I got many responses to my plea for help, mostly from friends shaking their heads in disbelief and promising to spread the word. But here’s one from a compete stranger: “I think I saw the dog you’re looking for yesterday about 6:45 pm running down Crenshaw near Silver Spur. He seemed to be very aware and staying out of the way of the cars. I tried to stop, but he disappeared so fast. I sure hope he is found and is okay. He’s so cute.”
The search continued . . .
Friday 3/27/09 To say he just slipped between my fingers is an understatement. Yesterday I got a call around 4 pm from a neighbor who had just seen him nibbling on the kibble in my own front yard! I charged outside and saw him running up the street, so I jumped in my car and drove in the direction he had run. There he was, trotting around the corner. SLOWLY I followed, careful not to frighten him. He stopped and looked at me. I could have sworn he smiled. Then poof! he was gone. Into a yard, down a trail, or over a hill. There are a million different hiding places around here. Time to get serious . . . I heard about “a guy” with a trap. I called the “guy,” and he said he’d loan me his trap. I recruited Mark (husband) to go with me because I had to meet the “guy” that night behind a Denny’s in Carson. We went. We parked. We waited. A van pulled up and a guy got out. Mark rolled down his window. The “guy” looked like a drug dealer – straggly hair, tattoos, shorts and flip-flops in 50 degree weather. He peered in and said, “You Julie?” And I said. “Yeah.” And Mark said, “Got the trap?” And he said, “In the van.” And I said, “Mark, you get it; I’ll wait here…..” or something like that. Anyway, we made the exchange. Mark and the guy started chatting, so I got out to see what was taking so long. Mr. Trap-owner was actually very nice and wanted to give me explicit, detailed instructions. In fact, he would not shut-up. Then he introduced us to his two “sweetest in the world” pit bulls. Ok, time to go. Mark gave him a twenty for his trouble. As soon as we got home, I set the trap out in the front yard. When I got up this morning, I held my breath and crossed my fingers and went to check the trap. Inside there was . . . a raccoon.
So that’s where we are. Tonight I will try again with different enticements. No doubt I will catch another raccoon or a skunk, possum, or grizzly bear. I’ll be up early tomorrow (Saturday) morning to begin another search. If anyone wants a nice morning walk, be at my house at 7:30. Please keep spreading the word – it’s the only way I will find him! When this is over, I’m going after the Lockness monster…. Julie Brown, exhausted dog lover
Again, a flurry of responses: Here’s a good one with sensible advice: “Having had this experience a few times, if you do catch a skunk, throw a plastic tarp over the cage first so the skunk won’t see you coming. Then open the door and back away, trying to stay out of sight. The skunk will eventually exit the cage, and you may have avoided being sprayed. Even if it does spray, the spray will stay on the plastic and won’t stink up your house and yard.” And my favorite: “Julie, it appears that you are seeing this dog everywhere now. I think you should name him “Elvis.”
It’s been six months. My mom died last summer. Although she was elderly, she was in pretty good shape, so her death, while not untimely, was unexpected . . .
We sat in the rabbi’s office and shared stories to prepare for the memorial. Everybody laughed. Everybody cried. Everybody except for me. I felt nothing. After the meeting I asked to speak to our rabbi alone. I told him something was wrong with me, that I felt no emotion – no sadness, no loss, no heartbreak. He said I was in shock.
“I’m not in shock,” I said. “I feel fine.”
“It’s sort of like being in shock,” he explained. “Your subconscious is not ready to deal with the loss of your mom.”
I had trouble with this explanation. “But that doesn’t make sense. I should be devastated. I should be sobbing. I cried more when my dog died.”
“It’s normal,” he assured me. “Your broken heart is there. You’ll find it.”
I left feeling skeptical. I went through the motions, played the role of dutiful daughter, took care of arrangements, hovered over my father, prepared food for visitors, wrote my speech. At the service I spoke with confidence, laughing in the right places and not crying when expected to do so. The tears of people in front of me, some who didn’t even know my mother, failed to move me. All I wanted to do, what I needed to do, was take care of everyone else.
The Friday night after the memorial, we went to services. We said mourners kaddish – I tried to cry. Nope. People visited me, brought treats, and gave comfort. It was nice, and I appreciated it very much, but still no tears. Yom Kipper came and went. Nothing. I took my mother’s things home with me – her nightgown, her cuddle pillow, some half-used cosmetics, the red infinity scarf she wore every day because she always was cold. It held the faintest scent of her.
I prepared myself for the worst Thanksgiving of my life and my birthday the same weekend. The proverbial first “fill-in-the-blank” without my mom. We ended up having a wonderful Thanksgiving. And my birthday, well, I don’t really remember it.
