdays, I don’t give a damn about anything. I do what needs doing, but it takes effort. If someone asks me to participate in some event or activity on Thursday, it ain’t happening.

Fridays, it’s a toss-up whether I’m even going to get dressed.

On Saturdays, my resolutions come back, only this time I swear to go out and enjoy the world, see art, watch a play, and enjoy life. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing… I’ll just finish this chapter in my book, and then I’ll get going. Yep.

Then I keep reading straight through to Sunday evening.

The pattern of my life is one I would love to change. My therapist would love for me to change it, too. If nothing else, I would get more work done, which would enable me to afford my therapy sessions. It’s a vicious circle.

Every night, I lie in bed and imagine worlds and adventures and people, forming them into stories in my head. Everyone tells me to write them down. I don’t.

When you talk to people about depression, this is not what they would imagine, I think. How it wears you down, dragging at you in whispers that hold you back with subtle force. I’m not sad. Like I said, it’s a beautiful day, the sun, the birds, etc. My mind is just not under my complete control. And yes, it’s frustrating as hell.

There are rare days when I am hypo-manic and can take on the world. Those are the days when work gets done, stuff gets cleaned, and I am the mistress of all I survey. Brimming with focus, burning to explore the world. It doesn’t last, though. I pay the price afterward with an unusual low. This is kind of like a kid on a sugar high passing out when they come back down.

So low is bad, high is bad, and I have to learn to ride the line between the two. My pattern allows this, but I need to change my pattern. How to stay balanced while doing this is a conundrum.

My friends and family want wonderful things for me. That’s great. I want wonderful things, too. And I understand it’s hard to watch from the outside while I continue with the same old behaviors and making the same old mistakes. It’s impressive these people stick around, really. I’m annoying.

There are these voices in my head. (No, not like that. I’m not schizophrenic.)The encouragement, faith, love, and admiration I receive from the people in my life is a quiet chorus, whispering at me over and over to remind me that there is something more, and that I can have it. These soothing voices join together against the loud clamor of my own inner voice telling me I suck in every possible way. It’s hard to hear past that barrage of negativity.

I hear everyone, though. I do. No one should ever think that their words have no effect on me. Often those words are the only weapons I have in the fight to do SOMETHING today, even if it’s brushing my teeth. Without those voices in my mind, it would be a fight I couldn’t win.

Mental illness is invisible. Sure, you can see someone flake out and do some weird shit. You can see cuts, scars, weight gained or lost, mood swings, seizures and meltdowns. It’s below the surface that the true symptoms do their damage, however. Each depressive person’s experience is unique to them, but there are many near-constant similarities. The biggest is that depression has the potential to tear apart everything they care about and want to build for themselves. It’s impossible to do your taxes, wash the dishes, or manage your workload when you’re fighting a sumo wrestler in your head. Your hands are already full.

I’m not sure where this is going, but here it is anyway.

In my case, depression is a fact of life. I’ve never been without it, even as a toddler. There is no “me” without depression. I’d be a completely different person. That means that there is no clear way to unravel its effects from the rest of who I am. It feeds my creativity, informs my decisions, and influences my relationships. So I have no frame of reference for what “normal” would mean for me. I don’t think I’d like it.

My imagination walks hand in hand with my illness, giving me words and images and characters to bring to life in my writing. The books I read come alive, dynamic and immersed in detail. That would be hard to give up.

Having been judged and marginalized all my life, I am much more accepting and accommodating in my interactions with others. I embrace the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. (Metaphorically. I’m not a hugger.)

It makes me want to help others, support those who are suffering, particularly when their circumstances are more heartbreaking or perilous than mine. I want to fix all the problems in the world, even though I can’t fix mine.

Depression gives me those gifts, but it keeps me from using them. And that’s a dilemma that makes me run around in mental circles day and night. I want to use the talents and strengths. I want to achieve my potential. I want to tap into the creative spring inside me. If only I manage to be strong enough to fight the ogre who lives in my thoughts and tears apart my confidence.

