Gifts (11/25/2013)

We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us. –Marcel Proust

It’s no wonder my mom and I became best friends. Friendships grow from shared experiences and circumstances, shared location and shared interests. We had all three. I was the only one still left at home when Dad died. I went through Dad’s illness along with Mom.

And after, while Mom was dealing with her own grief and fear, she had a daughter she had to look out for. I imagine that was an added worry and a gift.  I remember the first night after Dad died, my sister and brother went home with their spouses. I went home with Mom.

The house was so still as we lay together in the bed Mom had shared with Dad so many years. Neither one of us was willing to spend the night alone. Neither of us could sleep. Mom talked me down into sleep with whispered instructions I still remember. “Just relax your toes, sweetie. Concentrate on your toes. Now, your feet.”

I don’t remember what body part she reached by the time I fell asleep, but I remember the relief of that sleep. I was eighteen; she was fifty. Too young to face the next few weeks, the labyrinth of insurance, survivor’s benefits.

We couldn’t help but cling together a bit. I know I felt adrift, school was a blur and I sure didn’t feel like joining the Christmas doings there. I wanted to stay home, lick my wounds. And frankly, I was a little afraid to leave my mom in the house alone.

There was stuff to go through, decisions to be made, meals to fix, life to muck through. 

I was a rebellious teen, still, and ready to spread my wings and she was a little lost. I wish I had understood more…about everything. I didn’t. But life eventually brought us to the same place, circumstances, of sorts and we’d always had the same interests.

Like every other set of parents, ours gave us kids’ gifts. Do your best, take good care of your teeth, don’t leave home with dirty underwear-you never know when you might get in an accident, pretty is as pretty does, be polite. The two I appreciate most, are the love of music and the love of reading.  But Mom gave me three other gifts almost as important; gardening, cooking and needlework.

How could I know these five gifts would define me, save me and heal me?

Time

Time

Time has been the thing I struggle with the most. I dare to bet it is that way for most writers. We all fit our writing time between very complicated lives. I never expected or wanted to write ‘full time,’ but I have longed for a few quiet hours a day with no distractions.

No, I am not delusional…You know, that statement most likely doesn’t make sense when you factor in that I am talking about a writer. Writers work in delusion, right? Anyway, I digress.

I really thought, when I began my writing, a million years ago, that I could find those few quiet hours. After all, I nurtured, nursed and guided three boys to school age and I was blessed with being a stay-at-home mom. It was the perfect situation. While the boys were at school, my husband working on thirty or more hours, off twelve, I could spend mornings writing, afternoons keeping house, fixing meals, running the boys to their extracurricular activities.

Here it is, twenty some odd years later, and the best I can say is it did not go according to plan. I know, I know. I was to get out the message that I worked in the mornings and was not to be disturbed. I got the message out. I know, I know. I was not to answer the phone, the door, the cell. Done, at least most days. I was to put butt in chair. (If you look at my south end, you know I did that.) Every book, every article on writing tells you this. Heck, I can see that you must do these things. I am a firm believer in ‘don’t wish for it, work for it.

What no one tells you is how to get up, get those kids off to school, sit your butt in the chair when the person supporting the family and your writing has an on call job and the phone rings at two in the morning. How to balance all those little sticky problems that come up with family, neighbors, finances, difficult delivery companies or repair companies who no longer seem to accommodate the customer. No one tells you just how little your family, friends, neighbors take you that seriously. After all, you are home all day.

(Frankly, I really think the whole concept of writing, whether fiction or not, is hard for ‘civilians’ to get. It is hard to see the difference between sitting down to write and sitting down to ‘write.’)

I can’t even begin to say how angry I was for many of those first few years. At my family for not respecting my space, my writing, my wishes. (Guilt involved.) At someone reading my work that wasn’t ready for ‘other eyes.’ At the computer…acquiring one, learning to work it, relearning new technology, crashes, lost work. I was making myself crazy. I had so much to learn with the writing, the computer, the way publishing worked.

I can’t begin to tell you how many times I told my husband that it would be so much easier to just give up.

And…unfortunately, time has only gotten more complicated. I have more blessings, more titles: Wife, Mom, daughter, sister, grandma, caregiver for a breast cancer survivor and 90-something parent…chief cook and bottle washer. The list does go on, but you get the idea. 

