THIS IS MY "ME TOO" STORY

Across the street from the house where I grew up, a man named Mr. Howard lived. His wife died. I don’t remember how she died, but I suppose she had been sick. The whole neighborhood felt sorry for Mr. Howard. Mother fried up a chicken and we took it over to his house. Other people were there with food. Mr. Howard worked out at the base, just as my mother did, and they often carpooled. 

After his wife died, some of my friends and I began to go over and help Mr. Howard around his house. We would clean up his kitchen, and dust his furniture. He called us his little Brownies. I don’t think he locked his door, nobody did back then, because all of his Brownies would go over to do chores for him before he got home from work. I don’t know how old he was. To me, to all of us, he was an old man. He was probably only in his forties. We were kids. To us, anybody over twenty was old.

One day, I went there by myself. My girlfriends were planning to come later, but I went ahead of them did some little chores, dusted his furniture or something like that, and while I was there, he came home from work. I think he probably carpooled with Mother that day. He was so nice. He gave me a cookie and said could I sit and talk with him for a little while. So I ate my cookie, and we sat on the couch and talked. I don’t remember the conversation, I just know Mr. Howard was patting my back and paying such close attention to me. He offered me a second cookie. 

I was wearing a sweatshirt.  Mr. Howard was rubbing my back, very kindly, asking me about school and other things. And all of a sudden, his hand was under my sweatshirt on my bare back, and then it was around in the front, and he was touching my breast, which had just begun to grow the least little bit. I was ten years old. I didn’t know what a pedophile was, had never heard that word in my life. I didn’t know about sexual predators or perversions, or anything at all about sex. It was 1963. Children were more naïve than now. People didn’t talk about such things. So I didn’t think Mr. Howard knew what he was doing. I thought he was being nice. But when his hand went down to the drawstring on my pants, I stood up, said I had to leave, and was out the door about as quickly as I could go. 

I did not tell my parents what had happened. I may have been ashamed, but mostly, I believe I was confused. Mr. Howard was the nice widower who lived across the street. He carpooled to work with my mother. I do remember worrying a little about Mother after that incident, even watching her once or twice as she and Mr. Howard drove off in his car in the mornings.

A while later, I don’t know how long, one of my little girlfriends had the same experience. Except she did tell her mother, who was divorced and lived right next door to Mr. Howard. There was a huge blow-up about it, and I finally did tell Mother. By then, she had stopped carpooling with him, and she got angry that I hadn’t told her right away. But I don’t believe anything else really happened. I don’t think Mr. Howard went to jail like he should have. Shortly afterwards, he moved away and I never heard anything else about him. 

Here is the thing -- a child doesn’t understand, doesn’t have the mature brain cells to fully comprehend when something like this happens. A child just feels confused and kind of vaguely dirty, but she doesn’t know why she feels that way, and she may not know it’s OK to tell somebody, or to trust her own instincts. My instincts were pretty good, in hindsight. I got up and walked out of that house. It was lucky I did that. No telling what else might have happened. No telling how many other little girls were victims of Mr. Howard’s.

Compared to other stories I have heard through the years from women I have known, this was a minor incident, but it still should not have happened. And it made such an impact on me that it has remained with me for 54 years. Of course, Mr. Howard knew perfectly well what he was doing that day. He was sick and perverted, and just because I didn’t run tell my mother the way my little friend did, doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to tell this story now. I’m sure Mr. Howard is dead by now and in hell where he belongs. But at least he’s not in the US Senate.

These kinds of incidents must be taken seriously. There is no reason for a woman to make up such a story, or to be paid by someone to make it up. It doesn’t or shouldn’t have anything to do with politics. It has to do with human decency and the moral fiber of our country. People who do these things -- sadly, it’s mostly men -- need to be in prison. They don’t need to be representing anybody in Congress, or for that matter, in the White House. Have we just decided that this kind of behavior is no big deal? That it doesn’t speak to a larger cancer that is eating away at who we are as a nation? Are we so divided that we can’t even agree that a predator is a predator? 

