Painted Canyon

I don't always recommend following the advice of one's dentist (because, trust me, I've had some pretty bad ones), but my current guy (Scott Parker in Calimesa) is really good at what he does, and he's also an avid hiker, bicyclist and mountain climber. After we chatted one day about hiking, he whipped out his phone and showed me pictures of Painted Canyon in Mecca, California (south of Indio, for you SoCal locals who are now searching Google Maps for it).

"You have to go," he said.

Well, then. I had to.

So last Saturday I made the trip (I-10 east to CA 86 south, then a couple of turns to finally hit Painted Canyon Road, which is five miles of rutted sand and gravel, so if you're going, be prepared). I kept thinking I would find a parking area with a Jeep or two in it. Not so. When I finally arrived at the trailhead, there were at least twenty cars there already, more when I left two hours later.

Back home, it was 55 degrees and drizzling. At the canyon, it was 71, clear and sunny. I left my jacket in the car, and off I went to wander. The photo above was taken near the mouth of the canyon. It's a broad expanse, steep sandstone on either side. But as you walk further, the canyon narrows. The type of rock changes. Deep holes have been carved simply by the wind swirling small rocks around for decades.

Those caves must be really cool inside, but there's no way to get up there unless you're a rock climber.

As I walked, I went in and out of sun and shadow, too warm one minute, a bit chilly the next. Then I came around a corner and saw this:

It may be hard to make out, but that's an aluminum ladder leading up a rock face... to another aluminum ladder leading up another rock face. Here's a more close-up view to the first:

Intriguing, no? I mean, I couldn't turn back. Look at that, my wanderers, adventurers, and dreamers. Would you turn back? Or climb the ladders? Exactly. But... here's the photo I didn't share on Instagram. (Please don't tell my niece, an ER nurse who was concerned about me climbing the ladder in the first place.)

The ladder has been used so many times, the bottom rungs are broken. Not such a bad thing going up. A bit dicey coming back down for those of us with hip and back issues. Oh well. Up I went. And look at the view from above looking back:

Cool, huh? I walked on. And... I'd love to share many more photos with you, except about 20 minutes later, I did have to turn back. It's hard to tell from the photos, but when you're hiking this trail, it's slightly uphill and in sand. Neither are good if you occasionally fight with sciatica, which I do. When the nerve in my leg started reminding me of my age, I decided to deny my heart's longing (sorry, heart!) and listen to my extremity. I turned around and went back, saving the rest of the hike (which leads into a narrower section of the canyon) for another day. I can't wait to return. When I do, you can be sure I'll post up about it here.

My Last Cat

A year ago, when I adopted Jenny, I wrote a blog post about her (find it here). The last line is: "Because I don't want another cat." Please understand, I've been saying that since 1992. I'm a dog person. I am. I really am. But... cats have been in my life continuously since 1972. No kidding. No break from cleaning litter boxes or being the victim of periodic maulings if I petted incorrectly. Sheesh.

I have to say, though, Jenny has turned out to be quite the sweet little buddy. (In most cases, she is kind enough to retract her claws before batting my hand away because she doesn't like the way I'm touching her. Sheesh! Cats!) She generally hangs out wherever I am working--on the yoga mat if I'm doing yoga (or under it), on the table or my desk if I'm writing, on the bed, diving under the covers if I'm trying to make it. You get the picture. She's just a zany girl.

She is still very kitten-ish in her behavior, zooming around the house with her tail crooked and her fur puffy when she's excited--which is usually about the time I'm getting in bed, so I can hear her galloping around the house, jumping on and off furniture (and sharpening her claws on it--garrrr! Cats! Sheesh!!), and knocking things over.

Her favorite activity, though, is finding a new place to curl up and sleep, one I am wholly unaware of, so that when I realize I haven't seen her in a while, and I start looking, I can't find her. I can remain pretty calm for the first ten minutes as I walk through the house, calling her name. (Of course she never responds when she's hiding. Because she's a cat. Sheesh!) After twenty minutes, I get concerned. After thirty minutes I am worried, backtracking in my mind, wondering how she might have gotten out or whether she somehow climbed in before I started the dishwasher. Panic rises slowly in me, but I do get there eventually. One day I finally found her sitting in the driver's seat of the truck in the garage. I'd left the windows down in it earlier, and somehow she'd climbed in and gone to sleep. Another time, after I'd searched every hidden corner in the house and under all beds and inside every cupboard three times, I happened to walk through the living room and I saw the fringe on a throw blanket move, almost imperceptibly. I lifted it. Yep, sleeping cat underneath. Several nights ago I couldn't find her, so I headed out to the garage to see if she'd climbed into the truck again. Didn't have to look that far. She was asleep on the hood, up on the vent. I'd driven the truck to pick up the mail earlier, and the engine was still warm.

See, this is the difference between a dog and a cat. If you call a dog, he jumps up and runs to you, wagging his tail and lifting his ears and eyebrows because he wants to know

Are there treats?
Are we going for a ride?
Are we going for a walk?
Is it dinner time?
Do you want to pet me??

And he's sincere about all that. He's excited to accommodate his human because he is one hundred percent loving and devoted. That's why we love our dogs so much. Because... so much love is given to us.

Jenny will come when I call her

If she thinks I have treats
If she's not sleeping
If she's not hiding
If she's not mad at me because I refused her some service or petted her incorrectly.

CATS! SHEESH!!

But... she makes me laugh every day. When I talk to her, she talks back, and not in a snotty way. She just likes to make conversation. And when I nap, all I have to do is call through the house, "Jenny! Blankie!" and she will come--eventually. When she's ready. In her own good time. Then she jumps on the bed, marches on the blanket for an inordinate amount of time, curls against my side, and purrs me to sleep.

