​“I am a writer. I always write, no matter what else is going on around me.” 
Laura Davis Hays, November 9, 2020.
 
On March 3, 2020, I was flying back from Los Angeles, traveling out of Burbank through Phoenix into Albuquerque. I had a slight cold and cough, something I thought I’d picked up from my granddaughter, Gemma. In the airports, I started noticing people wearing masks, even gloves, but I did not know much about the reason. Just some germ-phobic travelers, I thought, or maybe religious women whose faces needed to be covered for the sake of propriety.
 
Once home, my symptoms grew worse. By then I was reading newspaper reports about Covid 19, including instructions not to waste time and medical resources by having a test. So I didn’t.
 
Certainly now, if I’d just traveled out of state through multiple airports, had attended a packed event to hear my son Gabe’s string quartet performed, an event where I was greeted by Cesar, my young cousin, where I celebrated with Gabe and his friends over drinks and pizza late into the night, I would know I was at risk. Some weeks later, Gabe and Cesar both experienced weird flulike symptoms including shortness of breath and body aches, and, despite negative tests, both believe they had Covid. Perhaps they’d gotten it at a subsequent event they attended together. Perhaps they’d both been carrying it in early March when I was with them.
 
I’ll likely never know. Now we are having the third record-breaking spike with the holidays upon us, and the governor has cancelled Thanksgiving and Christmas is looking iffy. Now we are habituated to a new lifestyle of masks and social distancing and working from home. We’re not going out to bars or restaurants, not taking family trips, not going to nail salons, or to the gym. Most everyone I know has let their hair grow long, or go gray. Fancy clothes sit in closets, high heels stay in the shoe rack, lipsticks have lost themselves in drawers. Sneakers and comfortable pants, same clothes every day, why not? It’s like we’re traveling and everything boils down to our wits, and what’s in our suitcase. 
 
So how does writing fit into all of this?
 
I am currently working on multiple projects, as always. One is a sequel to my novel, Incarnation, and then there’s the sequel to that sequel. Another is a book of short fiction based on my Danish ancestry, including the final novella, The Clever Bear. Another is a new YA novel about two girls in search of a mother on a dystopian world with two suns. Plus, I’m sending out old stories and two have been accepted for publication. I’ve hired a writing coach, and a web designer/marketing expert. I’m reading books on writing, watching master classes on my computer. I’m obsessed, full of ideas. Stories write themselves in my head faster than I can put them down on the page. All this, despite racking up an extra 200 plus hours in my business so far this year.
 
So what’s different?
 
Time is part of it. 
 
I read about a woman who hopes to keep working from home after the pandemic is over. She’s using her former commute time to have a proper breakfast, meditate and stretch; in the evening she goes for a run before dinner. I too have been finding a little bit of writing time before work, and the computer is often on my lap as I have a glass of wine in the evenings. These moments add up.
 
But it’s something else, too. 
 
I believe many of us have become sharper and more direct in our thinking. We’ve learned to solve problems quickly with what’s at hand. We’ve gained new computer skills. Zoom and Face Time, remote learning, video streaming, posting. With restaurants closed, we’re cooking more with fewer trips to the grocery, so we’ve become more creative about food—three times a day. That creativity spills over into other arenas, feeding back into our stories, our songs, our teaching, our sewing, our parenting, our entrepreneurial projects, or whatever we need to do to survive and feel human. 
 
Being home-bound is another layer of the change. I know friends who’ve cleaned their houses top to bottom, and then started over and done it again. Spring cleaning on steroids. Anecdotally, the construction industry in my hometown of Santa Fe is going strong. Remodels, additions, studios and workshops, home gyms. People want to feather their nests.
 
For me, Cancerian crab that I am, staying home is among my greatest pleasures. Writing, eating leftovers, nesting with the cats, reading, playing piano, watching shows, whoopee! Writing and more writing.
 
Not to say it’s all smooth and productive. Nor am I immune to resistance and distractions. But I feel as though circumstances are pushing me towards my dreams as time rushes on with no certainty of a return to normal.
 
I believe the subconscious mind, the hidden shadows of our beings, have emerged to replace outer preoccupations. Even if depressed and lonely, we feel something happening on a deeper level, something changing inside, maybe even something marvelous. The inner goddess is irrepressible. She demands we look for more beauty, more simplicity, more gratitude, more sweetness amidst the horrors and the craziness. 
 
As 2020 creeps to a close, the future looms, and a sense of urgency with it. What will happen when we all go back to normal? Will we be dancing in the streets? Will we return to our old habits? Will our creative endeavors fall away?
 
I doubt it. The inspiration lies within and has taken hold. The outer slowing is like a meditation, the chatter stops, and we can hear. The Muse is us. 
 
