Another Holy Week is almost over. Another Easter on the horizon.
Another Easter without you.
This time of year the stores are overloaded with Easter lilies, the scent of their beautiful white blooms permeating every aisle. Of all your allergies, Easter lilies were the worst, especially because the old ladies of the church flower guilds never really took it seriously.
Oh, you’d tell them, and I’m sure they nodded politely, but what did they do on Saturday? STUFF the altar with lilies for the Easter service Sunday morning.
So where are you during those two, sometimes three services Easter morning? Not in the pulpit, that’s for damn sure. Down in the pews, as far from the altar as you can get, silently praying you can at least speak your way through the service without passing out because your throat’s so constricted. Singing Easter hymns was not even an option, which sucked, because I know how much you loved them. Even if the flower guilds used a mix of fake and real lilies, it made no difference–your voice would always be so hoarse anyone would have thought you’d spent the last six hours cheering for William Shatner’s arrival at a Star Trek convention.
Honestly, that’s what initially got me writing this. Not Easter, but Star Trek.
All my listening to James Horner put Bo in a mood for Star Trek; one clip with the kids later, and Biff is hooked.
Oh, Dad. Biff’s so into Star Trek right now it’s hilarious and sad all at once. He stares at the ships, absorbing every detail. He’s transforming boxes into his own Enterprise, Excelsior, Reliant–the kid’s got the entire Starfleet parked on the end of his bed, manned by the brave comfies from Planet Teeny Ty. I can’t imagine what a conversation between you and Biff would have been like, especially when the little guy’d insist Excelsior is cooler than Enterprise.
And because I can’t imagine that conversation, I’ve been pretty damn sad.
Bash shows me the first book he made about the Wall-E and Eve robots, and I can’t help but remember when I’d show my own stories to you, how’d we spend ages going over the stories I’d type on that goliath of an IBM computer.
I hear Blondie sing in church, and can’t help but remember those toddler years when she’d run up the aisle at your own church at the end of a service. You would pause the announcements, and just stand there, grinning, until she reached out for you with her little hands. You’d hold each other all through the announcements, recessional, and greeting, so happy to be together.
Blondie turns nine next month.
How you’d laugh with these guys now, sharing goofy faces and terrible puns. How you’d run after them at the park, caught up in epic battles of dragons and space ships. How you’d throw your hands up in exasperation when facing the latest generation of family stubbornness I know I got from you and have passed on to all three of my little B’s.
How I miss the memories that never were.
But this Easter, I’m doing my damndest not to let love known in the past prevent me from seeing the hope of a happy future.
Awake, my heart, with gladness, See what today is done, Now after gloom and sadness Comes forth the glorious Sun! My Savior there was laid Where our bed must be made When to the realms of light Our spirit wings its flight.
From the lutheran hymn “awake my heart with gladness”
Despite those lilies, you loved Easter. You loved sharing its joy, its hope, its miraculous nature. If not for Easter, there would be no hope for us beyond these few years of mortal coils. Through Christ, death can only keep us apart for a little while; through Christ, we know that when our time on earth is done we will be joined together in Heaven, where we can share all the songs and smiles, stories and laughter we’ve gathered over the years.
Happy Easter, Dad. For once I can put a lily next to you and it won’t kill you, let alone keep you from singing the Easter hymns you loved so much.
The Easter hymns I still cannot sing, too choked with tears.
But no tears will ever choke my hope of seeing you again in Heaven.
A free-spirited college student becomes a career-obsessed adult.
A writer becomes a…writer? Yes, still a writer. But a stronger writer.
I’m looking at you, Holly Black.
This woman’s got phenomenal talent. Black’s written books that lure you to dive head-first into her world. She’s got a strong following of readers, and one look at books like The Cruel Prince and The Wicked King show why. The relationships are complex, the conflicts compelling. We want to see what these characters do next, especially Jude, the teen protagonist.
Now I’ve talked a bit about Jude before, both in my post on tragic backstories as well as dissecting one of the briefest chapters ever written. Today I want to return to Jude because of another Holly Black title, the first Holly Black title:Tithe.
Sixteen-year-old Kaye is a modern nomad. Fierce and independent, she travels from city to city with her mother’s rock band until an ominous attack forces Kaye back to her childhood home. There, amid the industrial, blue-collar New Jersey backdrop, Kaye soon finds herself an unwilling pawn in an ancient power struggle between two rival faerie kingdoms – a struggle that could very well mean her death.