A year ago, when I brought her home, I crossed my fingers that she and Purrl would get along. I have to say, this little girl is persistent. Purrl hated her. Chased her, growled at her, hissed at her, and scratched her. Jenny just tried to stay out of her way, occasionally checking--"Do you still hate me?"--then jumping away when the Claws of Death were unsheathed. After several months, though, I found them hiding under the bed together when a loud person came to visit. And then, just a few nights ago--a year and a week to the day after Jenny came home--I watched as Jen climbed onto the couch and curled up next to Purrl. Purrl sat up and glared at her, unmoving, for a full five minutes. Jenny ignored her. Purrl gave up and curled around again. And they slept like that for hours.

Cats. Sheesh.

Trash man

I've been working on a post about Jenny Anydots, my $25 cat, to celebrate her one-year mark with my crew. But this happened today, and I want to post my thoughts instead. (So stay tuned, cat lovers; photos and updates on Jenny are in the making.)

But first:

The guy who drives the big truck that picks up recyclable materials on trash day is well-known in our park to be a grumpy, destructive dude. He's big and burly, and he's so rough with the recycle bins that he leaves destruction in his wake as he makes his way down the street. Two weeks after I moved here, I put some plastic poles in the recycle bin that had been left behind in the garage. They were about five feet in length, and stuck out the top of the bin so I couldn't close it. I assumed they'd been used for gardening or something. My garage door was open the day he came by in the truck, and I was in there puttering around, so I heard his truck idling out front. I'd listened long enough to get curious and peeked around the corner just in time to see him pick up all the poles out of the bin in one handful and fling them down in my driveway, then get back in his truck, slamming the door and driving off.

I thought about calling his supervisor that day, but I didn't. Maybe he was having a bad day. Maybe he felt I should know better than to have something sticking out of the bin. Maybe.... Doesn't matter. I didn't tattle on him.

In recent weeks, I've been keeping track of his sins here in the park. Of course he's in a truck that uses a mechanical arm to pick up the bins--it's not the olden days where some guy always had to walk alongside the truck, picking up cans and emptying them. This guy just drives along, operating the arm. So why is he always so grumpy? Why does he release the bins when they're still several feet off the ground, causing them to drop hard on the pavement, cracking wheels or knocking them over so that some elderly person has to bend down and pick the awkward, heavy thing back up? Last week he released a bin so quickly it fell into his truck with the rest of the recycling. He simply drove on, not bothering to remove it. The resident had to order a new recycle bin.

Today was trash day. At 4:00, I put Thomas in the truck for our afternoon drive to pick up mail. While the truck was warming up in the driveway, I dragged in the empty trash bin, and as I did, I saw Recycle Guy coming down the street, so I waited patiently at the end of the driveway, ready to roll the recycle bin back in after he'd dumped it. I watched as my neighbors' bins were flung to the ground, lids flying, their now-empty cavernous plastic shells booming as they hit the pavement. It had been raining all day, so I was bundled up in knit cap and rain jacket with hood, but the fresh air was wonderful, and as Recycle Guy rolled past my driveway to where my bin was sitting in front of the house, I smiled and waved. He looked surprised. Then the corners of his mouth twitched, but he didn't actually smile back.

The arm came out, grabbed my recycle bin in its clutches, lifted it, dumped it, and lowered it--almost to the ground. When it was a foot off the ground, the arm stopped. I thought for a moment there was a mechanical problem. Then I heard the back-up bell ringing. Recycle Guy had put the truck in reverse. Slowly he rolled backward to where I was standing in the driveway. The mechanical arm came down ever so gently and deposited my recycle bin just two feet from where I stood. "Thank you!" I called, smiling again and waving. This time he smiled back. And off he went to finish his route.

Robin Williams spoke such eloquent truth when he said, 

"Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always."

This incident with Recycle Guy was a great reminder of how much power to comfort there is in simply being kind, even in the smallest ways. I'm going to try to carry that reminder over into tomorrow... and into the days that come, when many people are not at their best because of the holidays. If you see me, please smile and be kind. Chances are, I'm going to need it.

Circles

Last month I spoke about The Tainted Legacy of Bertha Gifford at the Moreno Valley Public Library. It was a last-minute engagement; another speaker had cancelled, and they needed an author to fill in. I didn’t mind. I will do most anything to accommodate librarians.

Because I agreed to speak just a week before the event, there was little time for publicity. Only three people showed up to hear my talk. Two were resident librarians there. The third was on the library commission, and he had just released his own book, so he wanted to see how this sort of thing was done.

Still, it was a wonderful evening. I got to make three new friends, and I got to share Bertha’s story. Ain’t nothin’ bad about that. Well, actually, one thing was bad. In agreeing to speak on that date, I missed the opportunity to see Susan Straight speak about her new memoir, In the Country of Women. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks, because I’d read the book and loved it, and also because I’ve been a fan of Susan Straight’s work since 2002.

Funny story about that:

Back in 2002, I facilitated a small writer’s support group which met bi-monthly at the Barnes & Noble in Rancho Cucamonga. Occasionally, the PR rep for the store would book authors who wanted to promote new books, and our little group would welcome them. When I learned that Susan Straight would come speak to us about her new book, Highwire Moon, I was excited. She taught at my alma mater, and I’d heard good things about her first novel (I Been in Sorrow’s Kitchen and Licked Out All the Pots). But I was also conflicted. Rapper Eminem had a show at the Blockbuster Pavilion on the same night, and I had the chance to get good seats, and yes, I am a fan of that particular poet’s work, however he delivers it. But… as leader of our little contingent of writers, I felt I needed to be present for Susan’s talk.