My ability to feel any self-worth is significantly impaired. I can’t accept that it’s not my fault, because I’d get past it if I didn’t suck. I can’t defend myself against criticism, because it’s true that I suck. It’s hard to believe that anyone really loves me because I suck. There’s no point in working to become healthier, since I’d suck regardless. Every time I meet someone new, they can tell right away that I suck. No one will ever read my books because they suck. I will never, ever be good enough, because I’m not good at all.

This is the ogre that lives in my head. This is the voice that I hear ALL the time. It’s constant. It’s there right now, telling me to stop typing and just go back to bed with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a spoon to mourn the loss of my dignity.

I may not be dignified, but I did write this. The quiet voices of hope helped me write this, and so even this small step is an accomplishment.

Suck it, mind ogre.

Time Machine

My mother fell today. She got hurt but not badly, and it got me thinking. She’s seventy-two now.

It wasn’t a doddering-old-lady accident. She just tripped. I do that all the time. We Lawrences are a graceful bunch. All the same, I couldn’t quite put it out of my head. This is where we are now. As an only child, I have always known that the day would come when the balance of our relationship would shift and I would become the caregiver. There is still a bit of a shock when you find that long-anticipated day has arrived. My mind went automatically to whether she needed a doctor, how to get the kids home from school, whether my father needed me to be there, and on and on. This is a woman who used to run a department of a major corporation with such laser focus that I swear she only came home to sleep. She got a PhD at fifty because she just wanted to. She learned Italian in her sixties. She knows exactly which lines were cut from that Shakespearean production and can recite them on demand.

My father, whose mind has always been brilliant and whose composure has always been coma-like, is seventy-six. He’s started to forget things. He’s started to make mistakes. It’s disorienting to see such a razor-sharp intellect lose the edge my mother and I always relied upon. It’s a bit sad it happened gradually enough for me to become accustomed to having to double-check with him. I couldn’t even tell you when “reminding Dad” became standard operating procedure. The change snuck up on me like a ninja. We’re talking about a man who wrote out the grocery list in order of where the items were located in the aisles. From memory. In pen.

It shouldn’t have surprised me. I’m forty-two. But frankly, it’s still way too early to start talking about my parents’ twilight years. People in my family tend to hang around quite awhile. It may be another twenty years before we’re really talking about “The End.” However, my parents are no longer comfortably nestled in that catchall period known as middle age. The scares will become more frequent, the list of doctors and specialists will become longer, and my separateness from them will shrink.

Shorty is turning eleven this week. Seven more years until society labels him a legal adult. My time as the parent of actual children is coming to an end, but I will continue to be a caretaker. If family patterns hold, I will only stop when my parents have gone, and it becomes my boys’ turn to worry about my aging body and how much longer they can cling to their independence before the separateness from me is no longer possible. I’d hoped that by having two children, neither would have to shoulder that alone. It may not work out that way, but at least I gave it a shot.

My teen is fast approaching his seventeenth birthday, and our recent conversations have revolved around driver’s ed, college searches, and potential careers. Never have the sands fallen so quickly through the hourglass. I’m nearly out of time, I think. Now I frantically bombard him with all the life lessons and tools I hadn’t gotten around to yet. I’m cramming for the exam, although he will be the one tested. I hope that if I forgot an assignment, he will call me and ask for my notes. I try to trust that he’s ready, and I remind myself to let him fail.

My husband and I have begun to realize we need things to talk about outside the kids and our careers. We need to remember how to hang out. How to just sit and shoot the shit for hours about all sorts of nonsense, like we used to back when we were young and had all the time in the world.

This is why people have mid-life crises, I think. I’ve always been aware that time was passing, but never before has such a sense of urgency been tied to it. The next steps along the path are all big ones, but none of them are mine. This gives me a sense of powerlessness that I am having trouble adjusting to, even though I know that control has always been an illusion. My life now has a different flavor, and my mind is reacting the same way the world did when New Coke was introduced in the 1980s, with a loud cry of “What the hell is this nonsense?”

Time is passing, and there are no guarantees. So I sit and wonder, in the midst of scheduling SAT prep classes and learning about end-of-life care options, what about me? Am I content to just bounce back and forth from daughter to mother to daughter to mother to (perhaps) grandmother? What about my writing? You can prepare for some eventualities. Get life insurance so your family can pay your final expenses. Get health insurance so the life insurance won’t be needed prematurely. Get auto and home insurance so your assets stay around as long as you do. But there isn’t an insurance company out there than can protect against untapped potential.