And now, worse…It seems writers have more shoulds. They should Facebook, printerest, twitter, blog, goodreads, keep up with their favorite writers, blogs, network, promote and keep up with all the new ways of being published.

I don’t know how the writers do it. I really, truly don’t. And have a life.

At one time, I let this get me down. I’m realistic; I know I can’t do it all. I really can’t. And more, I don’t want to. When it’s all said and done, when I peel back everything but what I want to do, it’s simple. I just want to write. And have my sweet, little life. Maybe, that will be, is my downfall, too.

Yes, I want to be published, but some of this other stuff writers should do just seems like lint on velvet. White noise, busy work. I hate busy work.

I want what I want. And when I really look at the other side of it, because writers love to read, I want my writers, writing.

It’s true. It’s wonderful that I can contact the writer of my latest read, tell him how much I loved his book, read his blog, find out what’s happening with him any minute on twitter.

I’ll bet a writer loves to hear what a reader thinks of their book. I even feel compelled by a good read to send a writer that message, but new world of promotion has its price. The price is time

Clear back, all those twenty-something years ago, I made choices about my writing vs. my life. Maybe, those choices are the very reason I’ve not published a novel yet. I would hope not because my life always comes first. No, I think I needed those years to learn how to write, how to live. I wouldn’t change the life I’ve had or the time I’ve spent with loved ones (they are temporary, you know), but time just keeps stacking up behind me. Some of my choices now, are no choice at all. I am in the care giving for the long haul and for that to end means losing my parent, so that is what it is. I’m getting older, so life to, has a little more say on my time, too. I have to make more painful choices.

I’m going to be stingy with my time. I’ll spend most of my writing time, writing. Blogging and Facebook sparsely. It’s what I want my favorite writers to do, too. That’s what I want to do. That’s why I began that journey, all those years ago. 

Upgrade

If you do not get it from yourself, where will you go for it? –Alan Watts


I have to apologize for neglecting this blog. I had no intension of not writing. I value those few who followed me. Love writing the blogs, but lately…No, let me be truthful. It’s been since August 13 that I’ve written a blog. Before that, quite honestly, I was slowing down, running out of things to blog. I was getting bored…so of course, I was likely boring.

Well, even that’s not the complete truth. Frankly, I was running out of things I wanted to be honest about.

And there it is. Honestly. I’ve always tried to be honest in my writing. (Hey, a saint I am not.) I like the honest writer, warts and all, respect them, want to be one. Even when things get a little ugly, hard, sad, tough. In fact, I think that’s what I like reading best…and I suspect so do most readers. I want to write honest…except….I’m so private, painfully shy and come from a family that is the same. And the years since I started the blog have been riddled with life unexpected.

 Actually, the blog started from just that. So much of what was happening in my life, I felt like I had to be careful about what I said. After all, some of those involved might read it…might misinterpret what I said and take offense. The exact thing that so many writers writing memoirs run into. And I just wasn’t sure how to approach the more touchy things.

 I started the blog after recovering from MPGN, a kidney disease that I thought was going to do me in. It didn’t, but during the illness I got scared about dying and as I recovered I got even more scared about my writing. It seemed lost. I’ve written many, many (ad nauseam, truly)times of all that, but what I didn’t write about—the before that continued during and continues still. Caregiving…husband’s retirement, age, frustration, anger, rejections, fear, guilt. Oh, I’ve touched on the subjects, but…It’s difficult, private and complicated. It’s the underbelly of my writing.

 I made a decision to be up, to always grin and bear it, to be positive. And I stand by that decision still, but I think going forward I’ll try to write in a more honest way. After all, I’m still here, still writing, still caregiving, getting older, frustrated, angry, sometimes. And I still fear all the same stupid things. That’s a positive, right? And besides, I’m betting that there are more writers out there like me than writers that are never scared, never frustrated or anger, who have not a care in the world.

 First, the apology to those who read this blog, if there are any left. There weren’t many anyway, but I’ve purposely and quite abruptly stopped writing my weekly/twice weekly blog. It likely came as no surprise, as the blog posts were not up to snuff, in my view and had fallen off in frequency, too. I know this happens to blogs all the time. The blogger has moved on, changed, time problems come, boredom comes. Life happens, in other words.

