Category Archives: Reading Room

My son was recently accepted to his dream university in Leeds, UK to play in soccer academy, and I am suddenly filled with the excited anticipation of traveling again. It’s difficult to believe that it has been 20 years since my maiden voyage around the world. The stories, people, markets, sights, and food came back to life as I wrote my novel, Through the Ganesh Gate, but over the years it felt like my journey was purely a work of fiction.

Now, with the upcoming trip to Europe, I recall the delicious anticipation of stepping off the train in a new city; feeling the currency, listening to the accents from all over the world, and learning the history of foreign cultures. I remember the feeling of studying maps and train
schedules, and dreaming about how to pack gear in the most space efficient manner possible. I reminisce in the feeling of standing in a monolithic church that has stood for thousands of years.

Perhaps I am using my travel excitement to stave off the fact that my one and only child will be moving half way around the world. If I linger with this knowledge, the lump in my throat become too great to bear. So for now, I will silently thank my son for giving me yet one more gift: a reason to travel again.

Idaho State Journal

It was a wonderful weekend in Pocatello, Idaho visiting with friends at the 30-year Poky High Reunion and at the wonderful book reading / signing event. The event location, The Walrus and Carpenter is a groovy new and used bookstore on the small main street of downtown Pocatello. I knew by the smell of the pages and the stacks of books in every genre, that I would love the venue. My family was amazing! They involved the community by announcing the event it the Idaho State Journal.

Many people helped with food and pictures, and provided terrific support all around. Highlights of the event was a visit from my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Browning, and a drop in from childhood neighbor friend. Thank you to everyone. It was a wonderful author event!

In Christi Krug’s Wildfire Writing process there is an important step called The Way Station. In her book, Burn Wild, she describes the Way Station as a “stopover, a breather, and a place to lose attachments to your work.” Over the past 5 years while writing Through the Ganesh Gate I have parked at the Way Station many times, and with good purpose.

In the beginning of the writing process I was shy, embarrassed even to put words on the page. I kept telling myself that no one would want to read the story, it was not important, and that I had no expertise that gave me the right to write. Many times I put a chapter away for weeks, and whole sections were shelved for months at time. But instead of getting frustrated, I accepted that I had returned to the Way Station. Each time I started writing again, the story felt exciting and a little less scary.

After I completed the full draft, it was terrifying to send it out to my early readers. Even with 300 pages and a start, middle, and end, the novel felt unfinished, raw, and untidy. But I sent it anyway and parked again at the Way Station. The magic of giving it away allowed me to separate myself from the story that I had written. I even started writing my second novel just to get the first out of my mind. That separation was vital to gain perspective, hear critical feedback, and ultimately, rewrite both the beginning and the end (yet another time).

My last stop at the Way Station occurred when the story was turned over to my editor Bjorn. I wanted so desperately for the book to be finished, but I parked at the Way Station and allowed the process to move at its own pace. So, for the past year, Bjorn and I have played a slow game of Ping-Pong. Each draft got better, more concise, and the story came into balance. By embracing the concept of losing attachment to my work, the novel found its own final form.

I will never be a current or proficient blogger (as you can clearly see), nor am I likely to master many new skills in this lifetime, but I can finally say, with reasonable comfort, that I am an author. I will forever be grateful for both the writing process and the amazing people who helped me along the way. I hope that there are many more stories to come.

Learn more about Wildfire Writing.

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I wish I could shrink down, just small enough to fit inside my brain so that I could do a little tune up. Not a full shut-down-reboot, just a little work. I’m not expecting or even hoping for the agility of my younger self, but a pinch of coordination and a dash of refinement would be nice to carry me into the next decade of life.

The first stop on the maintenance tour would be the eyes. The vision system is a complex and delicate operation that would require great care during a tune up. I’d be careful not to fiddle too much, just make a few adjustments. I’d gently pry open the lens and give it a quick clean. Images would come through crisp and clear like looking through a freshly washed window as you roll out of the carwash. After that, I’d do a bit of tightening to the ciliary muscles; a turn or two would do to pull the lens into tender tautness. Images, recently blurry without the aid of reading glasses, would come into perfect focus once again.

From the eyes, I’d surf the neural pathways back to the cerebellum. Here, I’d find the broken connections and battered neurons that connect to the arms and legs. With magical duct tape and gorilla glue I’d hook up those lost connections that once allowed me to dance with rhythm and to smash a zinger of a ping pong ball across the net. The whole system has not collapsed, it has just lost its efficiency. Direction, extent, force, and timing are no longer at peak performance. With a few repairs on the cerebellar highway, perhaps I’d no longer trip going up the stairs.

Now when someone says to me: “Hey, we should take a vacation to Hawaii.” My amygdala hollers out:”No, flying is dangerous, volcanoes explode, the sun will cause you cancer!”

After the cerebellum is humming like a well timed engine, I’d slide down the hippocampus to the amygdala. One of my favorite anatomical words, it’s a tiny structure deep in the center of the brain. It’s main function is the perception and regulation of fear. Maintenance on the should-be almond shaped structure might take some time. I’m pretty sure that instead of getting a nice small pair of amygdalae, I got two softball-sized whoppers. My overactive amygdalae have been flexing their fear-muscles for decades. They have hypertrophied into brawny, rigid, controlling entities. Now when someone says to me: “Hey, we should take a vacation to Hawaii.” My amygdala hollers out:”No, flying is dangerous, volcanoes explode, the sun will cause you cancer!” All this occurs before I can conjure up even one beautiful image of a waterfall or white sand beach. With my tune up tools I would carefully remove the overgrown and useless sections of the amygdala and return it to it’s normal size. Just big enough to keep me from jumping into the lion exhibit at the zoo, but no longer stopping me from taking a few, calculated risks.

With my tools packed up and debris cleared away, I’d be ready to leave the brain. The changes might not be outwardly recognizable, but to my former self, the change would be palpable. Life with a little better clarity, an improved sense of precision, and a lot less fear might open up all kinds of possibilities. Anyone want to dance?

There’s was something special about being a woman and being bald. The way people looked at me with a careful tenderness. The gentle way they approach the question. Visible relief washed over when I told them I shaved for a charity event. But the open space between knowing and not, was full of beautiful opportunity. More than once, I had strangers share their stories of battling cancer. They praised me for my courage (though I knew they were the ones with true courage). A darling young hipster in Portland even requested to take a selfie with me so she could show her parents that bald could be beautiful.

I love the thick, dark hair that is growing back, but feel a tiny hint of sadness. Sadness at the closing of the door, where strangers go back to mumbled greetings and closed hearts. It feels like a rare moment when people act from a place of pureness of heart, where social rules are abandoned in favor of making a connection, however brief, out of empathy or curiosity. My hair is back to the point of looking like an intentional hairstyle. Perhaps, with a full head of hair, I can figure out the alchemy that brings people together; learn the mystery of what causes a spark of connection. I’ll give it some time and energy. But in the event that the mystery does not reveal itself, summer is just around the corner from the barbershop.