I am not a naïve little girl anymore. I know there are pretenders in this world, those who put up a good front, smooth talkers and manipulators, people who will say anything, lie to you, to get what they want. We just can’t keep letting them get away with it.

Onward...

A History of "My" Hurricanes Past

The first hurricane I remember was Hurricane Carla, a Category 5 in 1961. I was eight. We had a weekend cabin on Copano Bay at Rockport that my dad had built, and we worried that it would blow away. For some reason my brother and I stayed with my aunt during the storm. We watched it rain and the cars parked along the street rocked with the wind. I remember thinking all those cars would blow over. Carla hit at Port O'Connor but she skidded along the coast for a bit before moving inland, and got close enough that she filled our Rockport cabin with two feet of sandy mud. The cabin stood on four-foot stilts, but the sand got inside anyway, and we had a big mess to clean up. We also lost a lot of our beach.

The next hurricane to impact my life was Hurricane Beulah, a Cat 5 that struck in 1967. I was fourteen. Mother and Daddy had a "hurricane party." They liked to play games and had some friends over for Pinochle. I helped Mom make dips and put out chips. Everybody was excited by the storm blowing outside. When the power went out, everybody made their way home through the wind and rain. I remember the phone ringing as, one by one, the guests reported back that they had made it home. The storm came ashore at Brownsville with a twenty-foot storm surge. There was so much rain with that storm, streets and homes were flooded. In fact, the flood of record on the San Antonio River still stands from rain caused by Beulah. We got a few days off from school, which when you're fourteen, seems like a big treat. Beulah caused more beach erosion at our cabin in Rockport, and shortly afterwards, Daddy sold the place. This turned out to be a good thing because the beach where our cabin stood is now completely gone. Any building that would have been on that stretch of land would have long ago fallen into Copano Bay.

In August of 1970, a Category 3 storm named Celia came into the Gulf of Mexico. All the predictions were for it to make landfall at Galveston, but those predictions soon changed to Port O'Connor, then Rockport, moving farther down the Texas coastline, and closer to us in Corpus Christi. I remember waking up that morning to the sound of the television and my dad pacing in the den. We were not the kind of family to watch television early in the morning so just the TV being on clued me in that something was happening. At age seventeen, I had been too busy with my own oh-so important life to have paid attention to anything weather-related -- until that morning. Daddy said he had been tracking the storm through the night and he believed it was coming in for a direct hit on Corpus Christi. There had not been a direct hit on our town since the 1930s, so I was suddenly paying much closer attention. Mother put on a brave face, went to the store, bought dips and chips and came home saying we would have our own "hurricane party." At about two o'clock, I was sitting at the kitchen table writing a letter to my brother who was in the army stationed in Germany, when a big boom sounded that shook the house. The lights went out instantly. Daddy thought something had hit the front door, so he went to see what had happened. When he opened the door, the wind was so strong, it nearly took him with the door. Mother and I grabbed Daddy and helped him back inside. None of us had realized until then how strong the storm had grown.

Daddy had a long, silver, police-issue flashlight. He turned it on and we all three went upstairs. When we got into the upstairs hallway, our attention was drawn to the trap door to the attic. It was flapping around like a paper plate. Daddy reached with his flashlight and pushed on the trap door cover, and we saw the sky. Our roof was completely gone. We went into the master bedroom and the ceiling in that room looked like it was breathing, in and out. Eventually, it fell in, but we saw all that much later.

Daddy ordered us to go downstairs and get in the laundry room, which was the only one-story part of our house. I ran to my bedroom and gathered up my makeup from my bathroom (Hey-- I was seventeen!), Mother raced down to the den and gathered up the family photo albums, and Daddy grabbed a jar of peanuts out of the pantry, and a six-pack of beer from the refrigerator, and we all clambered into the laundry room. Mama threw the photo albums into the dryer and we sat on the machines, and through a crack in the boarded up window, watched the driveway fill up with lumber, most of which stayed for only a few moments before it blew off somewhere else. There were roofing shingles everywhere. A couple of times while the storm was blowing, one or the other of us had to make a dash for the half bathroom off the kitchen downstairs. We came back with reports that rain was pouring through the ceiling as if we were standing outside. While the wind was still crazy high, our next door neighbor banged on the laundry room door to check on us. We discussed what had happened, and the consensus was that a tornado must've come down our street. Later we found a rafter had stabbed, missile-like, through the roof of our garage. Luckily it hit the ground right between Mother and Daddy's cars.