I’m weirdly comforted by that. It doesn’t give me the sense of anxiety that other things do. It’s nice to know that there are some things that will only exist if I create them. There’s a footprint only I can leave behind. This is an excellent reminder to me that the things I love best, beyond the family and friends I cherish, need me to give them life. My writing is mine, and it is me—independent of my health, my appearance, my social skills, my number of friends, even my self-esteem. It is mine in the purest sense possible.

Somewhere in between being a daughter and a mother, a wife and a friend, I am a writer. I will be a writer the next time my mother falls and the next time my father forgets. I will be a writer while my children take their first steps into their own slice of the world to learn who they will become. I will be a writer when my husband and I are left to our own devices, when we suddenly notice that we’re still seeing each other as twenty-three and so clueless, even though the world around us calls us “Ma’am” and “Sir” and our children have started worrying about our falls and forgetfulness. I am so, so fortunate to have this gift I can carry with me always, and now I am taking the time to remember that what I have to share with the world is just as important as my other roles.

November is National Novel Writing Month, and (shocking, I know) many of my friends are writers. I have heard nearly every one of them in the past ten days question their abilities. The words won’t come, the story is stupid, the characters are jerks, the world will laugh (or worse, ignore) their paltry offerings. Each of these friends has real talent. No one of them could write the story any other has written. Their uniqueness is remarkable. The qualities I see in each of them, the reasons I call these people friends, come across on the page. I know they can’t see it. I know they are frustrated, maybe a little scared, feeling foolish for even trying. But they are so, so brilliant. They have so much wonder and truth and heart that I want to scream at them, “Can’t you see how totally remarkable you are?” So this is me, yelling at each of you. Use your time. Create something new. No one else can tell your story.

Flirting with Poetry

In recent months, I've written a handful of poems. While they may not have much merit, they're mine, so I thought I'd share them here.

We Were Green

It was green.

We were flying and the sun-dappled wonder

Became our hearts while our minds

Clasped hands to burn sunlight

The wonder so hard to reach and the blue

So far away.

But the wisps of dream colors would stay

Until the breeze carried thickening down

To the sparkling dark-diamonds of farewell.

We were young.

The warmth kept us safe

So that hearts could pound

Arms could reach

Feet could dance

Songs could soar

Until the day when they couldn’t anymore.

But I recall how it felt back then

When it was green.

More

I loved you so much more

When you were waxy and gray

And the whole world stood on you

While I whistled

Now you are golden and untouched

And it’s all very sad to me

The only thing that I like

Is your plinth

And only because of the word

Plinth

Rolls off the tongue

And if you rolled

Your perch would be precarious

And you might say

No more rolling for you because

Even if you fell

I don’t think I’d love you anymore

But I would still enjoy saying it

Plinth

Won’t you miss it, though

The bombastic abuse

And the unicorn-fiction

Of your hopes that someday

I’d stop whistling

And they’d see you

Waxy and gray and so lovely

The way you were to me

When I whistled

Boarding House Requiem

When open, the eyes do sing aloud and long and shimmer

But closing, bend the weight of care along forgetful paths

So, too, must I go before you to open, close, and fade

The garment worn when open still is shed and shreds and shatters

Your persistent face I think will stay upon my path the longest

Though mine was a shadow to you even before we met

And my garments now bear the print of your eyes

Can I walk this way without your hands having laid the very stones

Or do my works mark the measure of the steps of your own

Sight unwavering though I fail to blink and blush and stammer and hold

Because if I were to lose myself now…

Where would you go?

There is a requiem that has played since that birth

We together constructed these worlds, these hearts, these pains

The children of our hearts did sing so loudly for a time

Until clasped hands unclenched and the clock advanced

Eyes close even as the cloth wraps more tightly

My lips form the truths that I cannot speak aloud

I know you; I know you; I know you—

And that truest heart for which we both mourn is the one we created together.