So over the course of sixteen years, Black wrote two different series about two teen heroines dealing with faeries. Fairies. Fae. However you spell it.
I–and many other readers, I imagine–connected with Jude because of her hopes and dreams. Jude is a girl struggling for identity inside her mostly Fae family as well as the Fae society. She witnessed her human parents’ murder by a Fae general, was then ripped away from the human realm along with her twin sister and half-Fae sister to be raised by that same general, and now attends school with other Fae gentry. She is living, breathing evidence of her mother’s desertion, yet this general fathers Jude like one of his own. In turn, Jude yearns to train and serve the Fae royalty as a knight despite being mortal. She loves her little brother, the Fae “son” of the general and his new wife. This is a girl fighting to make a place for herself in a world not created for her. She’s so desperate to make her mark in the Fae courts that she’s willing to kill in order to achieve her dream.
And then, there’s Kaye from Tithe.
Lots of people like this book, so I assume they must like Kaye as well.
But for me…look, this isn’t a roast of of Tithe. There’s plenty of strong elements here, and when one considers this is Black’s debut novel, those elements should be all the more commended. She blends Faerie and human realms seamlessly. The Fae are quite unique between Seelie and Unseelie. The black knight Roiben provides a wealth of inner conflict: magic compels him to do despicable things under the command of the Unseelie Queen, including killing a friend of Kaye’s. When we read from his point of view, we learn just how much he hates himself because he so often he has no control over his actions. A reader’s sympathy for him grows with every chapter.
And then, there’s Kaye.
Kaye took another drag on her cigarette and dropped it into her mother’s beer bottle. She figured that would be a good test for how drunk Ellen was–see if she would swallow a butt whole.
This is the first paragraph of the Prologue. This is our first impression of Kaye.
Already I’m wincing, but maybe that’s my prudish Midwestern nature. Plenty of kids have shitty parents, drinking parents. Plenty of teenagers pick up smoking. Turns out Kaye’s mother sings in a lousy club band and is dating one of its members, the “asshole Lloyd.” During the wrap up after a gig, Lloyd for no understandable reason tries to stab Kaye’s mom but Kaye stops him. (It is later learned he’d been entranced, for the record.)
We’re only a couple pages in, and Kaye’s witnessed an attempted murder. Normally this sort of thing, especially when family’s involved, would leave some sort of mark on a person, be it physically, emotionally, mentally, or all three. This is something that spawns nightmares, phobias, fixations on danger and/or thrills.
Yet Kaye and her mother Ellen only talk about moving in with Grandma. No confusion or anger over what Lloyd did. No fear over how they’re going to live next. No anxiety over whether or not Grandma will accept them after a six-year absence. Just…
“Honey,” Ellen said finally, “we’re going to have to go to Grandma’s.”
“Did you call her?” Kaye asked. …
“It’ll be a little while. You can visit that friend of yours.”
“Janet,” Kaye said. She hoped that was who Ellen meant. She hoped her mother wasn’t teasing her about that faerie bullshit again. If she had to hear another story about Kaye and her cute imaginary friends…
As you may have surmised, this is when Kaye started to lose me.
Yet I kept reading. Openings are tough. Kaye’s got to get back to her childhood home somehow, soooo okay, this works. Now Kaye’s on the New Jersey shore, walking and talking with her friend Janet on their way to hanging out with boys.
“Kaye, when we get there, you have to be cool. Don’t seem so weird. Guys don’t like weird….don’t you want a boyfriend?”
I had to stop there.
What did Kaye want?
From my impression of Kaye’s memories of her mother falling asleep in toilets and attaching herself to loser after loser, Kaye clearly doesn’t dig the life of a traveling musician. Yet her grandmother’s demands that she attend school are met with the same lack of enthusiasm.
In fact, Kaye doesn’t talk about anything with enthusiasm except Roiben, a lone faerie she helps on the roadside.
“Look, I’m only going to be in town for a couple of months, at most. The only thing that matters is that he is cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die beautiful.” Kaye waggled her eyebrows suggestively.
Perhaps Kaye is a girl who’s never allowed herself to dream. We can be like that too, I suppose–too fearful of failure, too weary of life’s obstacles to dare hope for anything beyond what’s in front of us.
So when Kaye is told she herself is a faerie who’s been glamoured to look human since birth, she…well, what do you think?