Hurricane Celia literally changed my life. Not only was it a disaster for my family, but it did so much damage to the refinery where Daddy worked that the decision was made by the company to close the refinery altogether. Daddy was transferred to another refinery in Purvis, Mississippi. So instead of attending the university in San Marcos as I had planned, I went to the University of Southern Mississippi in Hattiesburg, and eventually married a Mississippi boy, whom I would have otherwise never met.

In August of 1980, a Catergory 5 storm brewed up in the Gulf. It was named Allen. By this time, I was married with two kids and living in a brand new house in San Antonio. My parents, who had also come back to Texas, were once again living in Corpus Christi. After Celia they had sworn they would never sit out another hurricane, so they evacuated to our house in San Antonio. Allen came ashore at Port Mansfield, well to the south, but that also put us on the "dirty" side of the storm. Because of the counter-clockwide rotation of Atlantic hurricanes, the prevailing winds will swirl out from center towards the east, so when a hurricane makes landfall, you always want to be on the "clean" side, or to the west. When Hurricane Rita hit Houston in 2005, I was already living in DeWitt County, a hundred miles west of Houston. We didn't get a drop of rain. A hundred miles to the east was devastated. That's the way a hurricane works. There is a clean side and a dirty side. When Hurricane Allen came inland, he hooked up the Rio Grande River and that put San Antonio on the dirty side of the storm. Our brand new house had roof damage and our sliding door leaked to the point where the carpet had to be pulled up. When Mother and Daddy went back home to Corpus Christi, they had one tree limb broken and a board missing from their fence. Their house was completely fine. They should have stayed home!

Hurricane Claudette hit Seadrift, Texas in July of 2003. It came ashore as a weak Category 2. Since it was only July, the Gulf of Mexico wasn't warm enough to fuel a big hurricane yet. But Claudette blew hard enough and broke enough tree limbs where I lived in Yorktown to give me a big reminder of the damage a hurricane can do. I cowered in my living room, recalled that afternoon in the laundry room, and prayed the storm away. We had two massive piles of broken limbs after that storm passed.

A few weeks ago, in August, Hurricane Harvey hit Rockport as a Category 4 storm. Things have changed with our technology. Safe in my house in Yoakum, I was able to stay in touch with my loved ones in the path of the storm via text messages. And I was able (when the power wasn't out) to track the storm online. It was a torrential rainmaker. It devastated the Texas coast where it made landfall and dumped 50 inches of rain on Houston causing a Biblical flood. See what happens when you're on the "dirty" side of a hurricane. We got almost seventeen inches in Yoakum, and our little place south of us on Carancahua Bay came through with the loss of just a few roofing shingles and some palm fronds. My significant other's precious granddaughter who lives in the Caribbean just came through a Category 5 storm, Irma, in the same way, by texting with us while we monitored the storm online. It helps a lot to be able to stay in touch through these things. And the predictions are so much better than they used to be back in the olden days.

Living on this planet, near the coast, I'm sure there are more hurricanes in my future. They are, after all, just doing their job--taking the heat from the equator and redistributing it over the earth. And they're pretty efficient at doing that, oblivious to the humanity in their path. After Harvey left, the temperatures in Yoakum were ten degrees cooler than they had been before he arrived. It was noticeable, and it has stayed cooler. It's the way the world works. Now, if Mother Nature would just do something about these mosquitoes!!

Onward ...