I stopped searching. Maybe I would just be one of those who would weather the death of a parent without feeling loss. Maybe I was so relieved not to be worrying about her anymore that the relief outweighed the sadness. Maybe I didn’t care as much as I thought I did. Oh God, maybe I should go back to the rabbi or see a therapist . . .
I had a plant of my mom’s. It was ugly. I think it had once been two plants that she had stuck into a pot together with a scoop of dirt. One piece of it was a wispy fern and the other a more hearty-leafed thing. I liked the pot, so I brought it home intending to plant something that flowered. But the ugly plant my mother had created seemed healthy, so I just left it alone. I did nothing to it – maybe a bit of water now and then. It thrived. Ugly as ever, it just kept living. Then one day, my dogs made a play-thing out of it. I went outside and found my mother’s ugly plant knocked over and ripped apart – the wispy fern shredded, the hearty leaves scattered across the grass. I stared at it for a moment or two, and my eyes filled with tears. The tears ran down my cheeks like streams of melting snow. The sob that came out of me scared the birds away, and my heart broke apart. I frantically gathered what was left of my mom’s plant and tried to find one root that could be salvaged. I yelled at my sweet dogs who had torn up the plant because I had left it where they could. It was all my fault. My fault the plant was dead. My fault my mother was gone.
Intellectually, I know that’s ridiculous. My mother was old. She had many health issues. But I’m a second-guesser, a “what-if” kind of girl. What if I had done just one thing differently?
Now the tears come easily. When I see her handwriting; when I walk by Chico’s and think “Mom would love that top;” when I see her little soap dish and remember how she washed her hands; when I make the cookies we used to make together.
Mother’s Day is coming. Another “first.” The first mother’s day of my life that is not about my mom. I cry just thinking about it.
Writers are often asked: “What is your writing routine?” It’s a good question. After all, people want to know how it’s done. How do writers find time to write between jobs, kids, pets, chores, distractions, and the endless list of things that must be done before we allow ourselves the luxury of indulging in our creative passion.
Hmmm – this is where “the plan” comes in. My schedule is rigid. I am asleep every night by ten pm and up at five am – before the household stirs. I make coffee, settle down at my laptop, and click away, letting the words flow from my imagination without interruption. I don’t stop until the sun sends golden rays of light through the window and I’ve pounded out at least 1000 words . . . And of course, I write every day.
Oh please, rigidity is not even a concept I understand. I’m the queen of loosie-goosie, the wing-it girl, the juggler of all things that probably shouldn’t be juggled. I stay up way too late watching animal videos on you-tube. My mornings don’t even begin until the sun assaults my eyes with razor-like precision. My husband makes coffee before he leaves the house (it’s one of the things I like best about him). My three dogs paw at me to get out of bed. I find an excuse to text my children or spy on their now defunct FB pages. Then I get caught up in posts and photos – photos of glorious vacations my “friends” are on and the perfect lives of people I don’t even know. I tear myself away from social media when the phone rings, the wash machine buzzes, or a dog throws up. How the hell do I ever find time to write?
Here’s the truth. Writers do not “find” time – at least not the ones I know. We make it. We carve it out of our days in bits and pieces. I put “write” in my calendar wherever there’s open space. I say “sorry, I can’t go” to a lot of fun stuff. There’s no magic, no roadmap, and definitely no one-size-fits-all answer.
Writers without editors or agents breathing down their necks to meet deadlines can be like untethered balloons. We are at risk of wandering from project to project, changing goals, touching down in random places, getting lost. It’s up to us to tether our strings, preferably to the back of a chair in front of a desk, and focus.
So do I follow the “rules?” Sometimes, maybe, sort of . . . but for every rule that exists, there are exceptions to prove it wrong. And I can tell you this – I do not write every day. But I sure do think about it.
“The Golden Rule is that there are no golden rules.” George Bernard Shaw
I submitted this essay in application for the Dr. Ellen Taliaferro Scholarship to the San Francisco Writers Conference 2017. The prompt was this: Write 500 words or less on the power of forgiveness. So I did. And I won! The conference took place at the Mark Hopkins Hotel this past weekend. It was fabulous. Thank you Dr. Taliaferro!
“It took a long time, but as soon as I let go of my anger and resentment, I was free. I dropped the chains I’d been carrying around like Ebenezer Scrooge and felt as if a single balloon could lift me off the ground and carry me to the sky.”