She was shaking her head, but even as she did it, she knew it was true. It felt true, unbalancing and rebalancing her world so neatly that she wondered how she didn’t think of it before now. After all, why would only she be visited by faeries? Why would only she have magic she couldn’t control?
Such a revelation alters everything: her human family’s not really hers. She’s not human at all. Any hope, any dream she had for her future must now be sacrificed–
She didn’t have any aspirations. This revelation, this life-altering revelation….just what exactly does it change inside Kaye?
I’m going to stop dissecting Tithe here. I’ll still recommend it for the world and for the conflicted Fae knight Roiben, but I cannot recommend Tithe for its heroine. For all her dislike against her grandmother’s “normal” lifestyle and her mother’s alcohol addled life on the road, has she honestly not once hidden a special passion for something to keep herself sane? One would think it’d be her “cute imaginary friends,” but Kaye’s first reference to her Fae visitors from childhood was “faerie bullshit.” So as of the beginning of this novel, faeries were no longer special. She keeps no journal, no art, no collection of little things she’d never dare show her mom. Even Janet, the one friend she’s been emailing from libraries, is completely blown off once Roiben comes onto the scene.
Readers care about characters who care. The character may be a jerk in many ways, but even jerks can have a soft spot. Jude committed murder in The Cruel Prince, yet I still found myself rooting for her. Why? Because she was fighting for her kid brother’s safety. Because she wanted the enemies of the old Faerie king to pay for their treachery. She gets her heart broken by one Fae boy while finding her fate entwined with another. Jude IS passion–hardly the “he’s so dreamy” passion, but the “I want my family to survive a coup” passion. The “I want to LIVE” passion.
That’s passion any reader can feel beating in his/her own heart.
Kaye never seems to feel that. She simply floats along whether she’s human or faerie, accepting whatever situation she’s placed in, fearful only of losing Roiben.
How often are we telling our teenagers not to wrap their entire lives around one other human being? To have their own hopes and dreams, because someone who truly loves them will love those dreams and help find a way to achieve them?
Love can be a powerful force in a fantasy, to be sure.
But so is hope.
So are dreams.
Which fictional hero or heroine inspires you to dream? Let me know in the comments below!
Thanks, too, for your encouragement during my saga over the full-time slot at the university. I didn’t get it, but I’m hopeful for the next time. 🙂
And if you’re a fan of dreamers (and stories of dreams gone fantastically awry) I hope you’ll check out my novel, Fallen Princeborn: Stolen. It’s free on Kindle Unlimited, and my short story collection Tales of the River Vineare all free to download from Amazon, too.
Looking back, I must admit I didn’t reach the summit on this Whole30 climb.
Dairy: I kept my distance! No milk, yogurt, cheese. I never once desired a shake or sundae. The only bummer came when it was time for chili and I couldn’t have sour cream. Honestly, that’s the only dairy I truly miss. Even the clarified butter’s grown on me so that I don’t miss the typical wad of butter thrown into veg or mashed potatoes.
Gluten: Another success. It helps I had started cutting down on grain intake since Christmas. Sure, I like cookies and brownies. I loooooove tasty banana or zucchini or rhubarb bread. And PIE! Ah, sweet, sweet pie.
But these aren’t “typical” grains, like bread or pasta. Those I never missed, not one day. I used to eat oatmeal in the morning, but some reheated sweet potatoes have become an excellent substitute.
Sugar: So about those pies and other sweet treats…
Yes, I’ve successfully avoided desserts. This month has shown me just how often I’d dip into those cookies, brownies and jars of oh-so-honeylicious creamy peanut butter. But my one “cheat,” my one thing I just couldn’t give up, was coffee creamer. Almond milk, coconut milk, cashew milk–the consistency messes with my brain, and the taste feels like it’s embittering the coffee more than anything.
For a guy who used to shrug at health issues with the mantra of “We’re all doomed to die anyway,” he made this amazing mental 180 and has not only stuck to the Whole30 FOR the whole 30, but he has every intention of sticking to many of its guidelines. Yeah, we’ll probably award ourselves with pizza tomorrow to celebrate his completion, but we’re talking a slice, not a whole pizza. Sure, Bo’s going to enjoy creamer in his morning commute tea, but he’s sticking with salads, protein, and fruit for work instead of returning to sandwiches. He can feel the weight loss in how he sits and moves; I know it by how little he snores. It’s a change that was hard, will continue to be hard, but he’s not giving up.