But I’m still in this. I’m still frustrated by: by a frail elderly mother whose memory sometimes takes me down the rabbit hole with her, a husband who tries, really tries but thinks he is the exception to that rule: she’s writing, don’t bother her unless there is fire, blood or water. Sons who need babysitting help, advice, a shoulder and my mother-instinct kicks in and their needs come first. And of course, there is the needed down time, housework—I don’t have help-meals, shopping—life. But…truth of the matter, these are my blessings, too and I know it. These are the same things every other writer is dealing with. And I know that, too. There may be health issues, divorces, money issues, but we all have similar stories and I think, I hope other writers can get something from hearing about mine, still.
 • I’ll also start blogging about books I’ve read again. I’ll be recommending books I like. If I can’t say something nice about a book, I won’t say anything at all.
 • There will be recipes. I eat, therefore, I cook but more importantly, I read a lot of cookbooks. I read them cover to cover like a novel. I love cookbooks and it is just one of the things I collect with a passion. I’ll recommend those I love that have something that makes them worth owning. If I try a recipe and like it, I’ll write a post with the recipe. If I tweaked it, I’ll write about that. I tweak a lot of recipes. I have a huge collection, but my absolute favorite recipes are those that are easy. Easy is perfect for other writers, right? I mean other writers are trying not to starve, trying not to let their love ones starve. I love to cook(we all have to eat), but not if it interferes with that chapter I can finally finish. So simple, easy is good and something to pass on. Just another thing that I hope will help other writers, but if it helps moms, readers and anyone else, so much the better.
• I’ll post about any new thing, idea or book that helps me in my writing.
• I’ll post about ‘finds’. Down time includes antique malls and swap meets.
• I’ll post a little about my dog because that is another reason my blog posts have dwindled to nothing. New puppy, lots of training. I’m three months into potty training (that’s gone perfectly, knock wood), basic command training which includes heeling on our daily two mile walk. (Only tripped once. I no longer bounce, but I survived.) She’s got sit and down. We’re working on stay. She sleeps by the desk while I work.  Which is where I need her. She fills the void left by the dog before her and…there has always been a dog before her.