WHAT I LEARNED FROM THE COMEY HEARING AND WHY IT IS IMPORTANT

Forget all the he said/he said, the memos, the impressions at various meetings, yada yada yada--the one thing that Director Comey said during the hearings that I found worrisome was his testimony regarding the Russians meddling in US elections. OK, so we’ve already heard the reports regarding the fake news that was put up on social media by thousands of trolls paid for by the Kremlin, and I know that is true because I saw a lot of those fake news re-postings made by Facebook friends of mine. (There is still a lot of fake news on Facebook. I always check on validity when something sounds a little too fantastical, on both sides.) And we know that unflattering emails were hacked and released through Wikileaks. Those things are worrisome, but there’s no way to measure the effect one way or the other that any of this might have had on the election. However, the one thing Comey said that startled me is that there were attempts by the Russians to hack into our state and local voter rolls.

As most of my friends know, I worked as the Elections Administrator for my county for three years. Before that, I was a poll worker off and on for over ten years. An Elections Administrator not only oversees elections, which is a big enough job in itself, but he or she is also the county Voter Registrar. This is an ongoing job that lasts in between, around, and after elections. It is, in fact, the main function of the Elections Administration Office. Having held this job I have some inside information that a lot of the public may not have, and it’s important to understand some things, especially for those who think none of this matters, that’s the probe into Russian interference into our elections is a witch hunt, or as one of my beloved relatives said, America is big enough to not be afraid of Russian hacks. Bear with me now as I try to explain something a little technical.

 After the Gore v. Bush debacle in 2000, Congress passed the Help America Vote Act. As part of the Act, better known to election officials as HAVA, every state was required to keep a statewide electronic voter roll. That means any person who applies to register to vote is cleared through their state, with the Social Security Agency and the Department of Public Safety both playing an important role in identity verification. Also as part of each statewide voter roll is a voting history for each and every person who is registered in that state. In other words, every time you vote in an election, it is recorded and stored at the state level. The EA can pull up your name in the state database and see which elections you voted in, even if you've just moved to his or her county, your voting history in previous locations is carried with you on the state rolls. There is currently movement to make this nationwide.

Generally, the way a person votes, who or what they vote for, is not revealed in these state voting history files, but there is one exception. Primary elections. For those of you who may be unclear, a Primary election is the way that the political parties choose who will be their candidate in the General Election.

Primary elections are treated as completely separate elections. They are programmed differently, and if the two parties hold their primary at the same time, for the election officials it is as if there are two side-by-side elections being held. This is why you must state which ballot you want to vote, because you are voting in a separate election from your neighbor down the street who might be supporting the other party’s candidates. So because the Republican Primary Election is an entirely separate election from the Democratic Primary Election, your voting history will show which one of those two elections you voted in.  

 Not everybody votes in Primaries, but there are plenty of people who do. 

So because it shows up on your voting history that you voted in one or the other of the political party’s Primary, it is possible to identify you as a Republican or a Democratic voter. This is why, after you have voted in a Primary, you start getting all that political mail in your snail mailbox. The Freedom of Information Act requires the EA to release that information to the Parties, or anyone else who wants to know. It's also the reason that when I heard that the Russians had tried to hack into state voters rolls, my red flag went up and started to violently wave. Because--since it would be possible for any hacker to identify a large section of the population as favoring one party or the other,  it would also be possible for that hacker to eliminate, wholesale, entire groups of registered voters from the rolls in order to throw an election one way or the other. And this is why all of us should be concerned, and care, about the investigation that is going on right now into the Russian interference into the 2016 election. This time they only probed into some of our state’s voter rolls. Next time they could hack into them outright and REALLY and TRULY affect an election.

Please understand, despite what some of the pundits on television might say because they don't get it either, that I am not talking here about the voting machines that you vote on. Those are not at issue and never were. It would be ridiculous for anybody to hack into ALL THOSE MACHINES! It's the information that is taken off of those machines and stored at the state and local levels that is vulnerable and could influence an election. 