I wrote those words some time ago while working on a story in which my main character had been betrayed. She was suffocating under the weight of her own hostility and venom. As the writer who created this character, I understood her refusal to forgive. In fact, I was quite sure I didn’t want her to. But as any writer knows, sometimes characters have minds of their own, as if they can jump off the page and poke the author on the shoulder and demand we go in a different direction. That’s what my character did – she forced me to allow her to forgive . . . of course that changed the trajectory of my plot, but that’s another story!
I used to think forgiveness could only be given following an apology. I mean, why should I let someone off the hook who isn’t sorry for acting against me? It makes sense that apology and forgiveness go together. They are opposite sides of the same coin. They complement each other like ingredients in a recipe:
Sift equal amounts guilt, remorse, and admission of wrongdoing into bowl. Add an open mind, a kind heart, and a scoop of understanding; stir gently; bake as long as it takes. Enjoy the delicious blend of sincere apology and heartfelt forgiveness.
But over time I’ve learned that forgiveness is like a piece of art that stands on its own. It might be part of a set, but it is still complete and rich with possibility all by itself. A willingness to “let it go,” with or without the apology, makes us better people. People who forgive readily are happier, easier to get along with, and have more patience. They don’t hold grudges or revisit old arguments and are kinder than those who choose to stay angry. And what I find most interesting, people who forgive are quicker to recognize their own faults and apologize for their own misdeeds.
So, back to the story in which my character decided to forgive her betrayer . . . She and I ended up parting ways, and I decided to set the story aside. But my opinionated character left me with a wonderful gift, a message whispered into my ear:
“The true beneficiary of forgiveness is not the one who receives it . . . it is the one who grants it.”
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I’ve gone in and out of several writing groups over the years. For the most part, I’ve gotten at least something out of each one — encouragement, sympathy, advice . . . and oh yeah, homegrown vegetables – writers have all kinds of interesting hobbies! For many of us, however, there comes a time when a critique group fails to serve its purpose. Here are FOUR situations that indicate it might be time for you to move on.
Writers must be brave. When we write, we reveal stuff – what we think, believe, imagine. It took me a long time to get over feeling vulnerable and exposed. Actually, I’m not over it – I’ve just learned to live with it.
As a writer of fiction, I have no choice but to open up my head and spill the contents onto paper, creating stories with a fervor and passion that allow me to let go of my fears. My current work in progress deals with sexual abuse, a subject that is difficult to read and excruciating to write. My readers will judge, infer, and assume things about me when they read it. But I’m okay with that. As writers, we reveal how we think, expose what matters to us, divulge how our brains work and where our imaginations take us. All of that is what makes me the kind of writer I am.
If you want to know me, read my stories. Bits of me are sprinkled throughout every one of them. And if you really want to know me, watch my interview with Chris Williams from “I SHARE HOPE.” We spoke about everything from kids to cooking to how anyone on earth is able to inspire hope in others. His project will renew your faith in people. And it just may change the world.
There’s no magic . . .
I’m in the midst of querying literary agents. It’s hard work, painstaking actually.
To do it right, authors spend countless hours researching, investigating, and tracking. Landing an agent can take months. Or longer . . . Continue reading
In the spirit of giving during the holiday season, 100 percent of my royalties from The Long Dance Home will be donated to The Mar Vista Gardens Steppers, a non-profit dance program located in a public housing development in Los Angeles. In addition to dance instruction, Steppers provides at risk children and teens with the inspiration, mentoring, and support they need to help break the family cycle of poverty.
Every royalty penny I earn during December will go to this wonderful program. Please help me support The MVG Steppers and the Boys and Girls Clubs of Santa Monica.
About the book: The Long Dance Home is a sweet, funny, romantic holiday story. Cece Camden, a cautious, organized planner, has her life all figured out. That is until she doesn’t. At the time of her twenty-ninth birthday, nothing goes according to plan, and the disciplined, level-headed, former ballerina is thrown into turmoil. With financial woes and boyfriend trouble, Cece makes an impulsive decision that sets into motion the unraveling of her meticulous life plan. Set in a small town at Christmastime, The Long Dance Home is about choices that alter life’s path and dreams that come true when they are least expected.
By the way, I love bookclubs, and it’s great fun to Skype with groups who have read the book. Let me know if your bookclub is interested! If you would like a signed copy for yourself or for gifting, please email me at email@example.com.
Thank you so much for helping me support The Mar Vista Gardens Steppers, and I hope you enjoy reading The Long Dance Home.
Available on Kindle for $2.99 and in hardcopy wherever books are sold. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00ET55U0M
As NANOWRI winds down, it’s time for you to amp it up! With only a few days left in November, planning, time-management, and motivation are what will get you to the finish line. Here are three things you must AVOID! Continue reading