Making Room for Life

It is said, by many experts, published authors, agents, editors, publishers that what you put into your writing directly affects whether you are published or not. I, myself, believe” Don’t wish for it, work for it.” I learned early that I was never going to be one of those people that things come to easily. (Truth is that is just an impression anyway, a way we see things. We all have our struggles, many of which can not be seen by others, but often we suppose that if we haven’t seen it, it didn’t happen. Believe me, that’s not true.) Frankly, I figured this out quite young and yet, still, sometimes I’d ask myself why things seemed so easy for some. Well, you know, that pity party we all succumb to on occasion. Or is that just another of my flaws? Anyway, I’ve been rolling up my sleeves and doing things myself for so long: when I loved the look of my friend’s house with all the homemade afghans and doilies her mother had made scattered around, I knew that if I wanted that homey, homemade look, I’d have to do the crocheting, or if I wanted a pretty garden, I’d have to do the learning, planting, upkeep. And when my husband started working for the railroad I knew that, in many ways, I would be a single mom raising three boys on my own, mostly. I’ve always been ok with that because I love teaching myself things (I’m not too good with joining, group things, etc. I’m somewhat of a loner, enjoying silence, my own chosen music, and schedule and thoughts more than most of my friends and family. I seek quiet, alone space. It feeds me and my writing and my peace.) I love little boys, I loved teaching my kids, training my dogs, teaching myself, learning, learning, learning. I explain this because when the writing is tough, not going so well, or interrupted, tripped up and all those other things that fall upon the progress of writing, I tend to bow my head, get determined and try to plow on through. I tend to avoid necessary interruptions such as illness, appointments, family obligations, though if any of that is connected with my elderly parent or kids or husband or pets I do it willingly. So, of course, what I’m saying is I don’t always take care of my needs as I should in order to get in my writing time. I put off things I need, want so I can do my due diligence to the love of writing. In short I forget to live. I love to write. I want to put my best into it, so I forget, sometimes, there will be nothing inside to write about if I don’t take the time to just live. But life is funny, isn’t it? I’ve been so missing the one next t o me, day and night, the one who followed everywhere I went, the one who walked with me every day, brought me the remote, the phone, my trowel, a ball, a bottle, the one who watched over me while I fought kidney disease and railroad widowhood, who listened to my primary caregiver woes and worrying about the kids woes, and loneliness, the one at my feet while I wrote and listened to passages without more than a tilt of the head. I’ve been blue and off balance for months. I wanted to fix that but held back. The work, the training, my age…was I up to it? And more importantly, was my life, as it is now, up to it. Things happen and help for my elderly parent has slowly gotten to be less, as my parent’s needs are becoming more. I’m no spring chicken and time is running out for me to make a mark as a writer. Maybe, that’s all I should concentrate. Maybe, that’s all I should ask of myself, my husband and my life. Still, the spot near my feet has been empty and that emptiness echoes, echoes, echoes hollow. I agonized over getting another dog and then life and serendipitous opportunity and a sweet little puppy changed all that and I’m ankle deep in puppy, training, poop-scooping and laughs. Funny thing is this: I’ve had to spend many minutes outside waiting for the puppy to go to the bathroom, middle of the night waits, mid-morning waits, interruptions to writing time or training time over-lapping into the same. I’ve been so busy with it all, I’ve not seen a whole newscast, but I’ve heard the wind through the cottonwoods out back. Barely get the paper read so I know little of what’s happening or not with congress, the senate, terrorists, immigrants, the Kardashians. I don’t care. Don’t miss it a wink and I’ve seen the sky freckled with stars and gossamer clouds, seen geese fly toward the pond behind our house on silent wings loud enough for a puppy to hear, heard doves coo of love, smelled puppy breath and played in the sprinklers. I’ve taught sit, come, a name and smiled and smiled and smiled. But more surprising is I’ve written in blazes of glory words, words pouring from me, raining on to the page as fast as I can type. New stories, old rewrites, poems coming fast and sweet and good. My voice has become more natural, easy and soft. I’ve become more myself, relaxed, balanced. Yes, there is so much more to do, but so much more I’m able to do. It’s been as if I’ve awakened from a sleep. Am I still scared about some of those worries I had? Like what happens if my parent’s health gets worse, or my illness returns. Yes, but I can’t do anything more than live each day and I certainly shouldn’t make my life smaller. That doesn’t serve me, my writing or the life I am living.

Writing Integrity

I read each new issue of the Writer, Writer’s Digest and RWR cover to cover, feeding on the advice, those gems of wisdom from writers far more experienced than I do—published writers, writers who give workshops, write how-to books for writers. I’ve been doing so since high school many decades ago. I still have yellowed pages torn from old issues. The magazines gave me my degree in writing, such as it is. The magazines where a consistent teacher was always available when I was, supportive even when the idea of success was buried beneath diapers, housework and railroad widowhood.

I would say I have a doctorate in writing advice, if time spent, advice taken, practiced and improved counts for anything. Times have changed, though. Publishing has changed. Making money from writing has changed. Writers have had to change their approach. Lately, a lot.

We can blame the internet for much of that change. Of noted interest and maybe, worry/ second thoughts, not just for writers but for our children was Internet Brain by Hillary Casavant in August 2013 issue of the Writer.

I’ve found advice is a funny thing. You can read it, take it but it’s the timely advice that sinks in and takes hold. In this same issue (August issue of the Writer) another article sank in deep and got me thinking— Separation Anxiety by Julie Krug. Krug wrote about writing or the inability to during times of trouble, pain, illness, sorrow. You know—life.

I’ve gone through my own troubled times where writing was impossible, where illness, family needs, grief, disaster has sidelined my writing and I see more of it in my windshield. If you’ve read my blog you know, I’m primary caregiver to a ninety-six year old parent, which is something I have to knit my writing around. Without a doubt, that will change to something else. Something I know will challenge the flow of my writing, even more.

Writing is challenging at any time, but I’ve found having writing integrity has helped. What is writing integrity? For me, above all, it’s being honest with myself, being kind to myself and having in place several plans for those tough-spot times. Go-to measures I can reach out, almost with second nature to keep my heart, mind and hands in the writing.