From the internet I learned that Isaac Newton invented calculus and discovered gravity during the plague and Shakespeare wrote King Lear. During the 1918 pandemic, TS Eliot wrote the Wasteland, Virginia Wolfe wrote Mrs. Dalloway. Now during the 2020 pandemic, multiple groups of scientists have fast-tracked vaccines, and art has taken on new shapes. Genius and discovery unleashed by the times. Necessity and opportunity meet.
 
For me, it boils down to living out of our metaphorical suitcases. We are traveling a new road. Our heads are up, we’re watching, changing, while around us, the exotic world blooms. We have time and space, focus, quiet, creativity, and urgency.
 
In the this time of Covid, we know grief and are intimate with anxiety. We’ve had time to slow down and contemplate, to be alone with ourselves, to consider our futures, to reinvent them. It’s like a long winter with the promise of the best spring ever. And in that spring, the stories of our unconscious mind will be revealed. These, the deeper, more beautiful truths that our hearts and souls long to share.
 
This is my fervent prayer.

One might think that I’d love July best because it’s my birth month, and it’s high summer, those rare nights in New Mexico when you can sit outside, sleeveless, and let the warm air wrap around you. I love sitting on my back porch as the long nights stretch out, sipping a glass of wine, cool Rosé perhaps, with a chunk of ice, or maybe a lemon drop cocktail with sugar on the rim. The sun has moved to the north, so we can sit on the Adirondack chairs in the shade of our portal. Our salmon cooks on the grill, flowers bloom in my pots, and the garden is green and lush.
 
I do love my birthday, I love celebrating all month as my friends take me out for a dinner, or a picnic and a hike, or a nice chat. Things have changed a bit, though, because my birthday is no longer just about me. My first granddaughter, Sadie, was born the day after my birthday, on the 3rdof July. So far, we’ve always been together for our birthdays, except the first one when I met her a couple of days after she came into the world. 
 
Flying over the fireworks in Philadelphia on the fourth of July, I felt the excitement of coming home, not a family home where I grew up, but to my aunt and uncle’s mansion, where I’d actually have the run of the place for a few days (I could write in an empty room on the third floor, I could play their grand piano) before heading up to New York City to help out with the baby. I was, of course, thrilled about Sadie, and as always, to spend a little time with my son, Gabe, and his dear wife, Holly. That she’d taken the subway to work on a Friday, returned home and gone into labor that night so as not to miss an extra day of work, was rather unthinkable. Strong and determined, perhaps having a say in the fact that Sadie would have her own birthday, rather than having to share mine.
 
As I was riding in the hired car, trying to recognize places in the dark to tell the driver, this turn, no that one, I got a call from Gabe.
 
“Mom,” he said, “come right away.” 
 
“But don’t you want a little bonding time first, like you said? Won’t I be intruding on that?” 
 
“No. We need you now.” In the background I could hear Sadie trying out her new lungs. 
 
Nothing was wrong with the baby, Holly was a good as could be expected, it was just that they didn’t know what to do with an infant in the 103 degree New York heat in their third floor walk-up with a barely functioning air conditioner. Nor did I, really. But I was an extra pair of hands, and another person who loved them above all else. So I rounding up a train ticket the next morning and went up to Manhattan.
 
Now we sometimes celebrate the birthdays with Sadie’s young cousin, Henry, who shares a his special day with the country. Three days of parties, lots of kids, swimming pool, presents, dinners, family, friends, and all that. Wonderful, exhausting, hilarious.
 
I do love July, but no, I would choose May.

I woke up this morning at 5:30 or so, worrying about the cats. We’d had our annual Christmas party the night before—scaled down version—and I’d had to duck out due to a Christmas Cold. Yuck! A neighbor had some NyQuill which my sweet son, Gabe, ran up and got, so I’d had a couple of slugs around 7:30 PM, fell temporarily asleep and woke seconds later to squealing children, a cat (who’d been hiding under the bed and was now walking up and down on my side, purring), and the sounds of Christmas music being played on the piano, plus the memory of two bottles of wine I’d put into the freezer several hours ago, but couldn’t run out and get now because I was in my nightgown.
 
It seems we give the Christmas party whether we plan to or not. My husband gets sand on his truck, buys bags and candles and with the help of the neighbors puts out traditional farolitos and lights them at sundown. A beautiful one, by the way, all pink and purple and lingering blue. We’d scrambled all day to clean up the house and make the enchiladas and posole and beans and guacamole and margaritas. By the time the party started, I’d used up all my energy and was feeling not so good, plus my back (recovering from surgery) was showing signs of stiffness or flu-like soreness. Wah!
 
So many of my beautiful beloveds did not get the invite, and cousins decided to stay clear of our germs. Susana, Linda, Art and Mari, my church community, my wonderful clients and friends, some missing neighbors, all of whom I’d imagined there. Not to mention the absent traveling ones, and those who live elsewhere like Lisa and Paul and Gayle.
 
