Write From the Beginning

Join Me in the Fight Against Breast Cancer

2008-04-03T23:02:00.000-07:00

Please support me as I take an amazing journey in the fight against breast cancer! The Breast Cancer 3-Day is a 60-mile walk over the course of three days. I will be walking in Washington D.C. with my good friend Mary as part of team "Breast of Friends."

We will walk for all those who have suffered the loss of a friend or family member to cancer. Our walk will honor the memories of those lost, support those who are currently battling the fight, and celebrate the lives of those who have beaten the disease.

Net proceeds benefit Susan G. Komen for the Cure and National Philanthropic Trust, funding important breast cancer research, education, screening, and treatment.

Please click here to donate. Learn more about the event at www.the3day.org.

I appreciate your support. Thank you.

Happy Birth Day

2007-11-27T22:49:00.000-08:00

I love writing columns for anywhere that will let me toss in my two cents. But with a stream of regular deadlines, I don’t necessarily always have a topic itching to commit itself to the page at the very moment I sit down at the computer.

Today, however, is different. Today, something happened that happens everyday but is nonetheless every bit as extraordinary as if it was a rare and unusual occurrence. Today, my best friend had a baby.

He arrived two weeks early weighing in at seven pounds 12 ounces. Sporting a full head of sandy blond hair, he looks almost exactly like his big sister did when she was born. His eyebrows are so blond, they hardly exist and fine translucent lashes edge his closed upper lids.

Babies aren’t new to me. I have three nephews, one niece, a niece or nephew on the way and am pretty well acquainted with the eight kids born to my close friends collectively. Yet when a new little person comes along, it is almost unbelievable something so incredible could have happened. One minute my friend is pregnant; the next minute a tiny life is experiencing his first moments in the world.

I visited my friend in the hospital after her son was born. Albeit a little tired (and actually her husband looked a bit more worn out than she did), with her rosy cheeks and bubbly account of being in labor, it was hard to believe she had delivered a baby just hours before.

My friend’s husband handed the baby to me. Even with closed eyelids, his tiny brow softly flinched at the flash of his dad’s camera. With his warm head heating the crook of my arm, he slept soundly oblivious to all the fuss surrounding the introductions. It had been a big day, and he dozed through my visit scrunching his face up every so often as I adjusted the position of my arms.

Looking at this little baby boy, my friend and I talked about what her son would look like a year from now and 10 years from now or even just next week. “They change so fast,” she said. So new and untouched by the world around him, the possibilities are endless for him. But it is still somehow hard to believe this little guy will eventually grow into a unique person of his own.

Looking down at him, I thought about the moments and years between when his mother and I became friends back in the sixth grade and now. Twenty years of successes, mistakes, experiences and hopes and fears. And then I think about her son’s next 20 years and our next 20 years, and I can hardly wait to see what happens.

Live and Learn

2007-10-15T20:52:00.000-07:00

“Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards,” said Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard.

From where I sit with an unanticipated lack of understanding at an age at which I thought I’d at least have it somewhat figured out, I whole-heartedly agree. It is tough to see the big picture while in the midst of putting the pieces together, but here’s what I’ve figured out so far:

With age comes hope. And hope comes easily early on. With the passage of time marked by holidays, birthday parties and the beginning of each school year, hope is a daily and regular occurrence that, at the time, seems determined more by luck and the decisions of other people. I hope Santa comes. I hope I don’t have to get braces. I hope someone asks to the prom.

With age comes anticipation. As we get older, it is easier to envision life beyond next week. The hope remains, but we gain the ability to have a hand in our destiny. Childhood daydreams meet up with something inside us that says maybe they can someday be realities. I want to be an astronaut when I grow up. My dream college is Harvard. I can’t wait to live in my own apartment.

With age comes expectations. We finish school. We get a job. We get married. We have kids. We buy a house and a car and a dog. We expect these events to occur during a particular stage in our lives. But this is also where life can throw you for a loop because if these things don’t occur as expected and Harvard denies your application or you can’t find a job with that art history degree, you’ve got to figure out the details of a plan B you hadn’t considered would be necessary.