Bound

I am selfish and childish

Out-of-turn, wildish

And still, here I stay at your feet

Your vanity is apparent

But my devotion is inherent

The balance clings you to me

Cruel and so brittle

Bitter and uncivil

Cold was the day we did meet

Trapped and constrained

In love have I changed

There is no will in me to be free

If you were kinder

Or if I were blinder

Two different people we’d be

So I worship your claws

You adore all my flaws

And in mutual pain we do cleave

Parisian Mime's Lament

I could hold you close, but you’re gone

I’ve lost any hope of you, and you’re gone

And I’m miles away from who you are today

I could have held you once, but you’re gone.

I could face your fears, but you’re gone

Those battles you lost, and you’re gone

And my arms reach out to soothe your doubt

I could have helped you once, but you’re gone.

I could kiss your lips, but you’re gone

I tried but missed, and you’re gone

And though I ache for you like I expected to

I could have loved you more, but you’re gone.

Regrets are like Roses

Regrets are like roses,

Their tender thorns

Do prick and wound

With beautiful scorn

And e'er the soul know discontent

The flower blooms and soon is spent.

Why

If I asked

Why

Would you even

Try to find

A lie

That might quiet me

Make my question

Silent

As my words so often

To you are

Unheard

Refracting off

Diamond-hard conviction

That your reasons are

So much better than mine

But you still

Will not even say

Why

My Love is Like

My love is like a red, red rose

My hate is like a garden hose

And all the spaces in between

Fertile with words I didn't mean

Setting: Selection and Significance

By definition, every novel must have at least one setting. Even if a science fiction author were to write about a character floating around in a great abyss of nothingness, that abyss is still the place where things happen (or don’t happen, as the case may be). So how do writers choose the location for their story? How much does that choice matter to the story?

In my first novella, My Apple Tree, the setting was never specified for the reader. It could have been any town, really. The reality was that in my own mind the story was set in Joplin, Missouri, my mother’s hometown. The setting in this case was more important to me than the reader, and it definitely influenced the way I felt about the story and the choices I made concerning the plot and characters. After a devastating tornado leveled a third of the city, I went to visit my family there. What I saw had a profound impact on me, and that overwhelming mix of grief and rebirth was transferred to the story and my characters. So in that instance, the setting was very significant, but not in a way that the audience would necessarily be aware of. Normally, I would post pictures to illustrate my point. Although I do have pictures of the affected area, the devastation and loss these people faced is too personal to broadcast. However, the cover photo was taken at a nearby cemetery where much of my family is buried, and so that, too, has deep personal significance for me.

The significance of setting was flipped around for Wishing Cotton. For this story, the setting I envisioned was entirely fictional. I just needed a summer resort on a beach, with isolated cabins and a nearby funfair to suit the needs of my story. In other words, the setting was determined by the demands of the plot rather than the other way around. Beyond its function to support the story I wanted to tell, the setting has no further significance to me as a writer. Because of this, the only details I provide are ones that are necessary in order to present each scene clearly. Otherwise, the characters could be anywhere else and the plot could remain largely unaffected.

Setting again became important when I wrote my historical romance, The Truth Seekers. For this novel, I used a real-life location as the foundation for the story. Although I employ a great deal of artistic license, my protagonists Geoffrey Hawes and Miranda Claridge meet for the first time in an unnamed fictional community that is based on the very real Chautauqua Institution in New York State. 

Athenaeum Hotel

The grounds of this historic community preserve a great deal of the world that Geoffrey and Miranda would have inhabited, and the focus on philosophy, art, music, and learning lends itself to a novel of this type. It was simple to imagine two Victorian lovers debating the merits of different social and philosophical principles in such a setting. While I did change a number of minor details, such as turning the very real Packard Manor into the governor’s mansion, the architecture, landscape, and pace of the location are kept very true to life.

Geoffrey first encounters Miranda in the Hall of Philosophy, which not only is a real building on the grounds at Chautauqua, but also is the source of the book’s title. 

 

The Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle is the longest continuously running book club in the United States, and for many years, each year’s theme was preserved in mosaics running along the floor of the Hall. Visitors to the Hall of Philosophy can easily find The Truth Seekers mosaic.