 However, Gabe and Holly’s friends showed up with Phoebe and Penelope to play with the little granddaughters. The girls seem to have a thing for my post-it notes. They always make signs and stick them up all over the house and to people’s backs with sayings like “You are a stinky butt.”
 
One year, the Church’s first Christmas Eve at the Woman’s Club, I had Rev. Gayle announce from the pulpit that we were having a party and everyone was invited and there’s be plenty of food. Big Mistake! Most of the enchiladas were gone by the time we got back from playing (Paul and I chowdered our duet of What Child is This, I remember the sting of that, or I should say I was the one who chowder it) and people had gotten into my wine rack and were opening better bottles and it was standing room only. I think I ate an Albertson’s Santa Cake and some pinto beans, as that was all that was left.
 
Oh, and I got a rejection this morning via e-mail. “Thank you for submitting ‘Pride’ to our contest. However we received many wonderful submission and you are not a winner.” Good timing San Miguel de Allende writers’ contest!
 
As I surveyed the party wreckage, I realized I had nothing for the stockings for the little girls, no unwrapped Santa presents, and Albertson’s and Wal-Mart were closed so I couldn’t get any trinkets, let alone blue cheese or cold medicine. I didn’t think I’d make it until Christmas dinner despite the expensive wine I’d bought which I wouldn’t get to drink because I was too sick. The house was a mess again, glasses all over the place, half-drunk bottles of wine, salt-rimmed remnants of margaritas, and there were spent fireworks on the back lawn. I was tired, sick, rejected, unprepared, dejected and the clicker was missing, so I couldn’t even watch shows on Amazon. Boo Hoo! Poor Me!
 
I was scrounging around for Stocking Stuffers, wondering if I could make some quick drop cookies with oatmeal and butter and chocolate chips without spreading germs. I was coming up with a few things like cash and marbles and old jewelry, looking around outside for flowers that had escaped the freeze, maybe rocks to paint, or sticks to carve, when Gabe called. He had an information bite: Stocking stuffers in the guest room closet, scooters in the garage next to skis. Then Jim woke up and told me about the bicycle bells in his top drawer. Saved by the bells! Hallelujah!
 
And Dexter was saved too. Locked out overnight, waiting outside the kitty door which the little girls had somehow managed to lock.
 
It’s a beautiful morning, after all. The church bells are ringing at the Cathedral and I’m grateful for life and love. And lucky, oh so lucky with the privilege of our age where we always have more than enough to eat, and Medicare, and friends and beautiful family, with hope for the future. I can work, I can write, I can walk, I can think, I can play music. Oh so lucky!
 
Now where is that forking clicker!

​My housecat, Dexter, and his companion, Rufus, have an enclosed back yard with some kitty-sized openings strategically located so they can run inside the fence, plus a couple of trees that make the roof accessible. They regularly jump from the round picnic table to the lower branches of the tree, to the canale, to the roof. This is their safe zone.
 
Or so we thought, and so they thought.
 
I was about to go out to retrieve the morning newspaper when I saw the bobcat cross the driveway. I knew Jim had already let Dexter out and I didn’t know if the bobcat, the size of a medium dog, would trouble me, so I went back inside. I looked around to make sure Rufus was safe, thinking I’d call Dexter in before the bobcat troubled him, but seconds later, I heard a loud scrambling noise on the roof. I immediately knew what must be happening: the bobcat was after Dexter and both of them were on the roof. Fearing the worst, I yelled for Jim, and he jumped out of bed and ran out front. I could hear him by the paradise tree talking to Dexter, his soft kitty-speak voice, which relieved me a bit. Jim called to me to bring a camera, which I did. And I picked up a rock too.
 
Dexter was hanging backwards onto the tree trunk, facing upward, and the bobcat was on the roof above him, crouched among the leaves, ready to pounce. Jim tossed the rock. Though he missed the bobcat, the distraction gave Dexter his chance to escape. He took off up the driveway, and the big cat stayed put. Later, Jim went up on the roof (with only a broom for protection), but the bobcat was gone.
 
That night, we called and called for Dexter, and Rufus did too, meowing pitifully (as he can so expertly do) for his friend. Finally, we sat on the back porch, in the “safe zone” and had a glass of wine and just talked, as we do most evenings. Rufus sat on the picnic table and watched the darkness gather. Eventually, the one black cat, Rufus, became two black cats. Dexter was home, shaken, but unhurt.
 
This summer, a woman we knew, was struck and killed as she and her husband were crossing a downtown street at dusk. The driver might have been on her phone, or might have been blinded by the setting sun. It’s not really clear, but a life was snuffed out in a random incident. A simple stroll to dinner at a nice restaurant turned deadly.
 