With age comes surprise. My 17-year-old self would be surprised that I’m now 31, not because I didn’t think I’d make it to this age but because I never really could envision being older than about 21. I’m so surprised by the occasional gray hair that I immediately pluck it out. And though I have not problem being 31, it still sort of surprises me that my 20s are completely behind me. And I’m guessing there are plenty more surprise ahead.

With age comes self-acceptance. We become more comfortable redefining ourselves in the various stages of life based on a foundation of who we naturally are. We learn to identify our strengths and fix, even laugh at, our faults. We don’t feel like everyone is staring at us as we did in junior high school, and we more easily embrace our personal evolution. This is one of the benefits of getting older. We simply become more comfortable in our own skin.

With age comes wisdom. Life makes us smarter but only incrementally. We look at those younger to us and try to explain what’s important and what’s not, knowing all the while that they have to learn it for themselves. We think back with a wistful, If only I knew then what I know now. And then we look ahead and wonder what the secrets are to the next stage in our life. Our only option is to live and learn, and eventually, if Soren Kierkegaard is correct, we’ll be able to look back and see all the pieces fit together in a way that makes sense of it all.

No Time for Life Time

2007-07-31T22:57:00.000-07:00

I have a list in my purse. It’s written on a medium-sized, ruled fluorescent green Post-it note. Down the left side is a “Need to Do” column. Down the right side is a “Want to Do” column. The list reminds me off all the things in life I don’t have time to do.

Among the items on the left side of my note are reminders to renew my passport, organize my medical bills from an ankle injury last December, fill out a set of financial papers, mail the 10-inch ponytail of hair formerly attached to my head to Locks of Love, and return a couple of phone calls.

Among the items on the right side of my note are desires to take piano lessons, learn to surf, make progress on my book, sign up for a nature writing class, start running again, learn Spanish, and figure out how to work my digital camera. And I’ve been carrying three books I’d like to read around in my purse that I haven’t had a chance to add to the list.

A bit of progress has been made. I returned the two phone calls noted in my “Need to Do” column, although I had to leave a voice mail in one case, which essentially canceling out the progress I made by making the call in the first place.

My “Want to Do” column has seen a bit more action – earlier this week I ordered “Behind the Wheel Spanish for Your Car” from Amazon, and I found a nature writing class, although I haven’t yet signed up.

I do this every so often. Realize that the everyday obligations of life keep me from weeding through the must-dos and getting to the want-tos. Then I rebel against long work days and traffic rams and make a list of all the things in life I think I’m missing, things I believe I’ll regret not doing when I’m 90. I worried that time will pass, want-tos will get brushed aside, and I’ll end up very bored with myself once I have a moment to contemplate the sum of things.

Almost always, I manage to do some of the items on both sides of the list of the moment, but inevitably, my Post-it note gets lost in bottom of my purse as life’s daily maintenance edges its way back into prime position.

A Los Angeles Times article earlier week makes a compelling case for finding the time to take a vacation. Travel is among the things that should be included in my “Want to Do” column, but it hasn’t even made it on to the list because it seems so improbable. Instead, details of trips to Fiji, New Zealand, South Africa and Costa Rice are relegated to daydreams translating loosely to the “Need to Do” list item of renewing my passport.

But as it turns out there is a good motivation to fulfill vacation wants. Apparently, people who do are generally healthier and less likely to have a heart attack, experience lower levels of stress and depressions, and might even be happier in their marriages.

Aside from an actual vacation, even long working hours compromise leisure time and health. Those who work between 40 hours a week are 14 percent more likely to have high blood pressure than those who only work 11 to 39 hours a weeks. For 41 to 50 hours a week, the rate rises to 17 percent and goes up even higher to 29 percent for people working 51 hours of more. I hate to even think about the additional physical stress a lengthy commute to and from a job might put on health.

So, how much time away do we need? While people vary in how long it takes for actual relaxation to set it, the experts consider 10 days to be the minimum with two vacations a year offering the most benefit – hmmm, seems I have a case for lobbying the HR department for more days off.

In the nine years I’ve been out of college and working, I can’t recall even coming close to taking two, 10-day vacations in any one year, let alone finding the time to make progress on my “Want to Do” list. And my guess is I’m in pretty good company, and this probably isn’t all that uncommon.