While I believe I would have thoroughly enjoyed seeing Eminem live, Susan’s visit with us was absolutely memorable, on several levels.

She showed up to speak to us despite having experienced profound personal tragedy. Her brother had passed away that day. We told her she didn’t have to stay, that we would understand if she left and returned at a better time, but she told us she needed to be around writers, which made us feel as if she regarded us as equals.

In her soft, articulate manner, she read a beautiful passage of Highwire Moon, and I fell in love with the book. (It is truly a stellar read, and was nominated for a National Book Award.)

Weeks later, I decided to write about missing my chance to see one troubadour in favor of being in a more intimate setting with another. I sent that piece of writing off to the Los Angeles Times and sold it. It was my first sale with the Times.

Driving home from the Moreno Valley Library talk, I mused on all of this, how all those years ago I missed Em to see Susan, and now I had missed Susan to talk about my own book, and how life is often less linear than it is circular, as we complete the slow but meaningful revolutions in our individual journeys.

Birthday

On this date in 1872, William Poindexter Williams and his wife, Matilda Caroline (Lee) Williams, gave birth to their sixth child, Bertha Alice. When she was 22, Bertha married Henry Graham. They had one child together, a daughter, Lila Clara. Lila would also eventually have one daughter: My mother.

Bertha’s first husband died, and about a year later Bertha married Eugene (Gene) Gifford, thus becoming Bertha Gifford, that name now infamous due to circumstances that occurred so very long ago.

In 2008, one day after what would have been Bertha’s 136^th birthday, the book I wrote about her alleged crimes was released on Amazon.com.

Folks who live in Missouri in and around the town where she lived have claimed that it was said at the time of her death that “her grave should go unmarked for fifty years.”

I was unaware of that local lore when I arranged, in 2009, to have a headstone placed on her grave, but when I heard it, I did the math; her headstone was placed 58 years after her death. What gave me chills, though, was the realization that I had begun the book in 2001—50 years after her death.

The marking of Bertha’s grave is not the only significant event that has occurred since the publication of the book—or because of it.

In researching Bertha—and searching for who else might be searching for her—I connected with Marc Houseman, historian and director of the Washington Historical Society and museum in Washington, Missouri. In the decade since, he has become one of my closest friends. Writing the book also introduced me to a fellow lover-of-ghosts-and-cemeteries, Ginger, who is also now one of my dearest and closest friends in the world.

And oh my goodness, the cousins I’ve met! Starting with Jean Thompson, who has now passed over, but was my first living familial link to Bertha besides my mother. Also: Tim Fiedler, owner of the farmhouse on Bend Road where Bertha lived and where I am now always welcomed when in Missouri. Tim Ogle, the cousin who found me through researching our mutual ancestors and who introduced me to another cousin, Maxine Nevel, who told us recently she was fine to stand while talking but, she said, “When I was ninety-five, I had to stop riding the horses.” She’s ninety-eight. Chris Wilkinson, the cousin who found me through reading the book and was kind enough to reach out to me, showing me pages from an ancient family Bible that listed our mutual ancestors. He and his wife are now dear friends.

The list goes on.

I’ve lost count of the number of talks I’ve given about Bertha at libraries and book clubs and writers groups. Every single event has been a joy, mostly for the kind individuals who have expressed compassion and empathy for my great-grandmother, but also for those who’ve shared a different perspective on her deeds; the fact that they have read the book is always enough to make me happy.

All of these introductions, events, and connections have been invaluable to me, including and especially the book's effect on my mother. For 80 years, she carried the shame of having been the granddaughter of this woman who had been accused of heinous crimes. Reading the book helped her see Bertha from a new perspective. Her shame fell away when she considered her grandmother as simply a fallible human being, not the monster that others and the media had portrayed her to be. Mom was given closure, and for that I am most grateful.

When I wrote that book, I wrote it for my mother. And for my family (because I know that one day, my yet-to-be-born great-grandchildren will be interested). And for the folks in Missouri who still tell the stories about Bertha. I never could have imagined the resulting repercussions it would have. It is one story. Telling it would change my life in profound and wonderful ways.

Thank you, Bertha, for giving me your story. For trusting me with it. And happy, happy birthday. Please hug my mom and Grandma Lila for me.

In MO

Last Thursday, October 10th, I landed in St. Louis at 6:10p.m. I switched my phone off airplane mode as soon as we'd arrived at the terminal--only to find 17 text messages awaiting me. A fire was burning in Calimesa, the city where I live. Friends and family members were calling, texting, emailing and hitting me up on Facebook to check on me.

It only took a few minutes to get a Lyft ride, and from the backseat of my driver's car, I called my next-door neighbor. All was well in my senior complex, but the mobile home park 5 miles away had burned to the ground. The good folks in my town were already rallying to reach out to those who had been displaced.

We drove on in a steady rain to Pacific, Missouri, where Marc and Ginger, my two musketeers, were waiting in the lobby of the hotel to take me to dinner. We talked about the fires burning back home, about my flight, about Marc's health and Ginger's current situation with a bad, bad ex-husband. It was so, so great to see them.

The next day was meant for rambling. I met my new-found cousin, Chris, and his wife Vicki, in the hotel breakfast room the next morning. Chris and I share a distant (several times) great-grandfather, Israel Lee, and the day would be spent looking for Israel's grave. We never found it (though we have a few new leads). But along the way we stopped in Morse Mill so that I could visit the grave of my great-grandmother, Bertha Gifford. Marc pointed out the remains of the old mill, which sat upon the banks of the Big River (not to be confused with the Meramec or the Missouri or the Mississippi rivers), and we strolled across the old bridge that is still there.