Then we heard that one of our bankers lost his wife in another traffic accident. Perhaps alcohol was involved. About twenty years ago, my cousin, Christopher, was killed by a drunk driver, just two days before Christmas, rendering that holiday eternally sad for his family. And our good friend, Bob, died suddenly one morning driving his truck to work. There was no apparent cause, in that case, no heart attack, no aneurism. He was seemingly untouched. It was just instantaneous and irretrievable. Bob was gone forever.
 
I read the obituaries every morning. I’m looking for someone I know, I suppose, or someone my age or younger. Perhaps the person was famous, or very old; that interests me too. What was the cause of death? Cancer? Accident? Natural causes? Was the person a doctor, or a writer, or an adventurer, or a wife, mother, or grandmother? This I am greedy to know.
 
Our will to live is shared by all creatures on this earth, at least all I’ve met so far. Even insects run away, escaping death by boot-heel. Love of Life is programmed into us, and with it, a passionate survival instinct. As a mother and grandmother, I possess the mama bear gene. I’m constantly guarding against real or imagined dangers that might threaten my beloveds or my pets.
 
When my granddaughter, Gemma, was a newborn, we went to an urban LA park and sat on a blanket enjoying the evening. Sadie was almost three, and she was running around on the grass when suddenly Gabe pointed to a coyote running along the edge of the park not far from us. I jumped up and chased Sadie, grabbed her and picked her up. The coyote, with its survival instinct, might have mistaken the little toddler for food. Later Sadie kept asking me why I was scared of the coyote, why I’d picked her up, what the coyote might do to her. I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t quite tell her that I’d lost a few pet cats to coyotes and that she had been vulnerable. Someday we’ll talk about death, maybe as mine is approaching.
 
We all face random perils, and we all have our lucky moments, just like Dexter did the other morning. Just like I did when modern medicine saved me from bleeding to death after an ectopic pregnancy burst inside me.
 
Predators, disease, cars, a worn out body. One day, it’s simply over. For now, I’m trying to forget that possibility and enjoy the moments until it’s my turn, while luck and intervention do what they can.

The Eclipse
Monday, August 21, 2017, I sat outside on a stuffed pillow on our brick walkway, my back to the sun. It was 40 minutes until the peak of the partial eclipse, and strangely cloudy. We have a yearly average of 300 days of sunshine in Santa Fe, but the sky was covered with thick clouds that midday. I did not have viewing glasses, my husband was at the office, so I, and the two cats, were left to our own devices. I got out two white paper plates, poked a hole in one, held it up to where I thought the sun was and pointed it at the other plate. Nothing. So I made the hole a lot bigger. This obviously did not work, and in fact I was later teased for my lack of understanding of a Camera Obscura. Meanwhile, my son and his family were watching the LA version, peaking about an hour before us, so I got to talk to them as we marked the celestial occasion.
 
When, I positioned my phone in selfie-mode, I got my first glimpse of the moon’s shadow, and the slice of remaining sun. Thrilled and excited, I snapped and snapped, but nothing came out, only clouds with a blurry bright spot. Then the clouds got heavier, it began to get semi-dark, and the birds grew quiet. The cats were hunkered down, watchful. Inside, the house was darkish, and cool, an eerie dusk. It was a quiet reverent moment, bringing the vastness of the universe into focus, overshadowing our small human struggles. Later, I watched lots of footage of the eclipse, people cheering, crying, responding to the magnificent celestial event. I often say a thank-you prayer in such moments, and so I did.
 
Hopefully my young granddaughters felt something too. Hopefully they will remember how they had the morning off from school and how Mama and Daddy were excited about a funny shadow on their deck, and how the world got strange for a few brief moments. They might travel to Texas in 2024 to see the next one, or wait until 2044, when the darkness will cut a swath across northern California and Colorado before heading east.  I may even be alive to witness that one.

​The Hurricane
 
I first heard about Hurricane Harvey at the RV Park where I work on Thursdays. People in the know were headed out of Texas hoping for a camping spot in the dry high desert. We had some rain here that day, our summer monsoons still lingering, and I was hoping that the hurricane would bring us some heavier sustained rain as they sometimes do. I had no idea how catastrophic that wish would be for those in the path of the storm.
 
Friday night, we watched the hurricane on TV. Sunday night we had dinner with some friends from Rice University, in Houston, where we all went to college. They did not seem too worried. They had plans to return home on Tuesday, but the airports were closed, so we saw them again on Thursday. By then, we’d all begun to get news from people we knew: who was flooded and evacuated, who was on high ground.
 