No, I didn’t complete the sheer climb up the Whole30.
But Bo did.
I am more than happy to wave to him from my own road to the summit, whistling as I go, knowing that Bo’s more than ready to encourage me every step of the way.
So, this concludes my 30-day blog-a-thon! Now I’m going to spend the next few days climbing a new mountain–a far sweeter mountain–of likes and comments from you, kind readers. To each and every one of you who has followed my Whole30 journey in words: thank you so very, very much for walking this road with me. Cheers to you, Kind and Noble Company. May the Road ahead be one of adventure, laughter, and hope.
Next Sunday, I can have peanut butter. Or pizza. Or pie. Or pizza and peanut butter pie slathered with whipped cream and chocolate chips and fudge chunks and kit kats and–
Now now, Jean. One week from now or one month from now, you got to stay the course.
Even my mom, who wasn’t enthused with our venture at the outset but has since grown impressed with Bo’s dedication, put a pretty important question to me:
“How are you going to stick with it?”
Because dammit, we have to.
Now I’m not saying I’ll never let myself have peanut butter again. But it can’t be a daily staple for me, either, just like ice cream, or cocoa, or heck, even bread. Even Bo’s accepting that label-reading in grocery stores has to continue so we can keep our sugar intake down. We both want to enjoy sugar, but on our terms.
That means creamer for coffee–yay!
But no sugar in our pasta sauce or canned goods.
That means the occasional pizza–yay!
But dairy’s off-limits in the daily fare. These past few weeks have made me realize just how many culinary sins I used to cover up with shredded cheese or wads of butter. Bo and I have always been pretty easy-going in our tastes–meat’n’potatoes folk, if you will. So long as we have clarified butter and a few good spices to mix up with the meat and veg, we’re good.
That means a nummy submarine sandwich–yay!
But grains cannot be a staple in meals. Bo’s got to keep taking salads to work. No more noodle-based casseroles during the week. All those carbs in the evening are just going to sit in our guts and do nothing.
Don’t forget dessert! Dessert CAN BE REAL DESSERT AGAIN! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!
Eh. No. No, Jean.
When I was in graduate school, I could only afford oatmeal packets, rice, frozen vegetables, and creamed soup to eat. Ten bucks would buy me enough of those things for the week, with a little leftover to restock my coffee when that ran out. When I got married, Bo and I loved having all sorts of sundaes, brownies, cookies, cakes….we looooooooved our desserts.
But you know…that made them, well, not all that special.
I want that piece of apple pie to be special. I want to appreciate that sweet treat, not take it for granted.
Which is why, of course, I must eat an entire apple pie in order to appreciate it properly.
Now I better scoot. Trouble’s brewing upstairs over a certain 3rd grader’s Science Fair project.
In the meantime, enjoy a tasty dish of adventure with Charlotte and Liam before they wreak havoc with Arlen’s pies. 99 pennies will get you the whole novel plus some kickin’ bonus stuff. It doesn’t get sweeter than this!
Even though this day’s not even half over, I just had to write now because I ticked a victory against anxiety this morning!
Hmm. Maybe I should call this the “Climbing Anxiety.”
We woke up to another messy snow, but thankfully Dane County’s trying to keep all the kids in school. Whew! This winter’s already given us twice as much snow as the 2017-2018 winter season, so it’s nice to know that the schools aren’t going to shut down just because yet another couple powdery inches have fallen. Bo left before dawn at 6am, and I worked on getting the kids up and ready for school.
6:30 news: There are reports of an accident near the intersection of the interstate and highway___
Me: OH MY GOD IT’S BO HE’S DEAD
Hang on, Jean.
He’s an extremely careful driver.
He just had the car in for a tune-up.
He’s been driving this route for years now. He knows how the truckers behave.
He’s driven through worse snow than this, too.
If you don’t hear from him in 2 hours, check his work.
For now, focus on the kids.
I simmered down. Got the kids ready. Kept drinking water and muttering to myself about what I wanted to accomplish today, what I should discuss with the teachers at the PT conferences tomorrow. Made sure the phone was nearby at all times, just in case.
I did NOT have a panic attack.
My chest hurt, yes, and I had to do lots of deep breathing, but I didn’t get dizzy or develop tunnel vision or have a racing heart.
Ten minutes to eight: Bo’s at work, safe and sound. Roads were fine for most of the way.