Our intelligence agencies have all, without exception, agreed that the interference described in my first paragraph went on. They have all also stated that there is no way to know what kind of an impact internet trolls and hacked emails had, but it is for certain that this will not be the last time the Russians, or some other adversarial government, interferes, and next time it could be the voter rolls that are vulnerable. So we had better get our government ready to take them on when it happens next time. It is not a partisan issue, next time it might be the candidate that YOU support who gets knocked out of the race by some means much more sophisticated than what happened in 2016. And it is imperative that the state voter rolls be kept secure for just this reason.  Take an interest. This is more important than partisan politics.

Onward....

Final Doubts

It's always hard for me to bring myself to sit down and read anything I'm writing from start to finish. For one thing, the vision I have of whatever I'm working on is always so much more than what seems to make it onto the page. The story line seems more poignant, the climax seems more critical, the characters more fully fleshed out in my imagination than they often do once I'm actually reading.

The other thing is this hypercritical editor in my head. This editor hates everything, sees sentimentality in places where it should not be, finds cliche after cliche, and repetition in description. This internal editor is pretty damned ruthless, and I always hate to unleash her.

I've been through three full drafts of this novel. I have printed out a clean copy--all 523 pages (oh, the ink cartridges and reams of paper I have gone through). I would really like to be able to read this as a regular reader would, without a correcting pen in my right hand. But I seriously doubt that will be the case.  I have three days all alone--except for Sam cat--to do it, and boy, would it be nice to have a manuscript worth submitting once I get to the end of these three days.

The last two times I have read the pages through, I have marked all over them, and it's taken me five days each time to get from page one to the end. I  know from experience that there comes a time when a writer has to say to herself "ENOUGH! It will never be perfect." I re-read books of mine that have been published and find needling little things I would change if I could. But at this point in the writing process, I am nearing the time when I will tell myself this is the best I can do with this novel, and it will have to sink or swim on its own. (Another lousy cliche to mark out!)

Doubt is a writer's worst enemy. It is not easy to fight through the doubt that comes as a manuscript nears fruition. You wonder if you have moved your main character through enough for honest change. Have you tied up loose threads? What about antagonists? Are there enough? Is it OK to have a situation be the antagonist, as it is in this current book, and actually, in most of my books? And the ending: is it too smarmy? Does it leave the reader satisfied? Do I need to go on a bit longer? Do I need an epilogue? I know what happens to the characters after the book ends, but will my reader? Will they even care? Does any of it matter? Oh, for the love of doubt!

No matter what though, there has been great satisfaction in creating this novel. The characters have become like family to me. The setting and time period of the story are under my skin. There have been moments of total, magical immersion when the least thing outside my "book world" comes as a startling jolt: the doorbell, nightfall, the cat wanting his supper. And I am so lucky to have my little cottage on the coast. It has become my "ivory tower." I walk in and the juices start to flow. Exactly what I had hoped when we found it two years ago.

So after this phase comes what? I don't know yet. I have been out of the writing and publishing scene for so long, almost everyone has retired or forgotten about me. But it would be lovely to have another book to set on the shelf. We shall see if that is in the stars. If it's not, I will still be happy that I managed to finally finish this book.

Onward....

THE KITCHEN SINK, Or Second Drafts Redux

Writing a novel is like architecture, or perhaps like what I image it would be to sculpt. While I'm immersed in the work, I'm constantly shaping, scraping off edges, gluing on little bits, hammering and sawing. Last blog post was about cuts mainly, but second drafts are also the time to throw in the kitchen sink. Most of the time, things I add at this point are to improve pacing or character development. The additions I have made in this second draft increased the manuscript by eighteen pages, making it, at 527 pages, by far the longest novel I have ever written. But I'll bet some cuts are in store for the third draft.  

By the time I'm working with my second draft, I know my book pretty darned well--scene by scene, the descriptions, the dialogue, the tone. It's all up there in my brain, simmering. So after reading back over the book in its entirely, the second draft is time to simply think about the story, those scenes, the dialogue, the rooms the characters walk through, the garden where that important exchange takes place. Have I described the colors, the bric-a-brac, the smell of the air coming through the windows, the way the wind causes a curtain to billow, rays of sunlight through the trees? I like to hand out my descriptions in small, pointed doses, making sure that each line or phrase somehow furthers the tone of the scene, the development of the character, or the mood of the story. Does the floral tablecloth remind the main character of her grandmother's farmhouse when she was a child? Or does the ticking clock on the wall wither her already shattered nerves as she waits for the telephone to ring? There is probably room to grow most scenes by adding sensory detail. The second draft is when I do that.