How strange that we don’t make time to do the things that interest us and that would enrich out lives. It is way too easy to rationalize that work is more important, and convince ourselves we’ll do the other stuff when we are further along in our careers, or after this project is over, or when things slow down.

The problem is they never do. And the items on the “Need to Do” list somehow eventually get done in the moments between work and daily obligations and the “Want to Do” list just continues to get longer. Which reminds me: I need to replenish my Post-it note supply. But, really, who has the time?

To Whom Am I Blogging?

2007-03-21T13:23:00.000-07:00

Susan at The Urban Muse (www.theurbanmuse.blogspot.com) has tagged me to answer the question, "To whom am I blogging?"

Here it goes:

I write my blog with the hopes that other writers out there will read and relate to my experiences as a journalist and aspiring novelist. There is no denying that being a writer is hard. Rejection. Unconstructive criticism. No response at all. It can weigh on one personally. But when the pieces finally fall into place, the reward is as sweet as the punishment is disheartening.

I believe we as writers should be part of a larger community that supports each other's disappointments, acknowledges our hard work, and celebrates our collective successes. I blog to provide an open forum for myself and other writers to discuss the things that challenge, help and inspire us.

No one understands a writer like another writer. So, in the interest of opening the forum even wider, I invite Holly at Author-in-the-Trenches (http://author-in-the-trenches.blogspot.com) and the ladies at The Writer's Group (http://www.writersgroupblog.blogspot.com) to answer next.

The Truth about Fiction

2007-03-05T16:06:00.000-08:00

"They" say write what you know. The advice presents an interesting conundrum.

The tactic, I believe, certainly lends itself to a more organic story as the writer taps into his or her inner self to get the emotion on the page. But making the private voice public also puts the author in an extremely vulnerable position.

"An autobiography can distort, facts can be realigned. But fiction never lies. It reveals the writer totally," said Nobel Prize winner V.S. Naipaul said.

I couldn't agree more.

Ugg

2007-02-26T13:22:00.000-08:00

I have reached a somewhat low point in my writing. The self-doubt that maintained a creeping pace for quite a while had now come on like a tidal wave and I'm drowning in my editorial insecurities.

Lately, I've noticed that the phrase, "I'm sure it will be rejected," precedes almost every statement that continues on to articulate what I'm writing next and where I'd like to see it published. The situation then spirals into a self-fulfilling prophecy as I find myself reluctant to bother writing the piece at all.

More often than not these days, I feel more like someone pretending to be a writer than the real thing. But I keep on with the facade because I don't know what I am otherwise.

I should probably try the "fake it 'til you make it" approach. But what if I never make it?

False Starts

2007-02-22T15:12:00.000-08:00

I started writing again yesterday. Let me re-phrase ... I started writing my book again. One more time ... I started writing a new book yesterday.

I've had a couple of false starts with novel writing. Two stories continually marinate in my head, one involving the murder of a 28-year-old drug addict from an upper-middle class family, the other about the relationship among three generations of women in a family.

But I just can't get them out. I feel them in my mind, and I know I have a novel in me somewhere. But they are trapped, and I haven't yet found the combination to the lock to free them.

So, I've started yet another book. This time a non-fiction, sort of self-help for the everyday woman. Of course, now I'm concerned the the market is already saturated with similar material.

But at least I'm writing something.

Real Women

2007-02-21T19:27:00.000-08:00

Check out my new blog "How to Keep Your Eggs from Sticking" at www.stickyeggs.blogspot.com or click on the link on the left under "Cool Stuff." Still a bit under construction, so keep checking back for more.

Don't worry. "Write From the Beginning" isn't going anywhere. Just time to expand the discussion.

7 Secret Weapons

2007-02-21T10:05:00.000-08:00

1. Keep a small notebook and pen with you at all times. Put it in your handbag. Put it in the glove compartment of the car. Put it is your back pocket. You never know when inspiration will strike, and as much as you might try, you'll never remember your stroke of genius two hours later when you finally get home to your computer.

2. Free massages. Hunched over the computer all day does nothing good for the back and shoulders. Check out your health insurance coverage. Many plans include chiropractic care, which means they also cover the related massage therapy.

