Today has been a ‘typical’ Monday, starting off with the phone ringing — shall I say — almost continuously, along with the doorbell. Apparently a service company I shall not name forgot to tell me during a phone conversation that they were scheduling the service for early Monday morning. Since I was not exactly dressed for the day — still sipping my morning coffee and relaxing while working in my shorty p.j.’s, I refused to answer the door. Ring. Ring. Ring, goes the telephone. I chose to allow the answering machine to do its magic. Now, I ask you — why must I be interrupted by the silly telephone when I have better things to do.

And so, starts the week. To quote an old cliché — “Calgon, take me away.” What I should say — is — where is the Chardonnay, or White Zinfandel?” Ok, it’s just a bit early to be sipping a glass of wine, but this day has put me to the test.

Have you ever had a day where everything is planned? Things to Do list is ready to be checked off. #1 – Write the notes for the newsletter I am working on. #2 – Finish the notes for the Ladies Auxiliary meeting. #3 – Work on notes for “Chattahoochee Child.”

The only check mark I have accomplished is #1. Notes for the newsletter. Suddenly I realize just where my time goes. Answering the door bell. Answering the phone, and attempting to care for three dogs who seem to want outside more than inside, only to come back inside again, to scratch at the back door to say — “Hey Mom, I want outside again.” Glancing at my Things to Do I realize, I am much too busy doing non-profit volunteer work than I am working on my writing career. Perhaps that is because I am a bit burned out from writing, and I need to get a life!

Oops. Interrupted again! Shamus is whining at the back door. Silly guy. He wants inside.  And now, I hear my husband driving up. So much for a productive day today! Suppose I’ll close this and work on — NOTHING!

Free Writing – Chattahoochee Stuff

Yesterday was a good day – a day of deadline completions and working on my story, “Chattahoochee Child.” For many years, I have worked on this story – writing a synopsis, outline and the manuscript. For many years, I recognized that I really didn’t have much of a plot, that is, until my mother died.

Because I live in Charleston, SC and my mother resided in Warm Springs, GA, add to the fact that we were estranged for many years, I did not know about her death until twenty-six hours after she passed away. I was battling a severe case of bronchial asthma – missing about two weeks of work when I finally got the phone call.  My sister was drunk so she passed the phone over to her son. When I insisted on speaking with her, her son asked me an interesting question I failed to comprehend at the time.

“Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?

Moments later I spoke with my sister, reminding her we needed to make arrangements for the funeral.

“Already done,” she spat back at me. “We done made the plans and she’ll be put in her grave in the morning at 10 o’clock.”

“10:00 am.” I said. “I’m too sick to drive. You haven’t allowed any time for me to get there, nor did you include me in any of the plans. Why didn’t you call me earlier?” My chest burned like fire as I coughed.

“Ain’t my problem, but I knew you wouldn’t come. You ain’t been a member of this family for a long time.”

Her final words before hanging up stunned me. Perhaps she had forgotten what a difficult childhood we had, or perhaps she enjoyed always making me the outcast of our family.

“You reckon they’ll do an autopsy?”

“Why would they? Wasn’t she in the hospital?”

The phone went silent. I reached for my inhaler, desperate to make the coughing stop.

Weeks later, in a dream those words haunted me again. “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?” My mother died in the hospital. Was an autopsy really necessary?

I haven’t spoken to my sister since that date, but the story of “Chattahoochee Child” is taking a new twist now. I suppose my readers will just have to stay tuned, as I write and get this story completed.

“Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?”

Isn’t it strange how such chilling words can give a writer just what she needed to write that one story needing to be shared. Perhaps that is why I write!

Free Writing

Hooray! Completed another story today, after letting it ‘cool’ over night. That is truly my most valuable tip for any writer — allowing a story to rest or ‘cool’ over night, so the writer may go back to it in the morning to proofread it with their eyes — not just spellcheck of the computer! By applying that rule, I normally find any errors I might have overlooked during the writing, research phase. I must laugh at myself now because years ago, when I was a serious college student, not one who simply enrolled for the “party atmosphere,” I told my professor “I love to write!” The professor, a middle aged male with a demeanor so similar to the character of George Carlin, before he filled his mouth with too many colorful words, simply walked over to me, touched me on the shoulder, laughed out loud and said, “You love to write…THEN — You are not a writer!” Of course the class laughed and I wanted to creep into the woodwork. Although I did not understand his sarcasm at the time, I certainly understand it now! Yes, I am a writer…and writers DO HATE to WRITE!

Such famous last words. “Writers hate to write.” But — you say, “I LOVE to WRITE!” Of course you do. Writing can be rewarding, therapeutic and so depressing. Writing is a way of self expression. Writing releases endorphins. Writing does so much for the soul, and when you stare at pen and paper, or a computer monitor, writing can drive a person crazy! Why? Simple. Sometimes the words flow, and sometimes — we writers cannot organize our thoughts into one simple sentence. That is when I grab the leashes, gather my pups who are always at my feet — such as they are now, and I ‘hook ’em up’ to go for a long, embracing walk. Walking is so therapeutic. Walking releases the cobwebs inside my brain, and sometimes, when I get the thoughts right, I grab my Blackberry and write an e-mail to myself — so the thoughts, plot points or characters are not lost in the wind. Neighbors driving by usually roll a window down and ask me if I’m alright. And why wouldn’t they? They see a silly, somewhat mad woman punching away at a tiny device while three dogs are attached to her wrists, wishing she would get up off of the ground and — continue the walk.

