My Blog

I finished book two and I queried my editor. It is now safely in her hands along with my first book. The wait continues! Waiting isn’t the easiest thing in the world for me. But here I am tapping my foot under the desk while trying with very little luck, mind you, not to think daily about the two books. I only wish it were, out of sight, out of mind.

My thoughts are of the garden variety really, like you must have been insane to do this, or what were you thinking. I’m excited and at the same time I’m slightly mental. But, I’ll keep waiting because that’s what you do. You query and you wait to hear. They ask for a few chapters and you wait to hear. A request for the Manuscript arrives, it’s sent, and you wait to hear. They like it, a contract is signed, and you wait for edits, a galley, and a release date. I’m sure there must be something important about all of the waiting but as of yet I’m not sure exactly what it is. So I keep writing like a mad woman hearing voices in her head and book three is underway. I was told a few days ago I should have a time – line for book one soon, and you’ve got it by now, I’m waiting to hear.

Joann Macy said, “The heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe.”

It seems we spend endless amounts of time trying to keep our heart from breaking. But, life has a way of sneaking up on us with events that do just that. When all the dust settles, and you put the pieces back together, at some point you realize that you’re maybe a little stronger than you thought; compassion runs a little deeper inside of you and you care for those who are going through hard times just a little more. Basically we learn to be human.

Recently my cousin lost her son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter in a massive rock slide here in Colorado. The family had gone out for a hike on a beautiful fall day. And then it happened, a rock slide the size of a football field over took them. One of the daughters was pushed to safety although still injured while five of them perished in a moment. My cousin’s family along with two nephews. With the news of the loss my heart broke open and grief poured in; grief for my cousin, a mother and grandmother who lost so much; for a son who had stayed home and 13 year old daughter who must now live without their parents and a sibling; for extended family and for more than a thousand people who attended their service who will now live without their friends.

It’s at times like this we are reminded that life is precious and of what is important. We face our on mortality and are reminded that it’s not about what you have but what you do with your life.  Yes, I can see it now, “the heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe.” 

Life rarely gives you a perfect script. As a matter of fact it’s often messy and not what we expect. It can be contrary to our best laid plans and often mocks our optimism. Life gets interrupted! The urgent takes the place of the important. But here, at my computer, I can for a moment have it my way. Stories can end the way I say.

I can imagine people in my world the way I would like to see them. I can have happy endings, kind people, and good that triumphs over evil; moonlight runs, ocean views and heroes or heroines  who save the day; true love that last a life time, people who rise above their hardships, and people who win in the end. I can make up towns to live in, villains who will not succeed and the most unlikely person will rise above the rest. It’s my world for the time that I sit here writing. Yes, I know I can’t stay here and yes, I know nothing in life may have changed, that is nothing but me.

Somehow I walk away with the belief there is still so much beauty in the world around me. So many great stories of ordinary people still to be told. Those stories tell me that one life can make a difference even if it’s only to me; they remind me that every life is valuable and cannot be replaced by another. So I breathe in and I breathe out. I walk putting one foot in front of the other even if I have no where to go. I believe life is still beautiful and I’m thankful to be alive.

The morning fog had lifted as we made our way to the park in Mendocino, California. It had rained earlier but the sun was finally peeking from behind the clouds. The were artisans and musicians with booths and tables arranged with their goods on display. Over towards the edge of the park I saw an older man.  I was drawn to him as he sat there with his gray head bent over his table working on something. As I approached he looked up with his faded  sparkling eyes and asked me to sit down. He handed me a small book to read. “You’ll have time.” He said smiling at me. “It will only take you a minute but it’s worth the time.” It was a true story entitled the Christmas Story by Jay Frankston. It fascinated me so I bought several copies and had him autograph the small books. He shared how that as a Jewish child he had always felt like Christmas was a big party for everyone and he wasn’t invited to it.  He went on to tell me this story.

“When I got married and had kids I decided to make up for it. I started with a seven-foot tree, all decked out with lights and tinsel, and a Star of David on top to soothe those whose Jewish feelings were frayed by the display and for them it was a Hanukah bush. And it warmed my heart to see the glitter, because now the party was at my house and everyone was invited.”

But  he still felt like something was missing so he bought a Santa suit, spent time watching how Santa was with the children at the mall and did the same. For two years he played Santa to his own children but by the third year he said; “The Santa personality in me had grown and needed more than I had given him.” He wanted to do more. He came up with the idea of going through the many letters sent to Santa each year that ended up in sacks at the post office where he lived in New York, City. Most of them were gimme, gimme, gimme letters. But one changed it all for him.

“Dear Santa,

I hope you get my letter. I am 11 years old. I have two brothers and a baby sister. My father died last year and my mother is sick. I know there are many who are poorer than we are and I want nothing for myself. But could you send us a blanket because mommy’s cold at night. Suzy.

He sent Suzy a telegraph which said: “I GOT YOUR LETTER. WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA.

It began, right there, a giving tradition for his family, that went on for many years. It started with 18-20 children and grew to as many as a 120.