Later, we would find another mill along the Big River, one Israel Lee might have been involved in erecting. 

Chris and I ventured inside the 100-plus-year-old building, which is mostly gutted, and the giant millstones are gone, but it was clear where they'd been placed all those years ago, and how the pressure from the flow of the river water passed through to turn the mechanism which turned the stones. The place is for sale, and we had half a mind to call the realtor. But then common sense prevailed.

I'd been invited to Missouri to attend a ceremony to honor my great-great-great-great-grandfather on my mother's paternal side, Landon Williams, who had fought in the War of 1812. The Society of the War of 1812 in the State of Missouri, and the National Society of United States Daughters of 1812 in the State of Missouri were joining together to bestow a medallion in recognition of his service on the grave of Landon Williams. He did not die in the war. He survived--and fathered a son who fathered a son who fathered my great-grandmother. Amazing, no?

The ceremony was presided over by Sumner Hunnewell, president of the Society of the War of 1812 in the State of Missouri--and a true renaissance man. He not only emceed the ceremony, he brought 30 small pies for refreshments. Pies he baked himself. From scratch. And I mean scratch--making his own crust and cooking down the pumpkin for the pumpkin pie (which was not the only kind; he also brought berry, pecan, and mincemeat). 

The 4th Regiment North Carolina Militia turned out for the ceremony as well, posting the colors and, at the end, providing a rifle salute to Landon Williams.

Cool, no? Of course, as soon as they posted the colors, I cried--for our flag, for our country, for men who find the courage to act out of duty to both, and for all the generations of my family that somehow survived hardship and kept reproducing so that I could live this extraordinary life. It was a lot to take in. Plus pie.

All of this hoopla started when my cousin, Tim Ogle, went looking for people in the Williams family he was related to. And he found Landon Williams' grave. And the headstone was broken, so he repaired it. (Good job, Tim!!) In researching Landon, he discovered his service in 1812, eventually enlisting the aid of the two historical societies to honor Landon's service. All I had to do was show up and take a seat in the front row.

The next day, my last full day in Missouri, was spent once again with buds Marc and Ginger, just driving around, visiting cemeteries, laughing over lunch and Marc's puns and cornball jokes. (We love them. We really do.) As we were headed back to the hotel, he casually mentioned, "Oh, we're near my friends' home. They raise bison." And suddenly he was pulling to the side of the road. Yep. That's a buffalo all right.

People often ask me why I go to Missouri every year, and what I do there. Well... I spend a lot of time walking through cemeteries... and hugging friends... and laughing... and relaxing... and seeing things I don't normally see... and being spoiled. I get homesick easily, and I miss my fur babies while I'm gone. But the minute I'm home again, I also miss the friends and cousins I will not see for another year. Oh yeah, I'll be back again next year. We still have to find Israel's grave.

Grief

This is just a brief addendum to my previous post. It is the grateful acknowledgement of another pain I have not had to endure.

You will have to look closely at the photo above to see that those blue balloons are attached to party hats. I took this picture in the cemetery next door. That particular section is reserved for babies and toddlers who have passed over.

On a gloomy, rainy day, I drove into the cemetery to take Sgt. Thomas Tibbs for a walk, but the balloons grabbed my attention, and I pulled over long enough to snap the shot. Then I got out and went to investigate.

Beneath each balloon was a festive party hat, and beneath each hat was a small, sealed envelope, protected from the rain in a clear plastic bag. All the baby graves had a similar envelope, save the grave up front, the one that is frequently decorated with toys. The same one that was piled high with fresh snow one day last winter. (No, it doesn't snow here. At least, not at this elevation. But we're an hour's drive from the mountains. Someone had gone up and brought down enough snow to make a mound three feet tall and nearly as wide.)

The envelopes were addressed to the parents of the deceased: "To the parents of Isaiah" ... "To the parents of Sarah Lynn" ....

I couldn't help it. My curiosity got the best of me. I slipped open one of the ziplock bags, hoping to see what was inside the envelope. But they were all sealed.

You are left to your imagination, as I was.

But the parent 'hosting' the party for departed young souls was clearly reaching out--in grief, in kindness, in empathy--to all the other parents who were experiencing the same loss.

Weird? Amazing? Compassionate? Loving? Yes.

Thank you, Universe, that in this life, I have never shared that experience. All of my children, all of my grandchildren, are well and healthy.

May it be so until I draw my last breath... and join the others for the party.

Pain

Last night as I was trying to pop some frozen fruit out of an ice cube tray, my hand slipped and my right thumb smashed into the counter at just the precise angle to bend the nail back so far it bled. It hurt enough for me to make continual guttural sounds, possibly blaspheming, for about ten minutes. (I don’t remember what I said or if I said anything coherent. I just remember it hurt enough to require some verbal response.) It was tender for the remainder of the evening, but my only inconvenience was not being able to quickly unlock my iPhone as I couldn’t use my right thumb print to do so.

That pain, that smashed thumb pain, was nothing like what I’ve been experiencing for the past three weeks.

I don’t know what I did. It might have been a yoga position performed without adequate stretching. It might have been sitting in an awkward position for too long. But three Sundays ago I woke up with pain in my hips radiating down my left leg and into my calf. After I returned from my usual dog walk with Sgt. Thomas Tibbs (because why wouldn’t I go?), I could hardly walk. I ended up on the floor on my back, knees pulled up, breath coming in moaning sobs.

The pain in my calf from the irritation of the sciatic nerve felt as if a dragon had sunk its talons into the back of my leg and would periodically squeeze just to remind me it had all power over me.

