An Aries (Who Knows Some Stuff)
If you remember the calendar I shared here on October 8 that I decided to repurpose, I just colored the first pen and ink print from it. The cover.
I kind of love him.
The original is a print of a pen and ink. I colored in with pencils.
Sorry to duplicate an Instagram post here, but like most everyone else in the USA, I’m a bit distracted and anxious.
Question 1733: Charm or I.D. bracelet? (and why…)
On, so very easy for me. There’s nothing wrong with an I.D. bracelet. In fact, probably there have been times when I was called Betty and Betsy and Peggy and Debby that it would have been nice to hold up a bracelet that proclaimed, “BECKY,” and say, “Talk to the wrist.”
Names are good, especially if you like yours and it has meaning for you.
But it’s charms, for this Aries…
Charms are places I’ve been, things I’ve seen. Dreams I’ve dreamed. People I’ve known who have loved me and who I have loved. They are my novels and my characters. Symbols with meanings for me. My varied interests: quirky, true, and passionate.
Microcosms, those bracelets, and I have a baseball in a little gold box that still needs to go on one of my character bracelets.
I have this sweet bracelet, too, that belonged to my mother. For many years, it had a charm for each of her first four grandchildren: Daniel, Josh, Sarah, Gina. One of the times she lived here, I was able to find a company that sold a similar one for her to add her fifth grandchild, Aaron.
Definitely charms.
There’s another part of my problem with Facebook that I haven’t talked about, so here I go.
Other people have this experience from different angles–parents’ jobs, broken families, etc.–but when you are a military brat, there’s one thing you can be sure of. Change. You will not have one hometown, one school, one set of friends through your childhood and adolescence. If you’re lucky, you’ll get two years in one place, but more likely one year.
I have no complaints about this. When I balance what I learned and the wealth and diversity of my formative years against the sacrifices of change, I embrace the best and accept the not-so-great for what it was: preparation for the shifts and curves and sheer drop-offs that I’ve traveled on life’s road.
Even though I got lucky because of my father’s Army retirement and had a few more years in one place (sort of: three towns close together and only two high schools in six years), after that, I was on the move. Tuscaloosa. Back home. Tuscaloosa. Montgomery. Tuscaloosa. Huntsville, and then Texas. Each of those moves involved different homes, different sets of friends, different jobs and coworkers, different romances.
Those moves also meant a lot of contacts and friendships that faded away. I have a core group of friends who were part of my teenage and undergraduate years–I think there were eight of us–Lynne, Liz, Riley, Debbie, Carreme, Joseph, Kathy, me; we are down to five now. They are not all connected to one another, but they are all connected to me and know of one another. Regardless of the scarcity of times we talk or see each other, I can pick up the phone and call, or text or email, and it’ll be like we’ve never been apart. That’s a huge gift, and I treasure it.
Since three of the eight have died, we have mourned our losses together. We have celebrated one another’s weddings and the births of children and grandchildren. We have consoled each other through broken relationships and lost jobs. We have felt each others’ losses to death of parents, spouses, family members including siblings, a niece and a nephew, and friends.
All of that is a lot, and we were only eight in number. What happened when people from all the different parts of my life began finding me on Facebook was that I experienced what people who stay in one place do: ALL of the celebrations and ALL of the losses, except in one condensed, intense place and time.
While it was wonderful to hear all the good news and I was happy for it, it was overwhelming to hear all the other news. The sicknesses. The heartbreaks. The deaths. I can smile over the birth of another grandchild, send best wishes for any happy event, and move on. But I know too well from my own experience how losses are not just a moment and then a move forward. The shock of death, the years of grieving–these are not the stuff for an “I’m so sorry” and then just moving along. I hurt for these losses and because we are aging, there were so many. It was like every hometown, every school, every person I’d known was all right there, every day, on Facebook.