I said a prayer of thanks and saw the boys off to school. I got ready to text him a quick grocery list, especially keen for him to find a tea I saw recommended for handling anxiety.But then I saw a winter weather advisory on my phone: freezing rain was coming through the county today starting at midday and going on and off into the evening.
Bo would be driving in that.
He shouldn’t be stopping at a store, Jean.
But every time I drive in snow–
Shut that noise. You CAN get there and back before the freezing rain comes.
You’ve driven in way worse crap and lived to tell the tale.
You have to face this, Jean.
It’s now or never.
(Sorry, that BOW BOW noise did actually enter my head at the moment. Better than “Final Countdown,” I suppose.)
I get in the car. There’s coffee, water, bad radio, old Christian rock I discovered in a binder from…college?…smelly lip balm.
I go it slow and steady towards the interstate. Few cars both going around me, because the hilly country roads are just too damn risky for fast passes. Whatever accident had occurred had already been cleared. I get onto the interstate without sliding.
And fifteen miles later, I’m off the interstate into the hipster town with the hoidy toidy grocery store.
I made it!
It took smearing balm all over the skin under my nose, lots of talking at the radio, and interrogating myself if I actually stole that music from the Christian book store where I worked twenty years ago or legitimately bought it, but I got there.
The hoidy toidy grocery didn’t have the tea I was hoping for, but they did have another from the article that was strongly recommended. I grabbed it, another container of @#^!&$$ almond milk, and some grapes to reward myself for making it this far. I graciously accepted compliments from the cashiers for my Harry Potter hat, and returned to the car.
Time to do it all again.
Me: I got this far. I can do it again.
Damn right you can. You’re halfway there!
(Okay, I openly admit this song only came to me while writing right now and it was too perfect not to use. Who knew Bon Jovi would provide the soundtrack of my day?)
Not one dizzy spell the whole drive home. The worst spell was actually just the last miles to town, where a semi decided to tail my ass on a road covered with windblown snow. But rather than freak out, my old-school driver-self took over, and I just kept it slow and avoided braking unless absolutely necessary.
And lo and behold, I’m home.
Driving’s always going to be a potential trigger for an attack. I accept that. But this morning I proved to myself that I CAN drive despite the weather and despite the fear.
That’s a win if I ever knew one.
Oh! Before I forget: for those of you who’ve read my novel, I’ve been asked to read an excerpt during my keynote. Any recommendations of a bit–ideally without too many cuss words?
Thank you all so very, very much for your encouragement and prayers. I know I left things on a bit of a cliffhanger yesterday, so I’ll just pick up from there.
We got the kids from school and fed them an early supper. I tried laying down to see if that helped, but it only made me so damn dizzy to go to the bathroom that I refused to lay down again. I tried eating a little in case I was just lightheaded from not eating–nope. My chest continued to hurt, and my limbs started to feel weird.
Now that, well, that freaked me out.
One look to Bo is all it takes. Short of shoveling food into the kids’ mouths, he gets their coats and says we’re all going NOW. I keep counting my breaths and holding Bo’s hand while we drive. The kids are quiet. Not scared, I don’t think. Probably a little disappointed, actually, considering when I had my first severe panic attack they got to meet firefighters and climb all over the firetruck while the ambulance took me to the hospital. They still recall that as being “a fun day,” the turds.
This time we’re at a clinic, and I’m going to see a doctor. My kids are in the waiting room with their little video games, and Bo has my hand. I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.
And I think because I was there, and knowing I was there to get answers, the panic began to subside.
Figures I calm down just in time to see the doctor.
But it was still a good visit. A professional who knows how hearts and lungs should work is telling me everything’s working as it should. She recommends investing in a wrist FitBit (Pffft, like I have money for that) so I have a visual realization whenever it feels like my heart’s racing, it really isn’t. She does go through various medications, and that I could start taking antidepressants if I so chose.
I squirm a little. Why am I squirming? Didn’t I want an answer like this, a pill that will make everything better?
What IS wrong, Jean? Seriously, what’s wrong?
This month marks 5 years since Dad died, eight years since Bo’s dad died.
You’re in the running for a full-time faculty position at the university.
You got named keynote speaker, so the pressure’s on to stand out during the lit conference.
Your sons got suspended from school again, and now you need to work out their neuro-evals for the sensory integration disorder.
You’re wondering how the hell you’ll write if you do land that full-time gig.
You’re worried about your daughter. Are you pushing her too hard, or not enough? Are you spending enough time with her, or not enough?