Some of these things come naturally in the first draft. For seasoned writers, this is especially true. I don't consider myself to be THERE yet, so I have to constantly remind myself of these tricks, and of how crafting scene after scene gets me to the novel I am trying to write. My vision of my story is always more vivid than what makes it onto the page.

When I'm second-draft deep into a novel, my mind seems to automatically latch onto things I can use. Maybe it's something I overhear at the beauty shop, or maybe it's just the right name for that minor, but important, character I'm developing. In second draft mode, I'm on the lookout for exciting words I had forgotten about, and at the same time, giving a critical look at the words I already have down. Are there too many adverbs, what about adjectives? An overload of either of those weakens a sentence rather than improves it. Instead of "falling clumsily against the door" I will make her "stagger against the door." Better, more concise, choice.

The second draft is the time to make big important changes, too, if they're needed. In my fourth novel, I had gone through my first draft, and the story just didn't work. The pivotal scene was based loosely on a family incident, but it wasn't until I found the correct name for my main character that everything fell into place. Often the main characters needs the most sprucing up in the second draft. I don't want my main character to be two-dimensional; I want him to have flaws aplenty, and lots of room for improvement and growth and change. Getting my character just right often happens in my rewrites.

Oh, the joy of second drafts. And now it's almost time for me to begin the third draft. As I type this, I'm printing out the manuscript once again. Next week, I'm headed back to my coastal retreat, when I plan to read this behemoth yet again. I know it has improved in this second draft, but I also know it's not done yet. What a lot of work writing a novel always turns out to be! Seat of the pants to seat of the chair.

Onward...

THE TROUBLE WITH SECOND DRAFTS

Rewrites are a good thing. In general, a novel gets better with each rewrite. Often, I read a novel that I feel could have used just one more run-through. When I come upon a scene that’s just a bit implausible or some dialogue that doesn’t ring authentic, I think to myself that the writer would have benefitted with another draft.

There are decisions that get made in rewrites. Usually those involve cutting something, or re-arranging elements of the story: This thing needs to happen sooner, or that bit is just a little too long, or too cute, or maybe it’s too melodramatic. There can be any number of things “wrong” with a portion of a novel. The trouble is the fix.

I usually know on a gut-level when I’ve got a problem in a story. I don’t always have the solution when I start my second draft, but I’ve got those places that need extra work earmarked in my mind. Those trouble spots always slow down the second draft, sometimes considerably.

When I do my first read-through, I mark up my pages mercilessly. I have to have a hard copy to do this, so for me, writing a novel takes reams of paper and numerous ink cartridges. I've got to have those margins, to make my marks, and remarks, and notes to self. I’m like a teacher grading a paper.

Trouble comes with knowing when to cut and when to add. It’s easy to cut out things, and then later say, “I need that first bit back in here,” which is another argument for the must-have hard copy. You will still have hold of the part you cut out if you decide you need to add it back again.

On the computer I keep a desktop folder labeled “CUTS,” and when I'm ready to make changes after my pencil-edit, I save all the deleted scenes, interior monologues, and wordy descriptions into my “CUTS” folder. It’s easy to add them back this way, although frankly, once something gets the chop, I rarely paste it back into the story, at least not in its original form.

Another problem with rewrites is being too close to the story, not being able to ferret out the parts that aren’t working. This is why critique groups are sometimes helpful (although I’ll do another blog post on those at some point). Preferably an editor or an agent can help with this problem, but if you’re a beginning writer, you likely don’t have either one of those. At any rate, there comes a time when you need an outside reader, but just not yet. You need to do a couple more drafts first, unless you know someone you really trust, someone who can see the forest despite the trees. (And if you do know someone like that, lend them to me, please.) I have to get a novel as far as I can get it before I ask anyone for help. After all, nobody knows your story better than you do, and it’s important that you listen to yourself before you listen to someone else. You’ll get so you know when it’s the right time to share your baby.