One Houston friend, whose lovely home is situated above a tributary of Buffalo Bayou, carried furniture and art and rare books up to his second story and was eventually evacuated, a few of his treasures intact. Our sister-in-law, Suzie, as befits her nature, was welcoming neighbors into their home in the Memorial Glen neighborhood while the water continued rising. She was evacuated by boat. Jeffery, Jim’s brother had gone to his office to see how it had faired and was stuck there for a couple of days. He was planning to drive as far as he could, and then walk home. I could imagine Jeffery, big and athletic, pushing his way through the waist deep water, before he was turned back. He sent us pictures of the neighborhood where they live. Just down the street, is the family home where the four brothers grew through their teen years, and the old folks stayed on as long as they could. I visited that house on Hermitage Lane so many times, sat outdoors in the yard when it wasn’t too hot, had cookouts, and big family dinners. A nice, safe, family-friendly neighborhood in the heart of Texas—not too far from the bayou.
 
Epic, 1000 year storm, more flooding still to come, cleanup, rescues, and reassessment of options. Not done yet.
 
What fuels our obsession with disaster? What fuels our need to help? The stories from Mattress Mack, to flotillas of private boats, internet organizers, dogs carrying their own food, cats, babies, old ones, rescued in the arms of strangers. Not to mention the 911 responders and public officials working tirelessly to save lives. We witnessed human nature at its best when Mother nature went haywire.  

​Mercury Retrograde
 
Mercury retrograde happens about four times a year. It is a celestial event that occurs when the planet, Mercury, appears to move backwards in relation to the earth. Many people believe that during Mercury retrograde it’s difficult to complete deals, communication is confused, and electronic equipment goes haywire. At our office, we had a computer virus, some troublesome software upgrades, and the network connections got scrambled. Whether I believe that astrology is to blame for any of this, I do like to think Mercury Retrograde can have a positive effect too. Some say it’s a good time to complete old or neglected projects, and so I try to do a lot of revision of old writing projects during Mercury Retrograde. Perhaps “re” is the key here: revise, refinance, review, relate, re-visit, repair, rebuild, retreat, renew. Rescue.
 
From the internet:
 
“Eclipses are generally found to bring about major changes and cleansing in our lives. The Mercury retrograde happening now would cleanse our souls and bring about a mental and emotional make-over … A good time to root out negative thoughts that hinder our development ... helps to identify what is holding back you in life ...”
 
So we, little humans that we are, have another opportunity to make some changes. To rise above the flood waters, instead of sinking into misery. To rescue ourselves or someone else. May there be light in this darkness, as there always seems to be. Let’s open our hearts to each other, acknowledge our common humanity, and don’t forget to reach out a helping hand.
 
God Bless all. Happy Labor Day. Happy fall. Summer brought us treasures and challenges; may the coming season bring us hope.

​I didn’t have cats growing up, just chickens and guppies. The guppies ate their babies, and the chickens eventually met sad ends. My first pet chicken, Peachy, died when his nighttime cage came down on his neck—he was trying to get out for a little more petting which he got every evening at the dinner table. The others, a pair named by my dad Egg (Eager Eagle) and Fuff (fearless Falcon) had to be given away. They caused disturbances in our suburban California neighborhood, crowing and flying over the fence into the neighbors’ yards, and the rooster sometimes attacked guests who came into the back yard wearing bright clothing. Or maybe it was because my dad died and we had to move far away. Egg and Fuff were sent to a nice farm nearby, or at least that’s what I was told. Anyway, that was the last of my pets until I met my future husband, Jim, in college.

Jim and his roommate Larry lived in an upstairs room in Baker college at Rice University. Right before I got involved with Jim, a pregnant cat (named Mama Kitty) moved into their dorm room. Her pregnancy was likely the result of an encounter with Mr. Baker, the un-neutered male cat who wandered around the dorm and the grounds. Mr. Baker had a jowly face, the result of many skirmishes defended his territory as the feline master of the most historic and beautiful of the residential colleges on campus.
We enjoyed Mama Kitty and those kittens while we fell in love, and a year or two afterwards, we moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico and got the first of our own series of cats, a black male we named Kitty. Kitty enjoyed the same free masculine status as Mr. Baker. He had nightly catfights on Johnson Lane where we slept with the screenless windows open in the summer. Often the catfights came inside. I was not too far past the birth of our son, so I when the cats set up a howl in our living room I was jolted awake from much needed sleep. Eventually, Gabe, our newly mobile baby, started crawling after Kitty, catching his tail, lying on top of him, pinning him to the ground, squealing with delight. Kitty didn’t make a fuss about it. I suppose he had accepted his diminished status from Kitty Baby, to just plain bothersome cat.

After we moved to West Manhattan Ave., we adopted Pepper and Mittens. We didn't yet believe in spaying and neutering, so Mittens was impregnated by her brother. Poor Mittens was so hungry during her pregnancy that she once jumped up on the table and licked the frosting off the Easter Cake. Their  kittens were born in  our bedroom closet. Missy, the runt of the litter, stayed with us too. She enjoyed nursing, long after her kittenhood, mainly on Mittens, her mother, but sometimes on Pepper.
When we moved to a new house on Gonzales Rd, Pepper got caught in a car engine and had his leg burned and mangled. He had to go to the vet for some expensive and extensive kitty surgery and a long recovery before he came home again. Mittens ran away that same night, obviously scared off by the trauma in a new and terrifying neighborhood. She showed up two month’s later on West Manhattan Ave., skinny and purring. She had crossed several miles of city, hunting, and finding water where she could, navigating by some magical kitty radar. 