Adding all of that to the other shocks of reconnecting with people I knew long ago and finding out the changes in their politics and personalities–I think it’s good to have some people fixed in time as one part of your life and let them stay there. I got a call one time from a long-ago friend, and after talking about how we were all getting older, he said, “But do you still have your beautiful skin?” I could only laugh and say, “I’m like everyone else. I weigh more. I have more wrinkles. I don’t look the way I used to look. You just hold on to that girl in your mind and let her be the one you see. We all need our illusions.”
I need my illusions, too.
I will always be grateful that when I got the shocking news that Riley had died, Susan B, who made me aware (thinking I already knew!) was sensitive to the devastation it caused. She had no intention of being the one who told me. She wasn’t there to see me fall apart, to run to Tim and sob incoherently in his arms because I couldn’t believe it and didn’t think I could bear it. (Poor Tim thought my mother had died, but that didn’t happen until four months later. In another part of this pain, when I told her about Riley, who of course SHE had known for as many years as I had, it was one of the things she couldn’t take in because of her Alzheimer’s. She couldn’t remember who Riley was. The person who’d always been my refuge was disappearing, too.)
Susan B wasn’t with me, but she realized the effect of her news, because she said kind, compassionate things to me. Twelve years later, she and I are still in touch through Instagram, where we can like and comment on each other’s posts. Even though we weren’t “best” friends, we had a lot in common and we were definitely friends throughout our school years. Our lives are different, our opinions may be different, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll always be connected not just because we knew each other a long time ago, but because in one of the worst moments of my life, when I needed it most, she was kind to me.
It’s a hard fact of life that as we age, we’ll know more loss on every level. It isn’t just friends and family members, or those who taught and ministered to us; the people we never knew who slip away from our lives affect us, too. The ones who shaped national and world history. The artists who inspired us. The people who made and appeared in the movies we loved. The ones who wrote the books that changed us. The ones whose music gave our lives their soundtracks.
Last night, Lynne texted to tell me Jerry Jeff Walker had died. He joins a pantheon of songwriters/musicians lost, and every one of them hurts. I don’t just say, oh, too bad, about people like Jerry Jeff and Tom Petty–and I won’t even add to this list, I’ll just say that all grief is real, and we feel it because we are lucky enough to love and connect.
I’m trying to write a short story right now, and this story is NOT my story with Riley. But it is hitting every damn nerve I have that’s connected to him. So I write a little bit and cry a lot, and I have no idea if anything I write will be worth a damn.
But I’ll keep writing it. I’ll keep writing at all. Because creation is really the only answer some of us have to pain and fury and loss.
Riley, year and photographer unknown
Current Photo Friday theme: Autumn
I painted these in August 2010, inspired by colorful leaves I collected in June that same year in the Ozark mountains while on a family vacation.
I don’t always remember where my art goes, but I do know who purchased these and hope he still enjoys them.
I woke up one morning last week with the urge to paint again. But I must finish this short story by the end of the month. Then there are those novels…
This morning I was thinking about what to post today. I thought about posting a list of things I’m THINKING about but not BLOGGING about. Just the topics. Not my thoughts about those topics. While I have plenty of thoughts and opinions, I’m less inclined to share them publicly than I once was. I’m not a journalist. I’m not an editorial writer. I’m not a pundit, political commentator, or analyst. Why should I add to the noise of all the people who won’t SHUT THE FUCK UP?
Did I say that out loud?
I’m shelving the idea for now, because today I went to Target (Here’s the truth: Today I went to Target to buy Target popcorn.) and I found this book, and I’m already crazy about it.
There are three thousand either/or questions in the book, and you have to tell WHY you pick what you pick. I’m pretty good about picking one thing over another, but maybe not as forthcoming about why. So here is a book that will keep me honest, and I’ll pick a question at random when I do these posts.