My go-to plan when actual writing would be impossible. When grief, illness, disaster turns my world and work upside-down: Read, read fiction, read writing advice, write poetry, read poetry, watch movies that pluck at emotion, take notes of what I want to write, journal, draw or paint, take pictures, research, heal, take care of myself, give myself time to gain balance and perspective, find a listener, be a listener, do something kind for someone, for myself, spend time with my dog, cat, garden, play music from my youth, rest, walk.

I keep this list in an emergency file along with prompts, ideas, articles for writing emergencies.



I’ve had to learn to do this. Learn what it takes to hold me close to writing and not let that dream all spin away. In the process, I’ve learned how strong I really am, even when I’m not certain that I am. I’ve learned what supports me, what I need and how to ask for it, what gets my writer’s mind going. It’s not been easy to learn. I’ve had to try and fail, hang on with tooth and nail, pay attention to what actually works, what doesn’t.

When I started back writing after my illness, I struggled to get back into the work I left half-down, deserted. For one, it just frustrating and heartbreaking to see what I thought was the finishing up of a book was in disarray. Worse was, I just couldn’t get back into it. I was so anxious to start working again, but my mind was still affected by medication. I was overwhelmed with the idea of backtracking before I could go forward. I didn’t have the energy to do it and worse, I was so afraid I’d lost the ability. (That was one of the worse parts about the illness-that fear. I felt so much like I’d lost a part of myself)

Thankfully, I found poetry could be my entry into writing. I always had been. I just didn’t realize it. I had to learn that for myself. So I learned to: Be purposeful. Trust time. Trust that, if I was a writer I would have to come back to it. I’d have no choice. I had to trust that I was a writer and that had nothing what so ever to do with what had been published or bought.

I think now, that time of crisis, that time of doubt and trying to find my writing again was the best thing for my writing. It has made me appreciate every word I write. It makes me anxious to get to my desk. It makes me fight through every kind of block and fear.

So, let there be tears, false starts, garbage on the page. It’s hard. It’s gonna be hard. It will always be hard, ‘cause the thing is, troubled times don’t end or go away. They just are. Muscles atrophy, even writing muscles. So, each time I stumble or get shoved off the road, I start again—small. With one word, one sentence, even if I have to steal it from someone, somewhere else. And I do steal. I claw, I write. I live and write some more. My heart breaks, I write. The first thing I think about in the morning is writing. Something wonderful happens I don’t text, I write.

Return from Yellowstone

Getting back into the swing of things since returning from vacation has been difficult. The pile on my desk discouraging, most of all. The thought of tackling all the bits and pieces I brought back littering my desk is as bad as the flowerbeds needing attention. But if I’m to treat my writing seriously, I have to treat it like any other job and get to it.

I only himed and hawed a little, after all, most of the piles were writings or pictures I took to use for prompts for poetry I began while vacationing. (Plus a huge stack of books) That’s the thing with a writer. They really don’t have an off switch. Lucky, my husband finally realizes this and facilitates my crazy mind. It’s the criminal scenarios I imagine that can get to him. See, there is always more going on in a situation than meets the eye. Usually nefarious. Anyway, in my writer’s mind.

My poor husband never imagines anyone having some kind of ulterior motive, never thinks someone would do anything untoward to him…until I bring it up. I think this is so because he’s so nice and would never think of doing anything bad to anyone. He just doesn’t have a devious mind or a mind that wonders of motives, sees stories behind everything.

I digress…the desk…my desk…I can finally see the top. I’m ready to get back into my writing, my edits. I’ve filed all my notes, downloaded my pictures, organized a portable poetry workbook I’ve been wanting to do, put away the wonderful books I found in West Yellowstone ( all in one section of The Book Peddler. I could have spent all day and a fortune there, but I limited myself to the Women in the West section.) I’m doing this blog and did get my picture done.

Oh, wait, I didn’t write my news: just before I left for vacation, I got word I was one of eight finalists in the PNWA Literary Contest for my poem: Songbird. I tend to put entries out of my mind, so as not to obsess over them. The phone call took me by surprise. I’m still shocked…tickled…shocked…pleased and shocked.