After my third novel came out, I was asked to attend a reading club meeting of members who had all been assigned my book as their monthly novel. This was an excellent group of intelligent, thoughtful, articulate readers. Good discussion happened, and they weren’t the least intimidated by having “the author” sitting right there among them. It fascinated me to hear everyone’s opinion of my characters, their take on what the theme of the book was, on the story arc and on how they were affected by the ending. It was the last part of the discussion that was the biggest revelation to me. Out of the twenty or so people attending, only three felt the novel ended happily. And I was one of the three! Everyone else came away feeling it had a tragic ending. Oops!

I have always wished I’d taken aim at that ending just one more time. So the reader would come away with the feeling I had intended.

The current novel is halfway through its second draft. There are chapters that are already greatly improved, but there are some that still stump me. I find I have more research to do, even after all the research I have already done. I have a multitude of rough edges to file down. Once I’m finished with this rewrite, I will once again let the manuscript rest for a couple of weeks, before I start the process a third time.

Onward…

THE END -- But Not Really

Two weeks ago, I typed THE END. It was a big deal for me, because I started the current novel seventeen years ago. During that time, more often than not, I believed in my heart I would never finish it, never write fiction again. Since beginning this book, there has been mayhem in the world and personal upheaval, death (a lot of death), divorce, rebuilding, love, loss, sickness, and just a whole lot of living. In other words, one thing and another seemed to take me farther and farther away from the thing I love to do, that I believe I was meant to do, and I just did not think I could ever reconnect with it. But life has finally calmed down again, and I have finally forgiven the publishing industry for not living up to my expectations, a resentment I didn’t even realize I harbored until it was brought to my attention. So when I left my job with the county last fall, I was determined to get back to this book. I told myself that if I never wrote another thing, I wanted to finish it.

About half of it was written. I mistakenly believed I had much more than half, but I had never gone all the way to the end of it, so there was really no way to know exactly what I did have. Along the way, a few people had read some of it – the beginning mainly, which was unexpectedly polished, although it shouldn’t have been unexpected. I had started over – and started over -- time and again, written to a particular point, stopped, gone back to the beginning, started over yet again. When something gets rewritten that many times, it gets polished. I just never could get the story arc straight in my head, or even what it was really going to be about. I had a main character and I had a time period, and that was about it. So when I would get to the hard part, the pivot, I would get stuck. Two weeks ago, when I typed the words THE END, it was like WOW! I had finally worked passed that pivotal middle, put my nose to it, and bulled through to an ending. And it felt … well, it felt just fantastic. I told exactly two people. I wanted to keep it to myself because I knew it wasn’t a real milestone. But it was, at least, the start of one.

Having been down this road a few times before, I know it’s not finished. But it’s huge to get a first draft – a whole, big, start-to-finish first draft. This book is not a thing of beauty yet but I’m hopeful. Like I always told my classes back when I taught workshops – you’ve got to give yourself permission to write badly just to get that first draft DONE. The real writing comes in the rewriting. But first I needed to let it rest, to put it away for a short while, to think about it as a whole, before I even reread it in its entirety for the first time. I have given myself two weeks. Any more than that, I feared might become a month, then two months, then three, and before you knew it, I could be back to procrastination inertia. It’s certainly easier to THINK about a book than it is to actually write one.

So later this morning I’m driving down to the bay house, by myself, to read the thing. To see if it holds together. And if it doesn’t, to see what needs to be done to get it so it does. There’s no internet there. There’s barely television. But there’s a kitchen table, and a dreamy view out the window at Carancahua Bay, at the sunsets, the diving pelicans, all those calming things that I hope will allow me to shut out the noise and hear the voices in the book. I’m so excited that I'm up before dawn, anticipating my own personal writer’s retreat. I hope to come back full of the momentum it will take to wrestle this thing into a real novel.
Onward …