For the first few days, I barely functioned, spending most of my time on my back, a heating pad beneath my hips. After an appointment with my doctor, some time on an oral steroid and copious amounts of Ibuprofen, I slowly—ever so slowly—began to feel some relief. I am still recovering, but in the last few days, I’ve been able to walk Thomas again, which is one activity I simply can’t live without.

That pain, that sciatic nerve pain, was excruciating. But it was nothing like the pain a friend is going through now as her husband, recently diagnosed with a debilitating disease, begins to decline. I can’t imagine what she’s feeling. The two are inseparable soulmates. They’re my age, so they should be looking forward to another 20 or 30 years together. Instead, they are trying to maximize the handful of years they may—or may not—have left. Outwardly, she is still smiling, still maintaining her strength, her warmth, her tender care of the man she loves. Inwardly…. As I said, I can’t imagine what hellish heartbreak she’s experiencing.

Pain is relative.

I will confess that as I began to spiral downward into the vortex of pain my sciatica produced, I felt myself on the edge of despair. I had to summon all my strategies—reading good books, talking to good friends, hunkering down on the floor with Thomas or curling up on the couch with the kitties—so that depression didn’t take me over. I kept wondering how I would survive if this issue with sciatica became my new normal. How would I cope with the harshness of the world at large if I couldn’t walk my dog out into the quiet countryside and center myself?

But sometimes surviving comes down to a matter of perspective. I hurt. And the pain immobilized me physically. But it was nothing like losing a loved one. When I couldn’t get out to buy groceries, a friend brought pizza. Another friend came by to socialize and to reassure me that I would get better with time. I never lacked food or shelter or love. How can I not see myself as incredibly blessed compared to those in the world who go hungry daily or live in constant fear for their lives due to war or oppression?

Perspective is everything.

This morning, for the first time in weeks, I walked with my good dog on a quiet, dusty road far from the bustle of the city. We inhaled the autumn-crisp air and watched the sun slowly rise in the east as the birds began to flit around us and chatter. My hands on Thom’s leash were freezing, but my heart was warm. May this gratitude continue, even if I am once again immersed in pain.

Subconscious as Superhero

These are my fleshed out notes from a talk I presented to the High Desert branch of the California Writers Club on September 14, 2019.

This talk is the result of a long email exchange between author Michael Welker and myself. Michael wrote Blockbuster Blueprint, and if you write fiction, it's a how-to book you definitely need to have on your shelf. Michael is also a former student of mine. He's one of those whiz kids who knows so much about everything it's hard for him to focus on the one thing that he wants to pursue that will change the world in a positive way. He's currently living in Japan and working for Universal Studios, but his plan is to retire when he's forty.

Anyway, Michael and I have kept up a regular email correspondence since he graduated high school in 2003. At some point a few years back, we were both chastising ourselves for not spending more time on our professional writing, and we asked each other why. At the time, Michael happened to be studying neuroscience. Not in college. Just recreationally. Because he was interested. When I was in college, I majored in literature but I minored in psychology. So, between the two of us in our email discussions, we came across some steps that have worked for us to enlist our subconscious minds in making us more productive as writers.

Three years ago, I was so happy to be able to start saying I was "retired." Until I got to thinking: No, I'm not. I'm not retired; I've just transitioned to my dream job, which is writing full time. From home. In my pajamas. You are not retired, either, if you're writing.

I want to change your brain about that.

Of those of you who are... self-employed as a writer... How many of you are writing 1,000 words a day?

Why not? Go ahead, think for a minute of all the reasons you're not writing a thousand words a day.

I want to change your brain a bit.

More specifically:

Help you change the story you've been telling yourself so you can be more productive in your writing.

This time, I'm hoping you'll be able to include your own personal superpower in that story.

What I say today will sound a bit like New Age-y Hocus Pocus. It's not. It's based on neuroscience, which is the science of how your brain works.

I just ask that you listen and keep an open mind.

Having said that, let me say this:

The Buddha said: Our lives are shaped by our minds; you become what you think.

Have you ever written the beginning of a story or the first chapter (or three) of a book but then stopped and never finished.

What did you tell yourself when you didn't finish? 'When I get time, I'll get back to that.' 'When I figure out what happens next, I'll get back to that.' 'When I edit what I've already written and I'm satisfied with that, I'll get back to that.'

Sound familiar?

My personal favorite is: "When I get time...." I've been keeping a personal journal since college. Some years ago, I spent the summer re-reading my journals back for ten years. And let me tell you, I had ten years' worth of long, repetitive journal entries--written out in cursive--wherein I complained vociferously about not having enough time to write. Seriously. See where this is going? 'I would write that novel if I only had time to write'—I WROTE REPEATEDLY FOR TEN YEARS.

Why is this?

Our subconscious minds are protecting us, sometimes in a gentle sweet way, and sometimes viciously.

My current dog, Thomas, is a cattle dog mix. If we are hiking, and he senses something that he perceives as potentially dangerous, he leaves my side and walks directly crosswise to my path, attempting to gently turn me away from danger.  This is quite different from the behavior of a dog I once had and loved dearly. Alex Haley was a Rottie-Chow mix who was, most of the time, a huge, lovable, shaggy puppy. Unless a stranger came around, at which point he would bark! bark! bark! to try to keep me protected from the danger he perceived.

To both dogs, this was just doing their job as loyal canines, but in different ways.

Your subconscious does the same. It protects you.

In psychology, this is called a defense mechanism, and this concept has been around a long time. When your subconscious wants to protect you from something that will cause you anxiety, it throws up a defense mechanism.

I don't want to spend time explaining defense mechanisms if you're unfamiliar, and I'm not an expert on them anyway, I just find them fascinating. With a simple online search, you can find out a lot more about them.