Money. Always money issues.
Some other family issues I promised not to write about but have been weighing damn hard on me.
Bo’s finally caring about his health, but is it too late?
And the bloody cherry on top of aaaaaall of this is that my Aunt Flo came this morning. (sorry male readers)
With all that on you and then the monthly hormonal chaos, is it any wonder a panic attack slammed you in the chest again, Jean?
The doctor’s still talking. Not about meds any more, but sensory distractions: essential oils, for instance, working more with music. Drinking a calming tea. Taking a Vitamin D supplement to counter the severe D-deficiency we all experience in these dark winter months.
I take my notes, thank her for her time. The kids are starting to go nuts in the waiting room, but Bo is there. His hand finds mine.
It’s going to be okay.
Maybe I’ll still need those meds, but I’d like to try the tea and the D and the smelly stuff first. No matter what, I’m gonna keep fighting this. Anxiety doesn’t own me. It won’t break me from my family or what I want to do. If I need Zoloft or something to help me fight back, then that’s what I’ll take.
Once again, my writing time is limited. My grading time is limited. How am I supposed to get any work done when the kids are bickering over Lego and the library books about Ripley’s Believe it or Not? Even Bo has off due to bad roads. What about me? ME?
I sound like the Me-Monster comedian Brian Regancreates for one of his stand-up routines.
Stop complaining, Jean. At least with Bo home you were able to tackle a chunk of school stuff this morning. You got a little writing done–not a ton, but at least you know where you want to go next tomorrow.
You had help shoveling outside. Heck, you all went outside to shovel the several inches of heavy white stuff.
You got to have a snowball fight with your family.
Biff and Bash defended their mountain…
Bo and Blondie whitewashed each other’s faces repeatedly…
The little Bs actually stood together long enough for you to take a picture…
Bash evaded stepping in the neighbor’s dog poop…
It wasn’t such a bad snow day after all, really.
All it needed was a little love. x
Don’t forget that my novel’son sale all month for just 99 cents! You’re more than welcome to my short stories too, available for free hereand here.
Well, here I sit with my coffee cut by unsweetened almond coconut milk.
But I’m a third way through….okay I’ve already technically failed, but Bo is a third way through, and that’s what counts! He’s been scouring Alton Brown’sGood Eats episodes for different ways to prepare vegetables and meat, and has found a few that can fit under Whole30 with a little tweaking…not that I remember their episode names. But I will recommend Good Eats to anyone who loves good food and is curious about the science that makes food good in the first place. Alton’s popcorn recipe’s a great introduction to his show’s style.
In these days of sugar withdrawal, it’s really damn hard to focus my brain. I can see the scene, but then there’s that need to transcribe the color and emotion and my fingers are tripping on the keyboard. I may as well be Biff going “;ALISHASL;IGBAS’;OFASDJKLFG;’OTY23PORKNG;SALDFBHASDLKFASKULTROU” on the keyboard. “I’m super-typing, Mommy!” Twice now I’ve stuck my coffee in the freezer to warm it up. I’ve tried sticking the milk in the oven, stopped only because the gallon jug’s too tall. Here’s hoping I don’t try to eat the food toys Bash left on the table from the Feast he made for the Transformers the other day.
The dread of yet another snow storm coming in the night’s not helping my mood, either. Oh, God, you do have a sense of humor aaaaaaaaaaaaaall you’re own.
I did have a sweet moment of solitude outside, though, in that moment between seeing Blondie off on the bus and getting Biff and Bash ready for school.
We have lots around the front of our house, but there was something about seeing this lone bird’s tracks stamped all around the porch, over the sleds to the old tree stand and back. The boys will wreck these tracks when they come out for school. Heck, I’ll probably wreck them when I take out the garbage.
So I snapped a shot, a good reminder that I need to refill the bird feeder before the storm arrives. We’re apparently the only feeder on the street, for anywhere from 6-15 birds will huddle in the bushes by our house and fight over chances to perch on the feeder. A hawk’s worked this out too, and has left the remains of his breakfast on our front yard more than once. He even tried to snatch a bird one afternoon, but they escaped. He sat on our porch railing, then, for a good ten minutes, waiting for the wee ones to return. He flew off, yes, but I have a feeling he’s just hanging out a few yards down, watching and waiting.
I guess you could say that this is my REAL day 1 in Whole 30, buuuuut let’s not and say we did.