When adopting a cat, we believe in the interview process. We go down to the local animal shelter and take them to the special room to see how they behave. I have been known to respond to cats choosing me, as well. Our smaller cat, Rufus, definitely made a pitch to me every time I walked past his cage.
We got two black cats this time for safety sake. If out at night they are less visible to predators. Our friend, Barbara, Aamodt, a very special nonagenarian, says if she can keep a cat two years, she can keep him twenty. I hope that will be true with our beloved two.
Dexter is big, strong, lithe, and likeable. His companion, though not litter mate, step-brother, Rufus, is easily spooked, runs from most people, except me, whom he adores. He hunts quite well, but is definitely the submissive, and Dexter, the dominant cat. If Rufus is on my lap and Dexter comes anywhere near, Rufus will jump down and slide under the couch. Then Dexter jumps up for his petting.
 We have erected a very nice cat fence around a portion of the back yard with small openings in several places, so the cats can run in and out. I call them in at night to feed them a treat--wet cat food from a can--and lock the kitty door. Then I feel safe to go to sleep, even if I hear a pack of coyotes howling.
However, Jim has confessed that Dexter asks to go out every night, and Jim usually lets him. Dexter is his favorite, after all.
 
You got to love a man who loves a cat.

​Is it real?
 
It seems people fall into several camps on this one. One: Writer’s Block is an excuse for being lazy, so just get busy. Two: Everyone gets to a tough, stuck point once in awhile, so give yourself a little slack, take a break, think about it, then … just get busy. Three: Something real and hidden is going on, like you need a career change or a divorce. Figure it out, change your life, then get busy. Four: You can’t write, because you don’t have anything to say, because you’re not a real writer, or maybe you just plain suck. Advice: Hire a real writer to do the dirty work. Or better yet, just stop writing.
 
The causes are listed as “fear”, “perfectionism”, “bad-timing”, “distractions”, “depression”, “no talent.” I think the problem is often too much self-criticism and self-editing while trying to write a first draft, famously called “a shitty first draft” by Anne Lamott.
 
I fall into the camp of “just get busy.” I know some people, some very good writers, who struggle at times, and some for complicated reasons. My struggle gets closer to the “you just plain suck,” when it’s time to submit to publishers, read aloud, send a draft to a critic or editor. However, in the meantime, I write as much as I can, as fast as I can, as often as I can. Here’s what helps me.
 
Free Writing
 
I’ve done a ton of “Free writing” of one sort or another, and find it, well, freeing. The idea is to just keep scribbling for a set period of time or length, say Julia Cameron’s Morning Pages. Three Pages first thing in the morning, no stopping, no editing. Or Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Practice. Usually done in a café in pairs, scribbling in notebooks for 20 minutes without stopping. Then there’s Tom Bird’s Divine Writer Within. I went to a seminar called “Write Your Bestseller in a Weekend.” This was the ultimate Free Writing exercise. We were crammed together in a room with the special music playing (coyotes howling, subliminal messages beneath the subtle piano) and wrote as fast as we could. We counted our words every twenty minutes, whether in a notebook, or on computer, so before long, we were driven by the desire to write more and more words in an hour. After a two minute counting break, the bell would ding, and we’d be back at it. I regularly wrote 2000 + words an hour, hour after hour, compared to a goal of 1000 words a day, to which I’ve sometimes adhered. Granted, of the 2000 words many were not always in sentences, or did not follow what came before the bell. The tenses and voice changed and shifted, the story jumped around, but what I got was a beginning, a middle, and an end, in short, a 30K word draft of a novel.
 
I believe in free-writing, the editor is mostly left in the dust, and the muse has a chance to shine through.
 
The first time I did free writing was in college, though I didn’t have a name for it then. At exam time, we were given a ruled notebook and a question or two, say comparing a work of Chaucer with one of Shakespeare. We had to hand-write an essay and turn it in to be graded an hour and a half later. I drank coffee back then, and sometimes took no-doz, so I was a little sped-up as I scribbled in my notebook. (Glad to be freed from the tortures of a pre-computerized typewriter, and my inability to type with any accuracy.) Somewhere in the middle, I would come to the nugget for which I’d been searching. There was still time to expand on my idea, tie it up into a final paragraph, and to seek that illusive A, which oddly, though I considered myself a bit of a dullard in those English classes, I earned more often than not.
 
