I am just tired.

I going to visit my parents in a few days.  I’m sure we’ll have fun things to talk about, like how my father is dying and his legs are giving out.  I also really enjoy breaking my mother’s heart to point out that his condition is terminal; the cancer has metastasized to his bones and they have put him on hormonal (i.e., palliative, not curative) treatment.  That he probably won’t die right away, but it’s coming, maybe a couple of years, hopefully more.  She will probably outlive the spouse that she loves more than life itself.  His last treatment was 10 years ago, so it gave him time.  But he is still young, and it is somewhat shocking considering how old his parents were when they died.

Then there is the guilt–the guilt that though I am decent with money, I still don’t have enough to buy multiple airplane tickets or the vacation time to make lots of trips.  And though I could do FMLA, that won’t pay the bills that continue on.  So I don’t know how much I can see him, or how much I can afford to bring the girls to see him.

And normally, I am good, I am strong, I am the one to ask questions because they need to be asked–but I am tired and spent, and frankly, I find myself crying.  I have spent my whole life trying to contain my emotions, containing the feelings that mess with my mind, and rationally I should forgive myself an incident of weeping.  But I am a mess, really.  Because as much as I may disagree with someone who was a keystone in my life, who could push my buttons like no one else, he was also probably the most influential person in my life.  I don’t want him to die yet.  But that’s not for me to decide.


A Scene


In writing my novel, I’m going through the character summaries and trying to decide what the conflicts will be.  Since I’ve decided since the main character will have a mental illness, one of her conflicts will be deciding how truthful to be with her friends.  One of her fears is that if she is truly herself, her friends will abandon her, because they will see how worthless she truly is.  So here is scene that may or may not make it into the final piece:

Laina opened the door to see Kyle.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to see you at this late hour,” she said.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah, yeah, come in.  Let me make you some tea or something, sit down.”

Kyle settled onto the couch and let his eyes wander around the paintings.  Leona pulled out the kettle and Kyle said,

“Actually, I’d prefer a whiskey.”

“If by whiskey, you mean bourbon, I can do that.  Ice or neat?”

“What are you doing?”

She chuckled.  “Are you kidding?  I’m not going to ruin the flavor with ice.  Neat all the way.”

“Ah, okay then.”

She came out with two Glencairn glasses.

“Sorry, man, I get the fancy crystal cut one,” she said, “you’ll have to make due with the plain one.”

Kyle laughed.  “I’m not bothered.”

Laina sat on the opposite side of the couch and swirled the glass.

“This is one of my favorites, it’s been aged in sherry barrels.”

Kyle nodded and took a sip.  He let his eyes look across at the wall.

“So, ah,” she said, “What brings you to my humble abode?”

He paused.  “I don’t really know why,” he said.  “I guess I was worried about you.  You seemed really upset last night.”

“Aw, thanks,” she said.  “And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.  I can still be emotional, but it’s nothing like it. . .used to be.”

“Yeah, about that. . .”

She waited.

“It took me a long time to get over that, you know.  And I’m not sure I’ve ever forgiven you.”

“You know, it was never about you,” she started.

“I know that,” he said quickly. “Or rationally, I do.  But you have no idea what it was like to find you.  No idea to realize you were actually going to do it.  I mean, stupid teenagers talk all the time about how their life sucks and how they wish they were dead. . .and you, you actually went down that road.”

Kyle was still looking at the wall, his face in profile, as though he couldn’t trust himself to look at her.  Laina was afraid to look too much at him in case his eyes met hers, so she looked down at the floor, listening.

“I mean, what if it happens again?  What if you decide that life is too hard and you decide to quit?  Do you have any comprehension how much you hurt us, all of us?”

Laina couldn’t speak, but stared at the carpet mutely.

“And your poor parents, what a death they died that night.  They never deserved that.”

She could feel the swelling of tears in her eyes.  They were going to break soon.  She put her glass down with shaking hands and shook her head.