In many ways, my love of Chautauqua influenced my handling of Geoffrey and Miranda’s story, but at the same time, it would not have been possible to envision their story in the first place without having experienced the setting beforehand. This is a place where it is easy to picture what life must have been like one hundred years ago, and it is also a place where one can feel the passage of time and the natural continuity of life and love and time. A great deal of the grounds have remained largely unchanged and are teeming with artists, authors, poets, dancers, musicians, theologians, and thinkers. It would be near impossible for a creative person to be in such an environment and not be inspired. Because of this, The Truth Seekers became not only a love story between two people, but it is also the story of an author’s love for a place. I hope that by bringing Geoffrey and Miranda’s world to life, I have also captured in some small way the magic of this small, precious community.

Miller Bell Tower on Lake Chautauqua

In these three examples, you see how differently setting can be used to shape and influence a story and its characters. For writers, it is important to consider the role setting plays in a piece so that the handling of locations and environments complements the tale you are trying to tell. For readers, it is often a subtle influence that can color your perception of the world each new character inhabits. Either way, settings are something to enjoy and explore, even if only in one’s imagination.

Reprint: M.C. Rayne Blog Guest Post

Here's another "reissued" guest blog post while I'm tied up with editing. This particular entry was originally posted on August 4, 2013, on M.C. Rayne's blog in support of my newest release, Wishing Cotton. I was very appreciative of the opportunity and am grateful to M.C. Rayne for hosting me. I'm providing the link to the original posting below; I encourage you to check out his blog!

Simple Storytelling

               A short story is often difficult to talk about in-depth simply due to its brevity, and so readers may wonder why an author would choose not to expand a tale into a full-length novel. As writers of flash fiction will tell you, it is possible to create a whole, breathing, vibrant world in very few words, and short stories are often more complex than their lengthier counterparts. My previous short story, My Apple Tree, actually told two separate stories that covered a great deal of time and incorporated several different characters. However, I have elected to keep my new short story, Wishing Cotton, very simple and uncomplicated.

                In my experience, it is the little moments in a story that resonate the strongest with readers rather than the entire plot as a whole. Readers want, of course, to be engaged throughout the full length of the tale, whether it be a novel or a short story. However, a story’s success often hinges on just a paragraph or two – sometimes only one sentence. I’m not pretending to have a powerful, magical moment like that, but it does support the theory that a story does not need to be complicated to be enjoyable.

                Wishing Cotton is by far the simplest story I’ve ever written (as an adult, anyway). On its face, it introduces us to three characters: Olive Alexander, her friend Blair Adams, and Peter Keyes. Olive and Blair are vacationing together in a cabin by the beach, and Peter has likewise rented one of his own. All three characters are at a moment in their lives when they must make some decision about where they will go from here. Olive is adjusting after the end of a long-term relationship, Blair is struggling against her need for financial security, and Peter is living under the shadow of a professional failure. While each of them responds in their unique way to their challenges, none of these scenarios are unusual. We can understand the emotions behind their situations because each is something that almost everyone has experienced in their lives. By not focusing on the particulars of the back story, we are able to see the commonalities that resonate with our own experiences.

                Likewise, it is the simplicity of this story that allows the reader to see the true lessons that can be taken from each small development in the plot. In order to move forward, the characters must be honest with themselves and identify what is most important to each of them. Until they do this, each of them is trapped in a moment of indecision. If the overarching story were more complex, this essential detail would be lost, but without anything to distract from it, the reader is fully aware of the truth behind each character’s ultimate wish.

                I will admit that it is somewhat daunting to present such a basic, straightforward plot. The modern trend favors more dramatic and tempestuous story lines. However, as with any other manuscript I’ve worked on, the central idea and the characters engaged and intrigued me, and I felt that their experiences, however simple, deserved to be brought to life. Authors – like any creative professionals – need to continually stretch and develop their skill, and I have found that writing a simple story is far more challenging than I would have anticipated.

Wishing Cotton is being released on July 23, 2013, by Renaissance Romance Publishing. I hope that readers will enjoy my effort at simple storytelling!

  
M.C. Rayne 8/4/13 Guest Blog