This, I believe, is the essence of free-writing, even regular, on-the-computer writing that breaks through. If you go forward fast enough, without much editing or judging, without a plan or expectation, maybe driven by some kind of deadline or desperation, you eventually come to that nugget. The nugget can be a new plot twist, or a missing character, or a little bit of truth about the human condition, or even some insight into Chaucer. Some people call writing like that, “being in the zone.” I believe the zone is there, and can be accessed on a regular, though slightly unpredictable, basis.
 
One more thing about deadlines. I think often of all my unfinished novels or ideas for novels or novellas, or story collections, and I worry about the ultimate deadline: death. So, just like in English class, I am motivated to get the words and ideas down before that final bell rings.
 
Editing Later
 
Perhaps this post is more about the effectiveness of writing through the block in a free way, rather than the old-fashioned hunt and peck method, with lots of white-out and notes in the margins, or the computer equivalent. There’s plenty of time for editing later. If you have a chance to get something down, do it.
 
I do love editing and rewriting when the page is no longer blank, and I admit to editing while I go, as well, but there usually comes a point when I need to push out those pesky words and revise them later.
 
How good is it?
 
Just like hearing your own signing voice from inside your head, it is sometimes considered impossible to judge your own work. Can you let go of self-judgment? Can you go back and fix mistakes, improve your point-making without saying “I suck, I’d better quit?” My belief is that if you have a calling to do something, give it a go. A calling to creativity is a precious gift.
 
Here’s a quote from one my favorite articles on the subject of writer’s block:
 
“In general, it's a good practice to initially treat all blocks as emotional noise, something you can work your way through. You can work under the assumption that Writer's Block is an imaginary beast, a beast you can banish by writing. At the same time, the rare work stoppages that you can't defeat with enthusiasm and discipline are almost certainly signals that something's amiss in your life, your work habits or your goals. In that case, you'd be wise to work under the assumption that Writer's Block is a real live monster that you ignore at your peril.”
 
By Bruce Holland Rogers, The Writer’s Store.

Back in 1975 it seemed like a good idea to get married in a mountain meadow, even though it was on Indian Land, and we were officially trespassing. We drove up in our open-topped TR4, with its psychedillic dash, followed by a caravan of friends and family. My mother and my Aunt Hellen Dagmar, Uncle Hal and Eleanor, who left my small cousins behind in Philadelphia, Jim’s parents, Anne and John, brother Jerry and his wife Renee, college friends, Lisa and Joe, Santa Fe friends, Bob and Tammy, our roommates, Pam and Larry standing up for us. A few others we’d met at the restaurants where we worked that summer. It was a sunny day, though easily could have rained. We stood under the aspens and our preacher, Jack Gilpin, married us.
 
Jack was nephew of the famous southwest photographer, Laura Gilpin, hence his interest in Santa Fe. Jack wore a beautiful white suit, which soothed my new mother-in-law a bit. She’d first met him on the porch of our communal living house, and he was drinking a beer, and that shook her confidence that we were really getting married after a couple years of sinful cohabitation and her gentle prodding. “When are you going to decide?” Jack was probably not a real minister in her eyes, had she known, but I don’t think we told her. He was an actor, and had a ministerial card from the Universal Life Church. Cost him a dollar. Later, we would see Jack in small roles in popular movies. He played a lawyer, a hostage, etc.
 
We had a carrot cake and vegetarian enchiladas catered by The Golden Temple, a Sikh-owned restaurant on Water Street, and a keg of beer, carried up in Fred’s jeep. After the party, we all camped out in the meadow. Perhaps there were guitars. The grown-ups (I suppose you could call us grown-ups at age 23, but I’m speaking now about the aunts, uncles, and parents) went out to dinner at the Compound, the fanciest restaurant in town.
 
The honeymoon continued via backpacking into the Pecos. Who came with us? I remember Jerry and Renee, Fred, who else? Hard ground, sleeping bags zipped together, friends snoring around us, frigid mountain lake for washing in the morning. Not the most romantic. But hey, those were the communal days, and you might have called us hippies.
 
Still in love after all these years. Happy Anniversary, my darling. 
 

​If I were a painter, I could capture the moment. A young woman, a mother perhaps, perhaps younger, slight, wearing a flowered shirtwaist dress. She is leaning against a fencepost and her feet are hidden by the dry grasses. The perspective is distant, the figure suggested, her dress and hair pulled hard to one side by the wind. She seems to be bracing against the fence, against the sudden gust. She has one hand in her hair, forgetting her skirt.
 
On the other side of the frame, a man sits on a concrete step in front of a dilapidated structure, perhaps an old tool shed. He is long-limbed, lean, wearing blue jeans, a leather jacket, and cowboy boots. He holds his hat, which he was wearing a moment ago, against his long slim legs, stretched out in front of him. A longish piece of his hair, dark with a slight wave, perhaps uncombed, perhaps mussed by the hat, lifts in the wind. He is darkly handsome, a Western man, concentrating, squinting, as he stares at the girl. His gaze is unflinching, razor sharp, penetrating her secrets. His lips part.
 