His little book touched me so much with what the true spirit of giving is really about. He took an icon of life, didn’t argue about whether it was spiritual or even of his own tradition  but made it a beautiful and moving act of generosity. If you can find the book I would suggest you get it. It is a great little treasure.

One person can really make a difference!

Jessie Reynolds had no idea when she moved to Blue Cove she would be sharing her life with a ghost. A young pastor is murdered and Jessie finds herself following the trail of death into the dark and deadly world of organ trafficking. The detective in charge of the case is Matt Parker, a tall, scruffy, and ruggedly handsome man who takes an instant dislike to her and the feeling is mutual. He wants her out of his investigation and she finds herself entangled in it. As the tension between them mounts so does the attraction.

Here is one small scene between them:

Jessie didn’t say anything but handed him the note. She had forgotten about until she had reached in her purse to give Molly some money. She watched him scan it, his hand clenched at his side.  “Short but to the point.'” He frowned and read it to her. “Quit looking for things your eyes shouldn’t see or like Gina you’ll deal with me. Blue eyes will go the way of brown only your body will never be found.”

I sent off the last five chapters of my second book a few days ago to go through their first edit. I labored a while over the end of the book hoping to get it just right. I think the ending of a book is more difficult than the beginning, or the middle. The end of the story is like the Amen at the close of a prayer. A good ending will resonate long after the story is finished. It can leave the reader with a lasting impression even if all the threads aren’t neatly tied.

Personally, I am most satisfied, I must confess, when it’s a happy ending even if everything is not perfect. It lets me imagine it that way. I also like being able to fill in the blanks and consider the possibility of another story with the same characters I’ve come to love.

Carl Sagan said, “Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.” At best I guess, I want to create a little magic that entertains you and to which you breathe a smile at its end.

After a lengthy process of moving from a large house to a condo we are finally settled in. Tired, but happy to have it done. Along the way we had to downsize and let go of more than a few possessions. Not so easy until you get into the swing of it, and then it’s just freeing. We are still getting rid of more since we’ve got into the new place. I’m beginning to think moving, as hard as it is, may be a very good thing. It’s way too easy to get comfortable and never change your surroundings or try new things. Letting go of some of the old and making room for something new can be the beginning of a whole new way to live. So I’m moving on.

This has been a year of change for me. So many things happening in a short period of time. It has challenged, stretched and encouraged me to be and to do things I’ve only dreamed about. Here’s to moving on in life and  the hope that as long as you continue to breathe you can grow, create and make some of your dreams come true. 🙂

Amour, amore, love! In any language it is the subject of many novels, poems and songs. And, of course, murder mysteries when the relationship goes bad. It has always fascinated me what attracts one person to another. There are so many variables that go into two people meeting, falling in love, and finding happiness together. Whether they will remain in love is also the subject of many other books.

Needless to say we have been reading stories for years built around people falling in and out of love; during war and times of peace; in this world or in other worlds; in this era or those gone by; with the girl next door or even of the ghostly variety. From the sheer joy of it’s first stirrings or the utter despondency with it’s loss, love is there, always hanging near the edges of our minds. We hope for it, we search for it and long for it to last a life-time. It is the basis for all that is good and decent in the world. A life without love wouldn’t be life at all!

Every town worth its salt has to have a coffee shop and a local hang out. In Blue Cove the place to be is Patterson’s or Java Joes.  If it’s coffee you want, head for Java Joes. Molly, the friendly and slightly colorful, shop manager will be waiting to serve you your coffee with a small side of gossip. You’ll find Joes to your liking with it’s comfy overstuffed couches, leather chairs and modern art work. They also have some great salads, sandwiches and baked goods.

But it’s Patterson’s where the locals like to eat. A step inside takes you across the ocean to an Old English Pub complete with dark wood paneling. The main room has a long bar and a small stage for live music on the weekend. If it’s billiards or darts you want, they’re in the back room. The beer is cold and the food is good, even if the owner is a little grumpy. If you visit Blue Cove you’ll most likely visit these places. See you there!

I’m a people person. You know the type. The chatty extrovert in the room who flits from person to person and subject to subject. So how did someone like me, write a novel, spending hours alone, and love it? The answer is, all the interesting people who I’ve met over the years.

I need to thank all of you, may I put this bluntly, for all the stories, human characteristics, the kind and sometimes downright mean people who have crowded their way into my mind and squatted there. They dared me to change them, rearrange them into fictional beings and to release them on paper.

I’m intrigued by the way a teenage girl flings her hair over her shoulder when a guy approaches her or the way someone’s eyes light up when they talk about something they love. Then there’s the person whose foot is always moving even while they’re sitting still. Darting eyes, looking over the top of glasses, or someone who swears they’ve seen a ghost, and I’m hooked. Yes hooked, like a fish on a line I’m reeled in to search out the reason behind their actions.

The world is full of color waiting to be discovered as an observer and not just a butterfly. So I learn to listen to it and to speak on paper.