I’m actually excited to get back to work on my book though, and…hesitant. I’m so hopeful for this book (and series) and afraid it won’t be all I want it to be. But, just like tackling my messy desk, I begin…one little step at a time.

By the way, got to go horseback riding while I was gone. Something, I sure wanted to do again before I no longer could.

How soon can I go again?

 

I’ve read the advice, on both writing and caregiving. Advice on the two is often contradicting, impossible, guilt producing. The truth is it lulls me slowing into a funk.


I don’t want to say depression, though, mainly because that has become another word that makes me feel guilty, lost, wrong and (shhh, whisper, you didn’t hear it from me) depressed. As I read this advice, I mentally go through the day-to-day tasks for my elderly parent. I try to juggle this while I cling to my writing, manage a home, attempt to be a decent grandma, wife to a retired railroader( yes, believe it or not that is a bit different than 9-5 workers because old habit die hard and he’d never had a work schedule). It’s had to find time to write, research, rewrite, fill the well, overcome an overscheduled mind with many schedules to take into account (my mother’s doctor visits, drug/insurance schedule, yard care, house cleaning, as well as my own, plus husband’s). It nearly impossible to find time for myself for things such as, exercise, diet, down time to do the other things I love enough to be mentally good at all the aforementioned stuff, such as gardening, antiques, photography…Well, and etcetera.

It is impossible. I can’t do it. I’m not stupid. I’m a realist, but I am also—a dreamer.

I’ve been managing as a railroad widow for 30 something years. What that meant: I never knew when my husband was going to work; he/I/the family had an hour and a half for him to get ready for work that would take him away from home for at least thirty-six hours. It didn’t matter if we were in the middle of a plumbing crisis, dinner, concert, soccer game. We couldn’t afford for him to miss work. That would likely be fourth of his paycheck if he did. So, everything stopped when he got the call, a meal made, plus a lunch, while he showered and packed. Whatever came up while he was gone I had to be handle on my own.

Don’t get me wrong. There were all kinds of advantages to the life and I learned to be organized and ready for just about everything, which serves me well now. I’ve had lots of time to write and yet, not. I’ve often been what we call a railroader widow—a single mom taking care of home and family. I was the one helping with the Pinewood Derby, the shop projects, broken windows of the neighbors.

With all that, this caregiving challenge has been the most devastating to my writing.

As my parent has aged, it has been an ever-increasing addition of jobs to take over, take care of and still I’m letting so much…too much slid. There have been health issues for both her and me. Not so surprising for me to have them, caregivers often do. The stress of caregiving adds to a caregiver’s well-being.

I’ve been extremely lucky; my parent has remained mobile, alert, with an almost too-good memory until recently. The changes in my life: my parent’s declining health, memory and my husband’s retirement has further hampered my writing and as I’m pragmatic( really: heart in the clouds, head on the ground, do the chores, before you have the fun) when it comes to responsibility, I know finding time to write is impossible. I can’t do it. I will never move my writing ahead. I am, after all, a senior myself.

Depression often dogs me because of the impossible situation in which I find myself. Yet, I know what I’m determined to do. Take care of my parent, as best I can, and the rest of my wonderful, worth-it family and stay healthy, happy as possible and WRITE. STILL.

I write to save myself. I write to be myself and find myself. It was what I was meant to do with my life. I know this…I have always known this. And that I am not as successful as I hoped breaks my heart and yet…I write…every day. That only is such an accomplishment.

All these stumbling blocks…they are my life and none of it is going anywhere soon. I have to deal with it, such as it is.

So…, I write. I still write. I fight, and scratch, and steal the time, but I still write. I cry, and rant, and cuss, and mourn. I still write. I forget, disappoint, fail, mess up. I still write.

Sometimes…never, is it as long or as much as I want to, but I write. Every day…something. Sometimes, I let someone down, everyone but I try as hard as possible to make sure it isn’t my mom. She is the neediest. She is the ephemeral. I try never to forget that.

But I write. I work on my novels during the week when I have time and they take too long, the rewrites take too long, everything takes too long. I work on poetry every chance I get, especially on vacation. I write the poems, rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, sometimes a hundred drafts before I’m satisfied, and they take too long.

But…I still write.