3. Coffee-Mate Latte Creations, Vanilla Flavor. Make coffee, stir in two spoonfuls, and you're good to go.

4. Ladies Who Launch. Awesome, awesome nation-wide networking group of women who embody the creative and entrepreneurial spirit. Check it out: www.ladieswholaunch.com.

5. Tide To Go Instant Stain Remover. This "pen" actually works. Love it.

6. The book "Smart Women Finish Rich," by David Bach. A financial planning book that truly makes financial planning exciting and entertaining. I'm not kidding.

7. The phrase, "If you did know, what would you say?" Try it next time someone, particularly a kid, responds, "I don't know," to a question you've asked.

Why Do I Blog?

2007-02-16T09:40:00.000-08:00

I have been tagged by fellow blogger Rachel Langston of RPL Communications (http://rplcommunications.blogspot.com) to answer the question, "Why Do I Blog?"

Here are my answers in no particular order:

1. Connection. I started blogging when I left my day job to work on my novel and do freelance work full time from home a couple of months ago. While I love working in my slippers at the kitchen table, my cat doesn't provide the same sort of inspiration as other writers embarking on the same sorts of projects. Once I started blogging, I discovered the wonderful community of wordsmiths out there, particularly women, and I stopped feeling so alone in my professional endeavors.

2. Accountability. Blogging helps hold me accountable to my novel writing project.

3. To Write. Yes, the whole point in leaving my job was to work on my novel full time, but as it has turned out, my production level has fallen short of my expectations. I go through all of the problems I assume other writers face. I don't know where my story is heading. I start doubting my story all together. Frankly, I'm not sure if anyone will care anyway. Blogging helps get my creative juices flowing and ensures that I write something other than news articles.

4. Therapy. Blogging gives me an outlet to share my ups and downs my writing world brings. As with a journal, I get to get it all out, and there is the bonus of other writers with which to commiserate or celebrate.

5. A Filing System. Although not intended to become one, my blog has given me the opportunity to get organized to some extent. Instead of trying to remember or write down all my favorite writing links and blogs, my blog serves as a filing cabinet that I can easily access anytime I need to.

6. Understanding. My friends and family have told me on more than one occasion that they understand me much more from reading what I write than from what I have to say. I tend to be choosy about what I'm willing to share verbally, but for some reason, I'm much more prolific with written words.

7. Fun. I enjoy blogging. I love getting comments and am always excited to discover another new blog out there.

So, why do you blog?

Writers' Group Anyone?

2007-02-15T23:00:00.000-08:00

I know I can't be the only writer in Los Angeles who doesn't live north of LAX. Anyone else want to claim South Bay status .... Manhattan Beach, Redondo, Hermosa, El Segundo, Torrance, Palos Verdes, etc?

If, in fact, I'm not alone, I'd love to get a writers' group going. Java Man in Hermosa Beach would be a great place to meet once a week or a couple of times a month.

Drop me an email if you are interested (be sure to leave an email or a link to a blog or website with a way to contact you), and I'll see what I can do about bringing some of us beach-loving writers together. Any genre is fine as long as you are willing to get and give critiques.

Put It in Writing

2007-02-14T16:17:00.000-08:00

Love letters just aren't what they used to be. Scarce is the man, or woman for that matter, anxious to pick up a pen and paper to compose prose inspired by his most vulnerable, intimate feelings. Today's sweet nothings come in the form of email and text messages with phrases such as "I L U" (I love you) and "L U 2" (love you too)

An article in today's Wall Street Journal titled, "Say it with Txt" discusses how technology takes the romance out of, well, romance . So-called "sext messaging" has replaced good old-fashioned handwritten card, and email allows one to quickly dash off a note to lure your love. But be careful, a few seconds and a couple of clicks by your beloved, and 50 of her closest friends are now dissecting every word.

There are those of us lucky to have been the recipients of hand written proclamations of love and affections. Tucked away in a box for safe keeping, the occasional re-reading brings back the emotions of the moment much better than I suspect the typed, abbreviated language of technology-inspired correspondence ever could.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Make It Possible

2007-02-09T15:42:00.000-08:00

Passed along from my UCLA novel writing instructor:

- Write two pages a day, everyday. Makes the process much more manageable and helps the writer feel like writing an entire book is actually possible.