Enjoy this moment for it catches the essence, the seductive stare, the girl, conscious of being watched. Nothing more passes between them, just the acknowledgement of her prettiness, his desire, her thrill to be seen that way for one brief moment out of an ordinary day of work.
 
Now superimpose the Gas-a-mat on St. Francis Drive, a Subaru, not a fencepost, and Sam Shepard the actor, famous, handsome, knowing it, waiting on the step outside the carwash. The year? Possibly 1986, the windy month of March. I was that young mother holding my hair instead of my skirt while I pumped my gas. He got a glimpse of my stockinged legs, and his lips parted.
 
Sam Shepard, dead at 73 in the summer of 2017. Thanks for the thrill.
 

I recently heard a TED Talk about choosing one new thing to do every day for 30 days. This was a self-improvement exercise. The idea was to pick something simple you’ve always wanted to try, say play the ukulele, and try it out for 15 minutes every day. To further simplify, the month would coincide with the calendar month. Since it’s now the middle of July, I figure I’m off the hook until August 1. I have a few ideas:
 
READ A POEM
 
I should read poetry, I know, I’m a writer after all. People read poems to me all the time and I admire them a lot. But I never seem to get all the way through one of those long ones in the New Yorker by myself. This would definitely improve me.
 
PRACTICE A CLASSICAL PIECE ON THE PIANO
 
How about one of those Chopin Nocturnes I once took a crack at? I’d start out not knowing it much at all, so the playing through might take a very long time at first, and be really really bad. I might get frustrated and it might be hard and it might hurt the ears of those I live with: cats and humans, both. Plus my piano needs tuning.
 
I think I’ll save this one for the winter.
 
TAKE A PHOTOGRAPH
 
My friend, Linda Durham, a discriminating person with an artistic eye, suggests not all the pictures should be “nice.” How about some ugly drying flowers, or bugs, or the inside of my laundry basket? I would, of course, need to post these on my Instagram account. And that means liking a bunch of pictures other people posted so they will like me back.
 
MORNING PAGES OR WRITING PRACTICE
 
Julia Cameron invented Morning Pages—three pages, long-hand first thing in the morning, no self-criticism or editing as you go. Natalie Goldberg invented Writing Practice, kind of the same, only you do it in cafes and any time of the day. The rule is, if the A-bomb goes off, you don’t stop writing. Not even if the waiter comes over to take your order. I’ve done both of these and it certainly keeps the words flowing whether on a personal topic or some fiction backstory. I have notebooks full of these scribblings and have never gotten around to reading any of it, let alone typing it into the computer.
 
TYPE IN MORNING PAGES
 
OK, so I could start sorting through all that crap, and create documents, editing as I type. A lot of work and I promise to do it someday. Or perhaps I’ll just leave these notebooks to my grandchildren.
 
OTHER GOOD HABITS LIKE Exercising, Eating Right, Flossing, Meditating, or Going to bed early
 
OK, I will, later, after the movie’s over.
 
MAYBE A BAD HABIT
 
A could play a game of Spider Solitaire (addictive, can’t play only one), or watch a bad TV show like my 600 Pound Life, or Hoarders, or What Not to Wear. I could eat a bowl of ice cream, or have a martini every day. I could take up smoking.
 
A BLOG A DAY
 
Here’s the one I’m settling on. A bit ambitious, but appeals somehow, as I always was overambitious. I can do it first thing in the morning, or after work in the evening while drinking wine (oh-oh). I could write 30 of them this weekend and then post them one-by-one, or I could dive off the deep end on August 1.  Maybe I could just post a picture, or write a single paragraph by way of simplification.  I could write about the news, my opinions, my dreams, post an old story that never got published. The benefits are many: I would have to give up being so OBSESSIVE about details and perfection. I could get people interested in my blog (maybe). I could become adept at posting, avoiding those typical mistakes that I’ve made before where I replaced my website picture with one of Melania Trump.
 
I would make Art Tucker happy.
 
THE WORRY
 
What if after a few months I picked up all kinds of new habits. What if I felt compelled to do everything every day, as the months built up. Here’s what a Typical day would look like:
 
Get up early
Write morning pages
Type morning pages into computer
Practice Chopin Nocturne
Have a Martini
Play a game of Spider Solitaire, OK play Spider for 2 hours.
Do 5 Salutations to the Sun
Take a selfie of me doing Sun Salutation and post it on Instagram
Browse Instagram for 45 minutes
Have another Martini
Eat some Kale
Eat some Ice Cream
Watch TV
Read a bedtime poem while flossing
Go to bed early