Relevant to our purposes today: Your subconscious is either your villain or your super-hero. When you begin a project or have an idea but don't follow through, most likely it is your subconscious stopping you from this anxiety-producing activity, either in a gentle way—"Here, why don't you click over here and scroll through Facebook while that idea gels some more"—or in a more direct way by barking at you—"Why waste your time on that? No one's going to read it anyway. Remember what happened the last time you finished something and sent it out? Nothing. Nothing happened. And nothing will happen again. So why don't you grab a beer and turn on Dancing with the Stars?"

It's not the writing itself that produces anxiety—it's the potential finished product that scares us into stopping (or not starting at all).

When I wrote the prologue to Tainted Legacy, it was one of the scariest writing projects I ever undertook. That memoir is about my mother and her childhood and her beloved grandmother--who was, of course, accused of multiple murders--and my relationship with my mother had always been tenuous. What if I hurt her deeply? I put off starting for months--telling myself I didn't have time. And then one day I had to have work done on my truck, and I had to wait for it, so I grabbed a notebook and simply began writing the book. I wrote for over an hour without stopping. My hands never stopped shaking. But I knew better than to put that notebook away when I got home. I kept going. Three months later, the book was finished.

As for those people who say, "I don't care if it gets published, I'm just writing for myself, so I don't worry about that," okay, that's fine. But if you're saying that, you should know that it's probably "denial," a clearly defined defense mechanism. It protects you from ever having to suffer rejection.

Writers write to be read. That's the truth. You know why? Because we're sublimating.

Sublimation is a very positive, very effective defense mechanism. Writers take all the experiences that have caused them pain or anger or grief and they turn those feelings into poems and stories and novels and memoirs. It's very powerful.

So we need to write, and we need to write every day, and don't get me started on having the discipline to put your posterior in a chair every day because that's a whole other talk but trust me, you just have to.

Think about this:

If you write a thousand words a day, in 60 days, you'll have a novel.

Catherine Ryan Hyde, author of Pay it Forward and a gazillion other novels, manages to write two books a year and still have time to ride her horse every afternoon. She's 64. By the way, she started writing full time in 1980. Pay It Forward, her first real commercial success, was published in 1999.

Author Douglas Clegg said: "I believe the great American novel will be written by someone who writes." Not the smartest, most educated person with an MFA from the best program, but simply the person who writes and writes and writes.

Consider that young Southern woman who wrote that one bestseller. You know, Nell Lee. We know her better by her middle name, Harper. Talk about the great American novel! To Kill a Mockingbird is still in print, sixty years after its debut.

How do we do that?

Harness your superhero. Make your subconscious work for you. It's that easy. You become what you think.

1. Decide that you're going to have a time and place to write—uninterrupted—every day (or six days a week or whatever).

Be reasonable but also be resolute.

Also be goal oriented. (A word of advice: Never use time as a goal. Use a tangible accomplishment: One page a day. (It's how a young lawyer named John Grisham wrote his first novel, A Time to Kill.) Five hundred words. A thousand words. Three paragraphs.

2. Show up. This used to be the hardest one for me until I heard Harry Cauley speak. Harry said something I immediately wrote down and I'll never forget it: Writing is one of the loneliest professions there is. No kidding. I'm older and single. My kids are busy living their best lives, and my grandkids are working or in college or both. I spend a lot of time alone. Sometimes the only people I talk to for days have fur on them. Scrolling through Facebook makes me feel less alone in the world. It is also a bottomless rabbit hole, a giant time-eater that calls to me early in the morning. After all, who doesn't want to look at photos of a friend's new puppy? Or kitten? Or grandchild? Or their breakfast plate?

3. Be aware that your subconscious is going to block you at every turn—because it's protecting you from anxiety—because WHAT IF you sit down and there are no words or what you write is terrible or what you write is wonderful but you can't figure out where to send it to get it published or you do send it out and it gets rejected? Huh? What if that happens?

4. Take a few really deep breaths.

5. Narrow your focus; you're not sitting in the writer's seat to consider what may happen in the future with this particular piece of writing. You're sitting there to express your true identity, to be your most authentic self. Be present in the moment and let that sink in.

Just as a side note here, I highly recommend ten minutes or so of meditation. Not the sort in which you attempt to reach Nirvana or 'clear your mind of all thoughts.' Writers are intelligent, curious, creative people; our minds are constantly awhirl with thoughts and questions and ideas. Meditation in the sense of allowing your brain to begin ignoring all outside distractions and focusing on the task at hand. What do you want to write today? Focus simply on that and nothing else in your meditation. Keep breathing.

Did you know that when you are fully immersed in writing you are in what's called a "trance state"? You may think of it as being "in the zone," and you may have had one of those experiences in which you begin writing and everything else fades away and you look up some time later and realize you've been writing for three hours and you've missed lunch. The quickest way to enter a trance state (no, you don't have to wait around for it to happen) is to meditate.

6. Give yourself a mantra and say it aloud or write it down. My favorite: I'm just going to write one sentence, and I'm perfectly capable of writing a decent sentence. A neural pathway opens in your brain every time you speak an affirmation aloud. (Now there's some New Age-y hocus pocus for you.)

We sometimes call this self-hypnosis or the power of positive thinking: Repeating aloud the sentence "I am a non-smoker" is how one of my husband's quit smoking when all else failed. True story.

Use whatever works, and, again, be mindful of those subconscious messages. As soon as they pop up—"Why are you wasting your time?"—smack them back down with a positive affirmation: "My writing is an important part of who I am."

That's a great mantra! If you say it every day, it will become embedded in your subconscious mind.