- Don't write until you have nothing left to say. If you stop at the bottom of page two no matter what, you'll know where you are heading next and it will be much easier to return to writing the next day.

At the onset of this novel writing project, my goal was to write three pages a day, at which I've failed miserably. Freelance writing, columns and articles with a deadline and a pay check have overshadowed my ultimate goal to write a book.

I'm intimidated by the process, but it is time to get serious and actually do this thing. So, Monday is the day. Two pages. Stop while I still have something left to say.

Pay It Forward Tuesday

2007-02-06T17:01:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Deborah Ng for plugging "Write From the Beginning" on her blog, "Freelance Writing Jobs," as part of Pay It Forward Tuesday. No wonder my stat counter has seen some action today!

In turn, I happily plug "Charlotte's Web" at http://charlotteotter.wordpress.com. Love the blog's name and this fellow freelance writer and aspiring novelist has a smart, witty way about her words.

Writer's Block

2007-02-06T11:43:00.000-08:00

According to some, writer's block is actually the manifestation of the fear of failure (http://www.angelfire.com/al/thewritesite/block.html).

"You are afraid that what you write won't be good enough so you avoid writing at all. You expect everything you write to be perfect but you cannot live up to these ideals so you quit trying," he said.

For others, writer's block is the existence of conflicted feelings (http://www.english.uiuc.edu/cws/wworkshop/writer_resources/writing_tips/writers_block.htm)

"Writer's block is often caused by conflicted feelings. We want the writing to be perfect and we want the damned thing done as soon as possible ... We know what we have to say but we are afraid that it won't measure up to our expectations or to our readers," he says.

I think it is a rare moment that a writer has nothing to say, which leads me to believe writer's block is something other than lack of ideas. Most certainly, I experience a form of writer's block. Although mine, I think, is more about avoiding the possibility of finding out I'm a really bad writer. So I end up only working on the writing projects at which I know I've fairly descent. Unfortunately, this means the pages of my novel are being produced at a pace similar to that of walking though taffy.

How do we break free of the dreaded writer's block?

Rose-colored Glasses?

2007-02-05T14:51:00.000-08:00

The feedback from my novel writing class yielded some interesting comments the other night.

I definitely knew I would be scheduling time for some cutting and re-working of my prose, and my classmates confirmed this would be on my adgenda. However, the most interesting response I received was from a woman who said the family in my book sounds "too perfect."

Let me back up a bit. My novel, "The Space Between" is the story of three generations of women dealing with the death of the grandmother and matriarch of the family. The narrator of the book is the grandmother, who is telling the story just after her recent death.

The "too perfect" characterization of the family in my novel is interesting since to a large degree it is modeled after my own relatives. And we are definitely not perfect. However, when "one of us" is in trouble or has been wronged in some way, my family rallies, and we rally hard. Bickering might find its way into the mix later on, but when life signals it is time to come together, we do.

So, I'm going to take the "too perfect" observation and leave the initial introduction of my novel's women in tact. The conflict will come. Just as in life, give it time.

The Insecure Writer

2007-02-01T15:02:00.000-08:00

So, last week I started another novel writing class at UCLA Extension. Taught by a 26-year-old who has already published two books, I alternate between feeling inspired and a bit bitter.

The class is workshop style meaning we take turns submitting pages of our work for critique by the class and instructor. My tendency in past classes is not to jump up and volunteer early on. Truth be told, I'm kind of intimidated. But I really am not sure why. There isn't any reason to believe that my work is any better or worse than anyone else in the class.

So as not to fall into my usual trap of trying to fade into the background, I volunteered to be among the first three writers to offer up pages. Back to class tonight for the verdict. Stay tuned ...

Proof of Cluelessness

2007-02-01T14:58:00.000-08:00

Overheard in the grocery store today:

Woman: “Where do you want to go out to dinner for Valentine’s Day?

Man: You’re planning kind of far ahead arent’ you?

Woman: It’s coming up pretty soon.

Man: Valentine’s Day is in May isn’t it?

So Close

2007-02-01T14:57:00.003-08:00

A woman in the coffee shop asked me for the time this morning. Pretty with hair pulled back from her face, she sat at the table next to me sipping her coffee. She seemed to be contemplating something, and a moment later gathered her belongings stood up and said to herself, and perhaps me, that if she wanted to change her circumstances then she better go find someplace to stay. It was as the woman picked up her backpack and large tote bag that I realized she probably had no permanent place to call home.