OK. So my dogs understand. Sometimes they are patient while I am working while walking, and sometimes, Sir Shakespeare Hemingway will do his little song and dance routine, lifting his leg next to a tree branch to relieve himself, then when he is really annoyed, he will roll over, kicking his four legs into the air while dancing on his back. Believe me, I get the message rather quickly and make the attempt to send the e-mail to myself. I suppose you must be a witness to this event to appreciate how ‘the woman who walks three dogs’ is sitting on the ground playing with her phone while the dogs appear totally bored.

Free Writing

For many years, when I’ve attended writing workshops, the facilitator’s have stated writers should free write daily for five to ten minutes. What exactly is free writing? In my definition, free writing is a way for someone to simply write, without considering grammar, spelling, plot, actions, characterization or anything. ‘Just write,’ they say — without consideration of anything except the cognitive thoughts flowing from your mind.

OK — sounds simple enough, but I confess, I’ve fought with it since while writing, I continue to correct mistakes, edit and rewrite. It is 7:32am in Charleston, SC. I am sipping my first taste of coffee while listening to the morning news. Now, another story about Charlie Sheen. Oh. Woopee! Charlie Sheen and his “Goddesses.” PLEASE! Someone just take this maniac and his bimbos away! They are interviewing Charlie Sheen now. Apparently the officials removed his twin sons from his home, and the care of his ‘Goddesses”. Isn’t it about time! Children need role models, not an environment such as this.

OK. Enough about Charlie Sheen. His stories change every two minutes!

It is a beautiful morning today in Charleston, SC. Brisk, with a slight breeze I noticed when I let my precious babies outside. My babies are my ‘children’ — Prince Marmaduke Shamus, Sir Shakespeare Hemingway Cooper, and Shasta Daisy Shampagne. No, Shampagne is not misspelled. That is her name because after we rescued her, we changed her name from Mitzi — she failed to respond to it, to a beautiful name of Shasta Daisy Shampagne — because she is white like a shasta daisy, bubbly like champagne. I wanted her name to be symbolic and so, we changed it and she responded immediately.

I’ve been free writing for six minutes now, and I continue to correct my errors as I type. This free writing isn’t easy. ‘Simply open the cognitive thoughts in your mind and let it go,’ speakers at seminars have said. No theme. No notations. Simply writing, as it flows from your mind. Oh-h0h0h! That could be dangerous!

I am challenging myself to write on a regular basis on this blog. Make it interesting. Make it fun. Make it something that fans will enjoy and return to. Just what do I write?

Perhaps about my children – my rescue babies. They are so beautiful. I adopted Shamus in 2001, two years after my dad died from esophageal cancer. At that time, I had another doggie named Muffy Sue. She was a soft, precious black doggie, a blend of terrier and perhaps a bit of schnauzer. Never did she need to be groomed professionally because her coat was the type of softness that only needed brushing on a daily basis, and bathing regularly. We adopted Muffy after losing a dog one night. Boomer jumped the chain link fence after dinner and when we couldn’t find him, my son walked around the neighborhood looking for Boomer. It was unusual for Boomer not to return. Phillip found him lying in the road on Simmons Street. His body was limp and cold. Boomer died, a victim of hit and run. Tears are in my eyes while writing this. Tears for losing Boomer. Tears for the lost look in my son’s eyes, and tears because those years were such unhappy years for me.

I hugged my son, cried with him, encouraging him it was OK to cry and to grieve for Boomer. “But he’s a dog,” some people say. Maybe to you, but to my son and I, Boomer was a part of our family. We gave Boomer a proper funeral and for several days, we grieved. During this time, I was contemplating a possible ending of my marriage, so it wasn’t a good time for me, and I suspect for my son. 1986 was not a good year for this family.

Weeks later, Phillip and I went to the ASPCA. Staring into the eyes of Muffy, the wagging of her tail, the screaming ‘take me home’ way she barked and how kissy sweet she was, we chose her to come home with us. Her coloring matched the colors of Boomer. Her eyes glared intensely into mine. I’ve always been told that if a dog looks into your eyes, that is a symbol of trust and Muffy stared into my eyes with such love and trust. Little did she know what she was teaching me.

We were blessed to have Muffy for fifteen years. Her last years were not healthy years as she suffered with a repeated reoccurrence of tumors. Three surgeries and still the tumors returned. Back and forth visits to vets could not heal her and in 2001, after remembering how much my father suffered while his body melted away, we took Muffy to the vet only to be told it was time to let her go. That was truly the most painful decision I have made in my lifetime. Holding Muffy close, kissing her and telling her how much I loved her. She lifted her head, looked at me, staring with such intense trust and kissed me goodbye. Her body language told me, ‘It’s Ok, Mom. Let me go so I can eat and drink and play again. I’ll be OK. Mom.’ Still, I cry, remembering how much it hurt to let her go. That evening, after her funeral, I rushed to my computer, to write a poem in memory of Muffy.

Welcome to My Blog

Hello, new readers:

Today I would like to welcome you to my new blog, a new journal into the heart and soul of what makes me a writer. At the moment, I am working on a deadline, so this post will be brief. For that, I apologize. I am hopeful you will enjoy visiting and reading my stories and will come back frequently. Here you will learn about issues that make me exactly who I am. Perhaps there will be posts about marriage, relationships, friendship, how I have remained married to a Vietnam Veteran who suffers from PTSD and has the tendency to drive me completely out of my mind; and there will be posts about how life is progressing for me and those who are special to my life.

You will learn how I became a writer, and I will add tidbits into the struggles of writers. You will read stories about my precious rescue animals, and how I became an advocate for animals, children, the elderly, veterans, and whatever else I may squeeze onto my plate. Sorry for the cliche, but I must get back to working on my story.

So for now, since I challenged myself to get busy to create this blog, I will say welcome. Let’s enjoy the journey and adventure of life together!