“I just,” he paused, “I just can’t go through that again.  I can’t care about you and be close to you.”

Her blood went cold even as hot tears trailed down her face, her eyes stayed fixed on the floor.  The tears were tickling her upper lip but she didn’t want to touch her face.  Any movement and she might lose control completely.  And if she tried to speak, she knew her voice would betray her.  This couldn’t be happening.

He went silent and she could feel the dripping on her chin.  She got up suddenly, heading for the tissue box, but didn’t make it before a huge sob escaped.  She stayed standing over the counter, hunched over the tissues, her back to him.

“Laina, I’m sorry,” Kyle said getting up.

“Please don’t,” she said, her voice a weird caricature. “So, we can’t be friends?”

Kyle sighed.  “I’m not saying that.  I’m just saying. . .I need some space.  Some distance.”

Her throat tightened.  She felt like she was going to throw up.  Her insides were breaking up and heaving.

“Can you leave?” she asked in a low voice.

Kyle stood still for minute.  “Laina. . . “

That was it.  She walked to the bedroom, her head spinning.  She closed the door and held her breath.  She could no longer hold back her crying but at least she could contain the screaming inside her, if only he would leave quickly.  She listened through the door.

She could hear him putting on his shoes.  Faster, she willed him.

He was putting on his coat.  Please.

He was checking his pockets for his keys.  For the love of god!

Finally, she heard the door open and close.  She waited another minute to make sure he wouldn’t hear her.  And then it all poured out of her, her anguish and disbelief.  It was true, it had always been true.  She was unloveable and too weird to even have friends.  She was worthless and stupid and ugly.  How could she think she could ever deserve friends?  Everyone should hate her, hate her as much as herself.  She had trusted him, trusted him to not abandon her, but she was too weak and messed up.  Nobody could love who she really was.  She should just die already.




Writing Characters


It’s a great afternoon to sit on the balcony, watch the sun sink down, and write.  Currently, I am working on sketching out my characters, and I’m finding it a bit hard to put detail to my male characters.  Which is ironic, because  I’ve historically had more problems making friends with females–I think because I tend to be more pragmatic than a stereotypical female.   I actually don’t usually know why women don’t like me when they don’t.

Whereas, I usually get along pretty well with guys.  Probably because I view my emotions with a degree of suspicion–a side effect of having dealt with depression in the past.  But I can’t claim to know what men think.

On the other hand, I have decided that my female protagonist will have depression, because I can write about that.  I was thinking today of an episode Katy had years ago.  It could have been a scene out of “The Bell Jar”:  she slit her wrists and took a bunch of meds, then laid down in a bathtub to die–and helpfully, contain the blood.  But when all the drugs in her system took hold, she ended up thrashing about and lurching room to room, getting blood all over the walls, before finally collapsing.

Her husband came home to a house with blood-smeared walls and found her, unconscious.  He then immediately went upstairs to check on their baby daughter.  The baby was fine, still asleep from her nap.  Then they got Katy to the hospital where she recovered.

She called me afterwards.  We were at a point in our life where I no longer asked why.  I knew that at some point the depression inside of her would win.  The part of the conversation I remember is that she was upset that her husband could possibly think she would hurt their child.  And the funny thing was, I understood both her and her husband’s point of view.  I understood her–her hatred of herself was only confined to herself.  She loved her baby, but hated being a mom.  She felt trapped and disillusioned.  The happiness she had expected from being a wife and mother had never materialized.  And I understood him–he comes home to that disaster and if she’s willing to do that to herself, what wouldn’t she do to others?

Less than a year later, she did kill herself, leaving behind her 18 month old and her husband.  Perhaps someday I will write her story, but I don’t think now is the time.







We’re seen our neighbors naked–and the naked truth is ugly.


I was in college and wondering what to write about for my editorial column, when my adviser came in. “I want you to write about the O.J. Simpson trial,” he said. My heart sank.