What's the story you've been telling yourself? That you're not good enough? You are. That you don't have time? You do. That it won't be perfect? It won't be. It doesn't have to be perfect. To Kill a Mockingbird is not a flawless novel. But it's beautiful and powerful and still in print after sixty years.

Our lives are shaped by our minds. We become what we think. Change the story you've been telling yourself. Unleash that superhero and feel the power!

Salinas: Part Three

I know, I know, it took me forever to post this last part (and I promise it's the last part), but I've been busy reading amazing books (In the Country of Women, News of the World) and watching the Gilmore Girls and having my heart broken a bit (don't even ask; it involves a dog). But I'm back. So here's what happened on my last day at the Steinbeck Festival in Salinas:

I met two wonderful men. Not one. Two.

The first being John Steinbeck himself:

Okay, that's not really John Steinbeck, obviously. (Look closely in the background and you'll see a photo of the real Steinbeck.) But there he was in the bookstore as a dozen or so attendees showed up early on Saturday morning for an event billed as "Coffee with Steinbeck." As we assembled, finding chairs and nodding to one another, he introduced himself to each one of us, asking for our names and where we were from, shaking our hands and saying, "I'm John." 

When everyone was settled, he began his talk by telling us that he couldn't stay long, that he had come from "literary heaven" and would have to return soon, but in his time with us, he wanted to answer any questions we might have about his books. He remembered our names and asked us, one at a time, why we had come to "his" center. The charming thing is, everyone played along.

"I came to see you, Mr. Steinbeck," I told him. "I read The Grapes of Wrath as a teenager, and over the years, I read the rest of your books because I love your writing. I couldn't wait to meet you." Everyone else gave similar responses, how a particular book of his had changed their life or made them see the world in a different light. He thanked us, humbly, sharing small pieces about how or why he wrote each book as we mentioned them. It was a magical hour that flew by and then he was escorted away quickly by staff because he had promised to give tours of "his" truck, Rocinante. (See previous post.)

Then I walked across the hall to hear another amazing man speak. If you read this blog often, you know how much I love dogs, so you can assume I would be drawn in by this recipe: writer + rescue dog + trip across America tracing Steinbeck's journey in Travels With Charley.

Peter Zheutlin (journalist and author of Rescue Road, a book about the long haul rescue work of Greg Mahle who drives dogs from the deep South to their new families in the North) decided to take his rescue pup, Albie, on a tour of America much like Steinbeck had with Charley. The book is titled The Dog Went Over the Mountain, and it is a memoir recounting Zheutlin's journey.

That morning in the Salinas Room of the Steinbeck Center, Zheutlin shared a PowerPoint presentation of his photos from the trip. Of course, he had me at "rescue dog," but seeing all those pictures of places I've been to and places I'm still longing to see, sweet Albie feartured in each one, made me envious of his trip. Everyone should take such a trip across this big, beautiful country, a good dog alongside as companion.

Afterward, Zheutlin did a signing in the bookstore--and sold out the limited number of early-release copies of the book his publisher had given him. (Did I mention that he is donating a percentage of the sales to animal rescue?) I hovered around until his wife began to look at me askance, and I had to explain that I was trying to get the perfect picture with Steinbeck's photo in the background to post on Instagram, at which point she jumped in ardently to do the same.

A dog show had been planned to follow Zheutlin's presentation, but only one dog--a glamorous white standard poodle--showed up to participate, so that dog walked off with a blue ribbon after performing several tricks for the small but enthusiastic crowd that had gathered.

After that, it was a beer and a quesadilla made with freshly grilled (while I watched), locally grown vegetables and a homemade (dear heavens, thank you) tortilla for me. Then I wandered back to my room to do some writing and plan my drive home the next day.

I'm already excited about attending the Steinbeck Festival next year. Who's with me?

Salinas: Part Two

Photo courtesy of the National Steinbeck Center, Salinas, California

(You will find Part One of this narrative below this one.)

I arrived in Salinas on Friday afternoon and easily found the old Victorian home I would be staying in. I chose an AirBNB room because it cost me half of what I would have paid at a hotel, and it was located a half mile from the National Steinbeck Center. You know that old saying, “You get what you pay for?” It was exactly true in this situation. Enough said about that.

I met my hostess, dumped my stuff in my room, took a quick shower and changed into jeans, t-shirt and sneaks for my walk downtown. The Steinbeck Center is perfectly located at the far west end of Main Street. There’s a Starbucks across the street (there ya go, tourists), and it’s a classic Main street, with broad sidewalks, shops and restaurants.

Checking in at the Center was easy, and a minute later I was donning my Steinbeck Festival 2019 lanyard which would be my ID for the weekend. Six feet inside the door of the Center is the bookstore, and before I had even completed checking in, I’d seen something I wanted to get for my son-in-law (who loves Steinbeck, too, and I’m going to say “nearly” as much as I do), so that twenty minutes after checking in I was back at the front desk to pay for all the merchandise I’d purchased.

To kick off the festival, the organizers had planned a panel discussion (“Did Americans Ever Get Along?”) with some fancy folks (a Stanford prof, a Cambridge University prof, and Patricia Limerick, a University of Colorado prof—who was lovely and quite a hoot). I had time before that started, so I strolled down Main Street, found a great restaurant that served farm-to-table cuisine, and ate a delicious salad of fresh greens, roasted beets and goat cheese.

