Blue Skies and Letting Go

Finished. Well, for now at least. I'm learning the practical art of letting go. Eggshells, my baby girl manuscript is in its best possible shape for now. It's a story of four sisters, each one unique in their age and stage, but also in the special hopes and the desires...the dreams that fuel them.

Gypsy is the fourteen year old sister, kind of the soothsayer/poet in the family. She has a knowing sense that danger lingers on the doorstep. Caroline is the wild child. She thrives on drama and takes risks the others wouldn't even dream of. Dee is the straight arrow...she's stuck her finger in the flame and learned from it. But Dee is also the family secret-keeper. She fends off the vicious attacks of the gossipy neighbors. There is plenty to talk about, that's for sure. And Kristen is the beautiful, blonde haired older sister. Married with a baby of her own, she still looks back. Understandably, Peter has had enough. But on one hot summer night at the end of June, Gypsy's sheers kick up alongside her window. Mom will take a fall and Caroline's risky flirtation will have a disastrous consequence. One that will topple them all. Eggshells is the story of four sisters faced with an unimaginable public disaster and how they pick up the pieces and put it all back together again.

This is my baby. My fledgling novel waiting to find its place on the stage of the publishing world. Letting go, for me, is the hardest part of all. I have many projects rumbling around, penciled in on the pages of my journal. But these four girls and their struggles have captured my every waking hour for the past year and a half or so. Today, it's official. I'm moving on, opening a new file, and letting my mind race off in another direction toward that new story that is waiting out there in the wings! I'm sure there'll be a sister or two...because that is, in the end, the stuff that I am made of!

Angel Birthday

No wrinkles,

no lines,

or grays.

Just that smirky

smile,

and her

little leftover wink

remain.

We celebrated our

days together,

hers just a day before

mine.

Always...

a big splurge!

A creamy bakery cake...

lemon-filled

of course,

and in good times...

Dinner out

at a real restaurant...

with waiters,

and tablecloths,

and red leather

booths!

So today,

that day before

mine...

I'm remembering,

and sending

a little wink

her way.

I'm sure wherever

she is...

there's whipped cream,

and lemon...

and lots

of licorice,

and laughter

too!

Why We Query...and other dull points of Writing Interest

For purposes of pure torture, that's why. How does one cram the whole body of a novel into two or three very tight, very succinct paragraphs? For the past three weeks, I've been working, thinking, dreaming and living with this one paged nightmare crammed inside my head. And I've finally come to a conclusion.

Well...duh. Everybody in the publishing biz is looking for a pitch. They're sick of the dog-drooling, self-serving authors out there. Well, I don't know about you, but I have been caught with my mouth hanging open at a conference or two before. "Tell me about it..."

Ummmmmm. Well, it all begins when...blah-blah-blah. And then that's it. I'm tongue-tied, my eyes are bulging, and I'm looking for my first means of escape. But what I've come to find out is that I'm not practiced and polished, I don't have the plot nailed down in my head. For me, that is a danger. Back to the drawing board, you'd say. I get it. If I don't know it well enough to talk about it, it's not all there to begin with.

So...after a year of returning to the drawing board, revising and rethinking. I finally think I've written the book I set out to write. The characters are clear. There are four of them, well...four sisters telling the story, which means four voices whispering their parts. There are many characters in all. In the past, taking those four story lines and condensing all of them has been a problem. But the art of reduction, boiling it down, looking at it, practicing and polishing has finally helped me to get to where I thought I was before. And now? Voila! The query begins to take shape...and it is not so bad after all.

The Chance Encounters of an Occasional Shopper

Well, anyone who knows me knows that that's a big fat lie. Occasional? Okay, no. I love to shop. But. Legal shopping season is finally over. And now? I'm broke. So, I find myself in places like Target and Homegoods...not Walmart. (I'm boycotting them...but that's a whole 'nother story.) I really think if we had more art galleries around here, I'd probably be less dangerous in the wallet department, or so I tell my husband. He smirks.

I was checking out a few odd items at Target last week, laying them on the belt when I heard an unusual exchange between a customer and the cashier. "I don't know which works with my food stamps, and which doesn't, I'm really embarrassed." He had a nasally lisp and pretty much spoke at the top of his lungs, so there really was no eavesdropping going on here. Pinky swear.

"That's okay, you don't have to know...the machine just figures it out." She stood there, focused entirely on him. "And as far as the foodstamps, I just got off them. Don't be embarrassed. Everyone needs a little help sometimes." Okay, well...I wanted to reach right into my wallet, but I kept my mouth shut and gave the man the dignity and space he deserved. And really, the cashier was doing just fine without me.

But then he had to enter his pin number, and he couldn't remember it. He was in a bit of panic. The cashier was calm as a cucumber. She just reached over and the next thing I knew, she was punching in some numbers. How'd she know? Could there be some kind of emergency pin?

Now it's my turn. While he's gathering his things that are kinda sprawled out all over the place, and the cashier starts ringing mine up, he suddenly discovers something she forgot to ring on his order. She zaps my receipt, suspends my order, and he looks at me and says, "I'm really sorry." I tell him I really don't care; I'm in no hurry at all.

The cashier finishes me up then...and as I'm collecting my bags, I see him getting ready to brave the freezing cold temperatures outside. But...he's lost his gloves, so I help him out a little bit with that.

"Stay here and get bundled before you go out there," I say. I don't mean to be demeaning, it's just the mother monster inside me. He's a grown man, I tell myself.