Nationally, the O.J. Simpson trial had been divisive and lingering, and I didn’t want to take sides. Everyone had made up their mind on what the outcome should be; and at my conservative white college, they all had the same opinion. He was clearly guilty, was the thinking. It shouldn’t even be something we’re talking about. Justice demands he pay an appropriate price. Now get off of the T.V.

It seemed like I wouldn’t have much to offer by repeating that stance, nor would I probably convince the student body by making an argument for the opposite. Instead I focused on the part that I found the most interesting—the divisiveness. The divisiveness fell along racial lines and it roughly went like this: if you were white, it seemed a pretty cut and dried case. Look at how he tried to escape! He had clearly committed the murders and he should go to prison. If you were black, here was yet another example of the police mishandling evidence against a black man just to get a conviction at any cost. The fact that police were trying to sway the case probably meant he wasn’t guilty.

The assumption about the justice system was at the heart of both worldviews—is the justice system mostly fair? Or is it systematically unfair? Which assumption you believed had a lot to do with your own personal experience, and good luck trying to change anyone’s mind.

Now here we are, on the eve of an election, and though the issue is different, the divisiveness is very much the same. Except now is it a divide that falls along urban, suburban, and rural lines.  We view the same events and come to completely different conclusions.  In this case, there is only one assumption—our country is systematically unfair, and we should do something about it. The question is, who has the worst unfairness of them all?

But a pissing match arguing which of the bad things is the most bad doesn’t solve anything.  Seeing the ugliness in other people tempts us to be ugly too.  A witty argument, though personally satisfying, won’t change the mind of someone who doesn’t want to be changed.  People don’t change their minds or themselves easily.  And no matter how irrational any one person may be, each of us has our reasons for believing what we do.  Which is why I found this article inspiring, and I’ll add my two cents.

Voting is a great thing to do, but change takes time and our most powerful impact, as always, is within our own sphere.  Be kind to your family, friends, and be kind to strangers too.  Seek to understand before being understood.  Contribute in time or money what you can to find solutions to the things that make you the most angry.

Regardless of the outcome, we have found out more about what our friends and acquaintances believe than we ever did before–and some people will simply disagree.  For our future, we are going to have to find a way to disagree peacefully, because we are beyond the era of simple problems that have simple fixes.  The problems we face are complex and can no longer be solved by lone individuals.  We need everyone, even and especially the ones that are not just like us.  But we can’t work together unless we let go and listen.


Summary sentence and now this!

All right, when we last left my exciting life of writing a novel, I had written a summary sentence, sort of. It did NOT follow a nice blurb like the ones on the NYTimes bestsellers list.  Oh well, I can always come back to it.  So now it is time for the next stage:

Step 2.  Expand the story sentence to a full paragraph describing the story setup, major disasters, and the ending of the novel.

Really?  I have to decide right now?  Man, I thought this would all be sort of organic and free flowing. . . but this is probably the right way to do it.  Well, they could all die in the end, but that’s jumping ahead.  And this isn’t Hamlet, that’s not what I’m going for, they’re all going to live, dammit!  I’m all for some darkness, but this novel is not to be that dark.  After all, I can’t write this and then want to kill myself–now that I’m all mature and stuff (!) that’s no fun anymore.  Okay, we’ll go with less fun.  Less fun than before.

“She was the type of woman that was her own worst enemy, not because she was malicious or stupid, but because she could never seem to have faith in herself.  She could only see her own inner light reflected in the eyes of others.  Ironically, when it came to other people, she could see their soul and their inner beauty, especially in men.  She loved the otherness that was in men; their wildness, their strength, and their sweetness.  She wanted to be wanted and she wanted to be desired, but she also want to heal others.

They say that you get one, maybe two great loves in your life.  But she didn’t believe it.  Because she loved more than one: the one that had come before, the one she could never have, and the one that perhaps she had overlooked.”

. . .damn, that’s two paragraphs!!




And though  I liked those two paragraphs, but they did not fulfill the requirements of Step 2.  *sigh*