Don’t ask about the creamer-substitute.
Doing my best to emphasize laughter over fighting with Biff and Bash. Praying the boys take the laughs with them to school tomorrow and not the fighting.
Blondie drew me a Valentine of Nancy Drew and her “assistant” catching a ghost. I showed my Nancy Drew books with her, asked her if she wanted to read one, but she said no. It’s hard to sell a mystery to Blondie that has no talking dog as a sidekick.
My use of creamer must have delayed the traditional Whole30 timeline, as explained in the first chapters of the book:
Day 1: No big deal/what have I done
Days 2-3: The hangover
Days 4-5: Kill all the things
Days 6-7: I just want to nap
Days 8-9: Nooooo! My pants are tighter!
Days 10-11: The hardest days
Days 12-15: I dream of…junk food?
Days 16-27: Tiger blood!
Day 21: I am so over this.
Days 22-25: The scale and mirror are calling…
Day 28: 28 is as good as 30…right?
Days 29-30: Holyoprahitsalmostoverwhatamigoingtoeatnow? (Yes, this is the actual heading.)
Day 31: Deep breathing, and maybe some wine.
I’m supposedly on “The Hardest Days,” but pretty sure my body’s on the “nap” stage. My brain’s three seconds behind everything. I’ve started this paragraph over four times now. I just want a glass of wine and to call it a night.
This doesn’t bode well for the next week.
Whatever we’re in.
Okay, need to leave you on a good note…a musical note!
The blues are the roots and the other musics are the fruits. Without the roots you have no fruits so it’s better keeping the roots alive because it means better fruits from now on.
Came across this quote in my research of blues music and loved it. There is a feeling in blues music that just cannot be matched in other genres, at least not precisely. Maybe it’s this simplicity so many songs have, or that the notes and lyrics gut one so. It’s the kind of music that can warm you and make you cry all at once.
I connected with P.J. Lazos online as a fellow indie writer of fiction and nonfiction. Her discussions on environmental issues, writing, human virtue, and family are so compelling that I just had to introduce her to all of you.
First, let’s talk about you. Your biography reflects many passions: a passion for truth as a journalist, a passion to fight for what can’t as an environmental lawyer, and a passion for words as a writer. Which of these passions shown itself in you first, and how did it influence your other passions?
I think my strong sense of justice started in childhood. My mother had a baby who died at three months old. I was three years old at the time and remember thinking how unfair it was for our family, but especially for my mother who was devastated by the loss. I think I tried so hard to make it right for her, but of course, what could I do. Maybe the words grew out of that experience — definitely the emotion. I remember journaling when I was a kid although then it was called “keeping a diary” an no where near as in vogue as it is now so clearly the name change helped. As for my bit with the environment, well, my mom used to wrap me in a blanket and tuck me under the big oak tree in the backyard and I would lie there and have a conversation with the tree, or at least that’s what it looked like in the video, so I think that started then, too.
Your Six Sisters series delves into the nuances of family life and all its beautiful imperfections. Now I’m not going to strictly ask if this is autobiographical, but were any characters inspired by family or friends in your life? What drew you to share their stories?
That’s funny. My brother-in-law from my first marriage — I still maintain a solid relationship with my ex-husband and former in-laws — asked me the same question about List of 55. The answer is complicated. No, in that the over-the-top behaviors of the characters in that story were definitely not us, but yes in that the underlying emotion behind a break-up was definitely there. You don’t have to have a specific experience to write about it convincingly as long as you can access the emotion behind it. For example, I remarried and my now husband’s first wife died when their two kids were very young. Hearing that story from his POV allowed me to access his unbearable loss and I created a character — David Hartos in Oil and Water — loosely based on my husband who was also a commercial diver. He provided me with insight into how a heart completely busted open by grief struggled to raise two kids as well as how the world of commercial diving worked. I think that as writers, a piece of you lands in every story you ever write, but some are just more autobiographical than others. The part of List of 55 where the central character has a miscarriage — that precise situation did not happen to me, but I did have a miscarriage in a bathroom stall at 30th St. Station in Philadelphia and I think it may have been the saddest, most horrific moment of my life. I tried to write about it before, but it never came out with the gravity I wanted to convey so I put all that angst into Belinda’s character and that’s what I got. Sometimes it’s easier to process your own pain through a made up character. Isn’t that a staple of psychological counseling for kids, and aren’t we all just kids walking around in adult bodies, still harboring all the crap and still relishing all the joys we experienced in childhood?