Through the window of the coffee shop, I watched her walk up the street and it dawned on me that the voice sounded familiar. She was probably the same woman I had found sitting on the stairs leading up to my front porch last week. It had been dark, and her presence startled me at first. But when she spoke, it was clear that she wasn’t so far removed from the type of life I know. Our conversation wasn’t long, and I gave her directions to the fire department and city hall, where she might be referred to a shelter where she could spend the night.

Twice this stranger and I have spoken. Twice this woman has appeared. I don’t know what brought on her circumstances. But the space between us doesn’t feel so wide.

Let It Go to Voice Mail

2007-02-01T14:57:00.001-08:00

The other day I read an article that claimed 12 percent of women and 7 percent of men have answered a work-related phone call on their cell phones or sent an email via Blackberry during sex. (Can’t remember where the story appeared, but if I find it, I’ll add a link.)

Really, really bad, and as the article said, insulting!

Talk about disconnect in the bedroom.

Thanks, But No Thanks

2007-01-29T12:53:00.000-08:00

Professional rejection comes with the territory in the writing world. Still, it's a tough pill to swallow when you've put everything you've got into column, article, poem, or chapter; sent it off to those with the publishing power; crossed your fingers; and hoped for the best.

Most working writers over time establish a region or list of pubs that become a sure thing. Pretty much any time, any topic the editors are more than happy to have an article pitched and written. The editing process is minimal, publication is quick, and a pay check follows shortly in the mail.

But, of course, there is always something to aspire too, and we just can't resist pulling ourselves up just one more rung on the ladder. My most recent attempt at doing so was my submission to National Public Radio's "This I Believe" media project. I wrote, proofed, and emailed out my 500 word column. As I fell asleep that night, I fantasized about having my work selected to be read aloud on the air. Though the submission guidelines estimated an editorial review process of six to eight weeks, I hope to hear back sooner.

As it turned out I did. Much sooner. My hopes of NPR broadcast were dashed less than 24 hours later when I received an extremely nice form letter informing me that my essay was not selected. Perhaps, it was my subject matter -- I'm never quite sure whether the occasional "cat columns" I write comes off as cheesy and pathetic or touching and relatable.

The email asked that I "Please don't consider this in any way a 'rejection'," as "Criteria for broadcast considers many factors beyond subjective notions of quality." Still, for a second, I felt a bit crushed. But then, I remembered rejection is just part of the game.

So, I'll take another shot because I really want it. I'll write another column. And if it is again rejected, I'll write another. And another after that.

The Cat Lady Unplugged

2007-01-25T17:08:00.000-08:00

Submitted to NPR's "This I Believe" national media project but declined for broadcast. Can be found in NPR database at http://www.thisibelieve.org/dsp_ShowEssay.php?city=hermosa%20beach&state=CA&uid=23107&start=0

I believe in old ladies with cats. For that matter, I believe in the young ones too.

Amanda lays stretched out on my lap as I type on the computer. White flecks of wayward popcorn cornels from my afternoon snack dot her black fur. She doesn’t care and stirs only as I pick the evidence of my indulgence out of her coat. A sleepy purr and a couple seconds of kneading her paws into my leg, and Amanda dozes off again.

I watch the smooth rise and fall of her stomach as she sleeps and wonder if I’m doing the right thing. Through the pale green puppy pad, her feline shape radiates a warm imprint onto my thighs. The large square of absorbent cotton backed with plastic protects my jeans from my cat’s leaky bladder.

Amanda has transitional cell carcinoma or, in the language of those not in the veterinary profession, a tumor in her bladder. When informed of the diagnosis a year and a half ago, I chose to treat the cancer. For my otherwise healthy cat, this initially meant surgery and subsequent chemotherapy and radiation with a guidance of a feline oncology.

Many, if not most, people looked absolutely baffled when I explained Amanda’s health issues. “Chemo for a cat?” they’d say faces screwed into disbelief. In one sentence, I went from a young, independent writer to the crazy cat lady, my single status surely not helping my cause.