Today’s question, No. 1151: Poppies or sunflowers? (and why…)
Sunflowers. Sunflowers are life and light. They grow in large fields in the Midwest and once surprised Tom and me on a trip. They remind me of a trip Lynne and I once took to Alabama. They grow in yards and gardens and out of sidewalk cracks. They are hardy and happy and they make me think of Vincent Van Gogh’s art.
Poppies are pretty, and I love seeing fields of them in photos and art, but I always connect them to loss and death because of the war poem “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae, where poppies “blow between the crosses, row on row.” Poppies have become the symbol of ceremonies commemorating the war dead. War and its losses hurt my heart.
Feel free to comment with your choice or use the question on your own social media.
Alabama, 2011
Current Photo Friday theme: White
Giuseppe Armani: Porcelain Lady on Horse
It took me a few days to color this lethal weapon. I was doing a lot of writing, less contemplating.
I maybe should have waited closer to Halloween to post her. I also should have had an exorcism done on Jack a few years back. I don’t always know how to best handle lethal weapons.
I have known a few real-life lethal females in my time. I’ll take this vampire over them any day. Less deadly. I’m giving a little of her power to a female character I’m writing.
She came from this book of powerful fantasy women, gift of Marika. Thanks!
Remember that time on September 8 when I told you the washing machine died?
I have no idea how old our water cooler was. I know we had it in 2001 at The Compound, but that’s about as far back as I can track it. So it was twenty years old or more.
It died.
Hey, new cooler. You have quite the record to beat.
Last week, I recycled another pile (eightish inches this time) of documents from my former job.
At some point around March 10.180 or whatever it is, I colored this.
I personally cannot do everything, but I’ve so far made it through this psychologically hellish week, SO I DID THAT.
There has been street flooding in Houston courtesy of Tropical Storm Beta. So far for us, that’s meant a very soggy yard and unhappy dogs. But no flooding. Always grateful for no flooding. Also grateful for the two days first responders took care of everyone. Beta should be finished with us now.
I can’t blame the weather for the uptick in my anxiety level. That’s political. The worst part is when I can’t sleep, because then my mind goes to its darkest, saddest places. I’ve been working on that by making a definite cutoff point to writing each night; ignoring/disconnecting all devices; and since my mind can’t focus well enough to read (which in good times is my greatest wind-down activity), I’ve been doing a lot of coloring. When coloring, I seem better able to know when I need to shift my thoughts from the things that upset me about the world, my life, and my relationships, and think of the things that make me happy about those same things. Whatever works. Also, I’ve gone back to this. So far, it’s worked two nights, failed one.
One thing I haven’t talked about is that September is Suicide Awareness Month. Last year in April, I did a post about our nephew Aaron along with some drawings of eggs my mother-in-law sent at Easter. I mentioned then that eggs are a symbol of the circle of life as well as new life and potential. I colored one of the eggs last year for Aaron. By now, I’ve finished all of them.
National Hopeline Network: 1-800-442-HOPE (4673)
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
National Youth Crisis Hotline: Text RISE to 741741 in the United States
I may be posting more coloring pages I’ve done among other things. Be patient with me for all the things I can’t say. Won’t say. I have to mute my rage setting for now. For the friends who are balm to my soul, thank you. There is a season for everything inside me. And all of us. I love the Byrds and I love this old song. (In fact, next book, there’s a fun little tribute to the Byrds in a non-musical way.) Nice images in this video. Noticed they misspelled “weep” because I can’t turn off my inner editor.
Peace.
Current Photo Friday theme: Slow
In the early 1970s as bored youngsters needing to use our imaginations, Lynne and I began creating characters. We used people who inspired us, but the stories we concocted around them were all our own inventions.
In the late 1970s, I began to put them on paper as best I could remember them, but I did it from the perspective of someone older, and I did it with a semi-sense of the kind of fiction that I could write using them. It was probably best described at that time as glitz.