"I know, you're right," he says. But then he stops and smiles, and he's captivated by my new boots. "Those are really cool boots."

"You like them?" I say. "Santa gave them to me."

He winks at me then. He has that little twinkle in his eye. Like...he knows who the real Santa is. "That Santa's a pretty cool dude." They're my brand new gray suedes with the buckles along the sides, and I absolutely love them too.

"Or dudette," I say. My friend is now adjusting his wool hat. He starts to crack up. I wave then and he waves back, and I head out toward my car laughing. My friend had a pretty good sense of style, that's for sure. And I had a chance encounter at Target...priceless!

It Happens

What is often forgotten is the most important thing to remember of all. People are more important than things. I know this in my heart, I believe it with everything inside me, and yet I get caught up in the disastrous blockbuster hit called Christmas year after year after year. Some one of these days, I'll get it right!

This year, I had a great reminder...the shattered lamp. Liam, the four-year old lampmaster, was rolling around at the end of our Christmas celebration, no doubt hyped up on the cookies and candies (Loves his Mike & Ikes...calls 'em jelly beans), when he knocked over the prized living room lamp. Everyone was all astir. I checked to see that his little paws were okay then got the broom and dustpan. No big deal. The lamp? Gone, of course, but who cares? I broke its partner two years ago in a similar way when I was compulsively vaccuuming and forgetting about the effect of cords on their attachments.

Last year, it was Grandpa and the red wine on the white rug...before that it was a broken coffee pot or something of the like. And what am I reminded of each time? It happens. When I was growing up, it happening would cause a sudden rampage, guilt and blame and then certain punishment for sure. My dad would remind me that he came from Ireland with five bucks in his pocket and that his children would one day learn to respect that. I didn't get it back then, but of course I do now. Still. Things are things.

One thing I know is that Liam learned his lesson (probably) when the crash of the lamp scared him half out of his wits. And as for the lamp? Well, my bro-in-law, says to send him the bill...and make it a $1500 lamp the likes of which his wife would want to buy! My sister-in-law, Trish, says go to Target, spend $20 and send him the bill for the $1500! (All tongue and cheek, of course.) They both make me laugh!

I'll do neither of the sort. I'm sure I'll replace that lamp eventually...or go green and light candles. But I'll definitely remember the fun we had that day...the food, the people, the stories and the funny reactions of the crowd. Our family has many more important things to think about. People are important, things are not. Christmas will come again...and all the things I chase after in stores? Well, they'll all break and let me down eventually. I love my family...the Lynch Tribe. No Murphys here this year...those crazy people from my tribe--and those are the losses that, in the end, are the hardest for me to overcome!

We Are Stardust...We Are Golden

Ingrid Bergman. That's who I want to be. Given a lasting contract to assure continual stardom through her "formative years." Absolute pure beauty, clear talent...and the tears? Well, forget about it! She made it all look so easy. But then, she did have three husbands to juggle, so you gotta know that in itself makes her a great actress!

I'm sitting here watching Crosby, Stills and Nash and Bonnie Raitt too, belt it out...you know, The Rocking Roll Hall of Fame's gathering at MSG. Last night, Bono and Sprinsteen and Mick Jagger, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel and a host of other voices that I could listen to forever. Tonight, we've been switching back and forth between Straight, No Chaser an acapella group and the rock show. And I'm actually amazed at how well preserved their talent is after all these years. I mean, c'mon...thirty years on the road and they can still harmonize, and eek out their emotions on the stage. Then walks out one of my all time faves...Jackson Browne, the greatest storyteller of all. Controversial, yes. But man the voice and the craft! He's got it all. "When the morning light comes streamin' in...I'll get up and do it again." Well, now that's a message that sure didn't come easily to me. I was far too busy struggling for the legal tender he sings about. But now? Well, I still struggle, but I've got it. The message is always in the music. Their message endures and so do they.

So, tomorrow morning, I'll be Ingrid, Bono, Jackson, Sting and Bruce and Bonnie too. I'll be focused and true. I'll get up and do it again, because it's what I do. Writing, like music, art and acting takes time, and no matter how long it took to get me there, I'm golden.

Daydream Believer

I woke up this morning to the most hopeful news! In fact, for me it was a validation of all the years I've spent out in space during my waking hours! I am after all, a hopeless daydreamer. It's something I can't help, and perhaps I shouldn't even try.

The NY Times posted an article relating the true nature of dreams to the daily functioning of the human brain. By day, in my most alert state...my brain apparently represses my dreaming. By night, my brain warms down, and the dream state takes over. Shaking loose all those electronic impulses? I guess. Freud and Jung would be crushed. Will their theories become the stuff of fiction like my daydreams?

I remember and always come back to Stephen King's reference to how well the brain is trained to be ready to dream at the same time each night. (This pearl came in his book, On Writing, a Memoir of the Craft.) Current neuroscience is apparently pointing to this idea too. My brain's on a schedule, that's all. Makes me wonder, though...about all those wonderful kids I have in my class who are a bit disorganized and at times out there somewhere in space. In today's world, it is said that they have 'executive functioning issues.' To my crazy mind, they're probably the next brood of artists, musicians, writers, and crafts people that will fill our eyes and our ears with wonderful sounds and gorgeous imagery someday. They're the doodlers, the drifters, the beautiful dreamers too! In my perfect world? Schools will one day validate them all, allowing large expanses of time for the pure pursuit of a dream.