Then I strolled back in time for the Big Event—which turned out to be a bust, as far as I was concerned. The Salinas Room of the Center was packed with a couple hundred people by the time I got there, and organizers were bustling around, adding more chairs. I grabbed one near the back in case I felt compelled to duck out later—which I did. If you’re confused by the topic of the discussion, you’re not alone. Each year the committee chooses one of Steinbeck’s writings as the theme for the festival. This year, it was Steinbeck’s last book, America and Americans, a work as timely today as it was in 1966 when it was first published. The book is essentially a long narrative about our social history, how we’ve treated each other (not well) and what needs to change if we are to be successful as a nation (greater inclusion, less disparity in wealth).

But here were these three distinguished persons answering ambiguous questions about an already ambiguous topic from a moderator who was clearly, blatantly, not interested in what the woman had to say. When the discussion reached the point at which she volunteered to answer a question and the moderator asked her brusquely to hold her thought because he wanted to hear what the professor from Stanford had to say in response, I was done. I slipped out, strolled across the lobby to the museum where a wine and cheese after-party had been set up, snagged a glass of wine and chatted with the vintners.

Oh, the museum!

I just can’t describe it. If you’re a lover of Steinbeck, you just must go and stroll through and look and linger and read all the exhibits and see the displays and, in doing so, remember your joy in reading Cannery Row or Sweet Thursday or the agonized journey you shared with the Joad family in Grapes of Wrath or the wisdom you gleaned from East of Eden or the wanderlust you felt while reading Travels with Charley.

Rocinante is there. She is the good old truck with a camper shell Steinbeck drove across America with his dog, Charley. Actually, it was a photograph of Rocinante in Westways Magazine that started me on this journey. I couldn’t believe the old tank was still around—and parked in the museum where everyone could see her. (Actually, during the festival, for a price, you could buy a ticket to be taken inside the camper shell.) On a road trip to Missouri some years ago, I’d listened to Travels with Charley (read by Gary Sinise). I drove my beloved Dodge Ram on that trip, stopping at small towns. The only aspect missing, I thought at the time with great yearning, was a dog.

So there I was, wine glass in hand, staring at the Rocinante, steeped in the memories of that trip to Missouri, witness to the best parts of America, as Steinbeck had been. Oh, that I would have had a good dog as companion for that trip!

To honor Steinbeck’s love of dogs, one of the festival events this year was a dog show, entries open to the public, with the SPCA of Monterey County bringing adoptable dogs to the Center. But all that was scheduled for Saturday, and by the time I’d finished my half-glass of wine and sampled the cheese, grapes and crackers, I was ready to walk the half mile back to my room and fall in bed exhausted.

"I shall take my dog, and that is another reassurance that I am neither dangerous nor insane." --John Steinbeck

Salinas: Part One

Photo courtesy of the Los Padres ForestWatch website

If you are a lover of good books + Nature + solid, suspenseful writing + birds of prey (or a combination of any of those), you might consider reading John Moir’s brilliant narrative, Return of the Condor. It’s educational (Moir is also a teacher of science in addition to being a fine writer), but it’s also tremendously engrossing.

I say all that as preface to this:

When I left Cayucos on the morning of August 2^nd to head to Salinas (scroll two posts back to find that post), I made the decision to travel up the coast along Highway 1. I hadn’t done the drive in twenty years, but it had been so memorable the previous time, I wanted to do it again. [Side note: If you live in California, and you haven’t done the drive, get the hell up there. If you don’t live in Cali but are planning a visit, ya gotta go there.]

Driving up this coastal highway meant driving along the bluffs above the Pacific Ocean, looking down to see waves crashing along the rocks and seabirds flying—for three hours, with no radio reception and no cell reception. If I had remembered to bring my iPod, I could’ve plugged it into my car and listened to my music library—which would’ve had me singing for three hours. But I’d forgotten it. So it was just me and the sea. And let me tell you, I loved every glorious minute of it, over the one-hundred-plus mile trip, through the mist and fog of early morning into the bright sunshine dancing across the surface of the water, blue all the way to the horizon on my left, tall trees and rolling green hills to my right. A bit of heaven, for sure.

As I drove, I frequently saw the shadows of big birds crossing over the top of the car. Along the coast, we have gulls and huge brown pelicans and ravens and peregrine falcons—the same as most coastlines. But in California, we also have—because of the controversial but now successful captive breeding program—California Condors, the biggest bird you’ll ever see in the wild. (They have a ten-foot wingspan. Ten. feet. Go ahead. Take a moment; try to imagine it.)

Reading John Moir’s book some years ago raised my awareness of the treasure that these big ugly flying dinosaurs are. (They eat the large dead aquatic animals that wash up on shore.) And it also made me aware that (now, finally) there are places in California where we can spot them—more and more, actually, as their numbers continue to recover.

So there I was, driving along, joyfully singing some tune a cappella, when I looked up at just the right moment in just the right spot to see two young but fully feathered California Condors riding the thermals above me. Booyah! Then I wasn’t singing anymore, I was shouting. I’ve been birdwatching since I was in elementary school. To have seen two of these gigantic creatures in the wild on such a day just tipped my joy over into the jubilee zone. Oh my goodness!! I felt incredibly blessed. In fact, I felt as if my ancestors had sent them as a sign: ‘Here ya go, girl. Be safe on your travels, and know that even though mistakes have been made, and the environment has not been cared for as it should have been, and you have often grieved that, we are here behind the scenes, trying to help make things right. Keep believing. Keep spreading the word.’

And so I will.

As you go about your busy day, please be mindful that there are creatures—big and small—that have been placed in our care. It is inherent in our own gift of life that we continue to be good stewards over them. Amen and amen.

Click on the title of John Moir's book in the first paragraph if you're interested in reading it. You can pick up a used paperback copy for about five bucks.

Or, if you just want to see more pictures of California Condors and learn more about them, click here.