In 1980, I destroyed that manuscript. When I did, all fiction writing stopped for me. I embarked on a series of jobs and relationships and mistakes that were my training ground for how not to be an adult. I knew a lot of writers. I could talk about writing. I could certainly talk about novels, short stories, and poems and teach them. But I believed my bad writing breakup was forever.
I thought a lot of breaking up was forever, and my bad choices certainly ensured it.
Then I met Tom, and somewhere on the journey to trusting myself again, I told him about my by then many-years writing block. He said maybe I should consider revisiting those old characters and their stories. Maybe if I resurrected them, my writing would come back to life. Over the next few years, I wrote three novels, with Tom as my reader and advisor and Lynne once again providing creative input of plot and character development as she read them, too.
I wrote those novels while I changed cities and then states. While I embarked on more jobs. While I became HIV-AIDS aware and a LGBT ally. While I finally began to figure out who I was in this world. Some people read the manuscripts and liked them, some people didn’t. It was all okay. The manuscripts were my teachers.
As I lost friends to AIDS one after another, one of them said, “One day, you must tell our stories.” I tried, but nothing I put on paper ever came close. Then I met my writing partners online, and with them, I found a voice and together we wrote our five Manhattan novels (or four Manhattan novels, one mall novel) and were published. Then Timothy and I wrote our two novels and they were published. I wrote two contemporary romances, and they were published. Together, Timothy and I edited three short story anthologies that were published.
By then, I was tired. I started new creative and professional endeavors with sporadic successes. Over the years, I lost my mother and a nephew and beloved dogs. I lost a lifelong friend who had been instrumental in encouraging my creative writing. He was a poet and musician and songwriter, and I had been his muse. I never knew he had been my muse, as well. Life was full of changes and transitions. I was a little lost. I was not writing fiction.
In 2013, I found an organization to work with and then for, and it consumed me. I certainly didn’t have the energy or time to write. In early 2019, I knew I had to make a change. I desperately needed balance, and for me, that means there must be a creative outlet. I had no idea what to do.
They came back to me. All of the characters from my earliest years of their creation. I wondered, How would I write them now? So many years, so many experiences, so many joys and losses behind me, how would they change based on how I’ve changed? No more glitz. No more soap opera. Stories. Their stories.
One day I colored the sketch in the photo, “I Would Find You in Any Lifetime,” and I thought about the love stories in my three novels and about one character in particular. I had missed him so much. I had missed them all. They came back because I needed them. I realized the phrase in the sketch wasn’t only about them. It was about me.
Two months later, I’d written my first 20-plus pages with a plan: same characters, same general plot lines, what I hoped was a better me. I finally accepted that I would have to break all rules to write them and not give a damn about that. The first novel would be two novels. Then three. Now I know it’s going to be four. I’ve written them without the anxiety of publishers and editors, because I honestly don’t care. These are for me. Not for my vanity. For my health and happiness.
They are being read (and not read) as I go along. That isn’t without its frustrations, because the characters and storylines are different from all previous incarnations. I’m writing them organically, and I know where I want to go, but my characters have grown up, too, and I’m learning they don’t always agree with me. That may mean a lot of adjustments later, and it also means I might not express everything the way I mean to for my readers’ preferences and expectations.
I finished the first novel around December 2019 and began the second around February 2020, I think. I’m one chapter away from finishing the second, and then I’m going to do a massive edit to better break up my chapters and fix some bad writing habits. Hopefully lessons learned during the edits will make the third and fourth novels a little less painful to write.
I’m more grateful than anyone could imagine that my wonderful, flawed, sometimes foolish, sometimes wise characters came back to me. Who knew I would need them to focus on during a pandemic? Who knew I would be laid off from my job and social distancing would deny me so much of the comfort and creative energy I share with friends? Who knew all the big plans we made for 2020 would not happen?
The Photo Friday theme is “Slow?” I think I understand the concept. Some relationships take our entire lives of surviving a crazy, unpredictable journey. Some relationships are real–and some are real in another way.
I want them all.