Now, your most recent novel, Oil and Water,is an environmental thriller. Considering your legal expertise, I imagine you didn’t have to do a ton of research for this novel…or is that being presumptuous?
Yeah, I wish it worked that way for me, but it doesn’t. I started with doing some initial research about converting trash into oil and about the Marsh Arabs and the wetlands in the Fertile Crescent (which you would remember from studying Egypt or Mesopotamia), but a lot of the rest, like you, I googled as I went. I have enough information in my head to get me started, but my memory isn’t always a straight arrow so I need to fact check. My favorite kind of fiction is where you learn something so I wanted to be sure I was passing on real time information.
As the premise of Oil and Water brings readers to difficult questions about our dependence on fossil fuels, your website Green Life Blue Wateralso informs readers of some amazing environmental initiatives that are doing their communities some good. Are there any current programs you’d like to highlight right now?
Rain gardens and aquaponics! I’m a member of the Junior League of Lancaster, a group that’s been operating in Lancaster since 1923. This is my 8th year in the League and I love being part of a volunteer women’s organization. We are doing some really cutting edge stuff like building rain gardens which are basically bowl-like depressions planted with hydrophytic plants that hold stormwater and rain water in high flow times as a way to divert it out of combined sewer system.
This year we’re adding aquaponics to the mix which is basically a fish tank with food growing on top — veggies, herbs, whatever you want (well, maybe not pumpkins). The fish poop fertilizes the plants so it’s a self-contained system. We’re doing a pilot project at an elementary school here in Lancaster, installing four tanks in four second grade classrooms and putting together some curriculum to go with it. We want to make a “pizza garden” with basil, oregano, cherries tomatoes, and a few other things so when the kids harvest the food in the tank we can throw them a pizza party. So lots happening: how ecosystems interact, close up look tan water and nutrients, nutrition, and more, I’m sure. Hands on learning is really the best way to get those kind of lessons across. I just learned that the Aztecs were the first to do aquaponics. The called it Chinampas. So you see, I’m learning something, too.
You are also a member of the Insecure Writers’ Support Group, correct? Can you tell us a little about this program and how writers can join?
I actually don’t do that anymore. It was quite fun, but a friend of mine asked me what I had to be insecure about since she loved my writing. That started me thinking about The Law of Attraction and how what you think about all day long is what manifests in your life so I stopped participating in IWSG and started participating in WATWB, We Are the World Blogfest, which had just started. WATWB happens on the last Friday of every month and it showcases positive news stories as a way to counteract all the negativity in the world, an “accentuate the positive” approach to news and life. I also found this group to be more “my people”, writers all, but focused on social justice, environmental issues, a better life for all people. Plus you get a real lift from reading the stories people post.
Lastly, what advice would you like to share with those who are unsure how to explore their family or other passions with writing?
Journaling is always a great way to get started. I always kept a kind-of notebook, but when my daughter was born, a friend gave me a beautiful black sketch book with lovely, creamy paper. I had four months off from work, plus another four on a very part-time basis, I wrote a journal in earnest, a love letter to my kid that I intend to give her one of these days when she’s ready to read it. Her dad and I split before she was born and I wanted to get everything I was feeling down on paper. We joke now that she came out screaming because I was so angry when I was pregnant. Unless I’m reading her wrong, today, like me, she laughs readily and sees both the irony and the gifts in most situations. I don’t write in a journal as much as I used to, but I have a blog and much of what I would write in the journal goes in the blog. One thing I would suggest and that I myself need to get back to is morning pages, something Julia Cameron suggested in “the Artist’s way.” A brain dump every morning to get the gook out and start fresh — something that both reaps and sows benefits. Your mind is clearer, and you’re not as much of a jerk to the the person behind the counter who gets your order wrong or the one who cuts you off in traffic. It helps you to be more chill, in addition to generating ideas, and we all could use more of that.
My deepest thanks to P.J. for taking time to time to talk to us! You can find her Amazon page here and her Twitter page here.
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Oh, and I just gotta say how cool it is that four of my Tales of the River Vine are STILL in the Top 10 Free YA Fantasy Monster Fiction.
That’s two months now, and going strong! Thank you thank you THANK YOU! I do hope you’ll leave a review letting me know which characters you dig–and which you want to see more of! I’m brainstorming up some more Tales while working on the novels, and would love a little reader input. xxxxxx