But I went ahead with the weekly vet visits and ultrasounds to track the affects of the treatment on the tumor. I did it because I believe in chances, and I believe in hope. I believe in taking care of Amanda as I would any other member of my family who had a little more life left to live.

Though few of my friends understood my decision, Saturday mornings brought a quiet club of others like me who weren’t ready to let go. As I waited in the lobby of the oncologist’s office, I was kept company by other cat and dog people hoping for just a little more time with their animal friends. It was unusual to hear discussion, but we recognized the common denominator in each other’s presence.

Though she wasn’t cured, Amanda’s tumor was held at bay with few side effects save for the incontinence while sleeping. Medication at home has become the only option until the time comes to say goodbye. In the past eight months, Amanda has since resumed her life as a house cat aware of neither her lingering cancer nor the fact that she is the cause of my tarnished image.

I’ve come to the conclusion that a cat can be summed up as a physical manifestation of the human soul. When I awake in the morning to Amanda’s gentle head butting, I know why I’m a cat lady. I believe in old ladies with cats, and the young ones too.

Fear

2007-01-19T11:49:00.000-08:00

I've determined that my writing is driven by fear.

I write freelance articles for fear of not having the extra income.

I write fiction for fear of regretting later that I didn't give it a try.

I'm currently working on an extensive grant application for fear that if I don't, I'll end up wondering, what if. Then again, I'm fearful that I'll actually win the grant and then they'll figure out I'm not truly worthy.

But more than anything else, I write because I'm afraid not to.

2007-01-04T14:59:00.001-08:00

"Five hundred a year stands for the power to contemplate, ... a lock on the door means the power to think for oneself." -- Virginia Woolf

Scrawled on a pad of paper by the phone is the name and telephone number of a newspaper editor who has offered me a job. A good job. A paying job. A job that will cut me a check every two weeks to write about city happenings, community events and local personalities.

I’m tempted, not by the money, but by the security it offers. Rent will be paid. Utilities will stay on. Professional life will mirror traditional expectations.

Who am I to ponder the offer? After all, being paid to write is nothing at which to scoff. A trained journalist, what would posses me to pass on the opportunity to once again paint a picture of a town through its peoples’ stories and indefinitely preserved my efforts in newsprint?

You see, I’ve done this before, in fact, for all of my adult life. I am a writer, and have been incredibly lucky to, most often, have people willing to pay me for my skills. The salary, though not a fortune, was enough to encourage my mind to contemplate more, that perhaps a nest egg of spare pennies would someday unleash words from my fingers that embody the essence of their inspiration.

My paychecks granted permission to let my thoughts wander to greater possibilities, but the money allowed more dreaming than deed, as duty to tell other people’s tales jerked me back to reality. I envied those whose stories are told under my byline. The ones who asked me to write about their struggles, triumphs, pain and successes, so their stories might infuse with the sensibilities of others who share the space between birth and death.

My contemplation teased and enticed until its strength finally drew me away from the shackles of obligatory writing, and I traded security and daydreams for the key to artistic freewill. Those who demanded column inches have been silenced by a door with a lock to which only I know the combination.

Finally, my thoughts are my own. My words, at last, come from within, my stories generated by the power of my mind’s eye unprejudiced by obligations of the past. Free to let the contemplation thrive, the words bombard my brain like prisoners of war trying to escape their cell.

Intoxicating and indulgent, my newly found freedom permeates my every waking moment, and my story begins to take shape. Yet, the persistent nagging of financial commitments clouds the clarity of my will, and those who in the past formed my words wait on the other side of the door waiting for my nest egg to drain.

Though still at the beginning, the end of my resources looms large casting a shadow over the space between now and then. The fear of an empty bank account and unemployment six months down the road threatens to compromise the power I have harnessed to own my thoughts and words.

The editor with the job offer knocks loudly on the door. He calls out from the other side asking to be let in. He knows there was a time when, without question, my answer would have been “yes.” He congratulates me on my resolve to find my own words, but in the next breath appeals to my fears with dollar signs.

Security, not wealth or even close, calms my rapid heart. But a return to forced contemplation and nothing more weighs heavily. My fingers feel like lead as the strength of the lock threatens to be compromised and the power of artistic will choked off.

The editor waits for an answer.