Nine days into GRAPEMO and we're finally up to our first Monday Update! Please private-message me (here on LJ or on FB) or send me an e-mail and briefly tell me what you've accomplished since the start of the month. These will be posted tomorrow by noon.

Note: Even if you haven't made much progress, please send me something so I know you're participating.

Hoping this next writing week ROCKS for all of you!

"One more page...just one more page..."

Reminder: Progress reports for the past week will be due by midnight on Sunday for posting on Monday. I will also be posting a new sticky calender this weekend.

As we near the end of our first week of GRAPEMO, you might be noticing a weird pattern here.

Your writing is brilliant!

OK, not "brilliant." We never think our writing is brilliant. Well, sometimes we do. But that's a secret. We never say it out loud. I shouldn't even be writing this. I might be breaking a rule.

But it's good, really good. Possibly the best writing of your life and you're totally psyched. And yeah, maybe it is brilliant because, hey, it feels brilliant. And you feel brilliant because of this.

YOUR WRITING SHINES. You're in love with your story. You'd almost forgotten how wonderful that is.



Whoops! Then, one day later--or heck, even five minutes, when you hit an unexpected glitch--the shine disappears.

The clouds settle. No, not just clouds. Frickin' Mount St. Helen just exploded, turning everything to molten lava and choking ash.

Your scene, your whole plot, the entire idea-- !!!!!!!??????!!!!!!

And your brain, dammit. WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO YOUR BRAIN?



Repeat after me:  "THIS IS TOTALLY NORMAL."

It happens to all of us. Sometimes it's the Plot Weasel (more on this later this month.) Sometimes it's our environment.

Sometimes it's just...us. Sigh.

Whatever the reason, DO NOT give into it. Take a short break if you have. Or simply sit there and work through it. Don't you dare use it as an excuse to say "I suck. I give up."

THANK YOU ALL for yesterday's TEASERS. Remember, tomorrow's teasers are due by midnight tonight.

The only way to conquer that fear is to fill it in--and remember:

TODAY'S
THURSDAY
TEASERS!

DOODLE DOG
Mialie S

SECRET INGREDIENT
Sher T

RIPPLES
Patti M

BEYOND THE GOLDEN GATE
Akoss

ELCOMPUESTO
kbaccellia

THE CHILD
EMMA

UNTITLED
onegrapeshy

Driving along, beautiful sunny day, windows open, chitchatting with my daughter, Eli in the back seat.

...Driving...

Sniff.

...Driving...

Sniff, sniff.

“Eeww, do you smell that?”

“They must be working on the sewers.”

“It’s disgusting!”

“Maybe they’re laying fertilizer. Look, there’s a truck…”

“Gross!”

...Driving...

"I can still smell it."

“Even Eli smells it. Look, he’s trying to jump out—Eli, get your leg out of the window!”

“Eeww, it’s getting worse—!”

“Well, the truck is turning off...”

"Thank God."

...Driving...

“Mom. MOM! Elijah just shit.”

“What? No! He never does that.”

“He just DID!”

“Oh my God. Oh my GOD.”

“Eew, it's diarrhea. Eew, eew, eewwwww!”

“Eli, stay. Stay where you are. Do—NOT—MOVE!”

“Too late. It’s everywhere.”

“The ONE FRIGGING TIME I don’t cover the seat!”

“Look, he’s scared—he won’t even go near it.”

“I don’t want to go near it!”

...Driving...

"Later we'll probably laugh about this..."

...Driving...

"Okay. Maybe not."

Unexpected deaths leave those left behind not only riddled with with sorrow, but reeling with shock, disbelief, and a sense of unreality. My co-workers and I are coming to grips with the fact that Sharella Thomas, our social worker, and friend--a devoted mother and daughter, beloved fiancee, sister, niece, aunt, cousin, and dear friend of so many--was taken from us so suddenly.

We all miss the click-click-click of Sharella's boots as she'd march into the nurses station, an overwhelming presence dressed to the nines. We miss her throaty, unabashed laughter and sassy attitude. We miss her jokes, her rolling eyes, her sighs of exasperation, that brilliant smile. I remember how she pretended to clunk her head on the desk when I begged her, last minute, for a bus pass for a patient who swore for seven hours he had a reliable ride home. The way she begged me to tell a Certain Demanding Client that she'd gone home for the day and would see him (again!!!) tomorrow--yet later I found her chatting away with him after all, doing her best, as she always did, to put his mind at ease.

There is no rhyme or reason to what happens on this earth. Unlike many people I work with, and certainly the vast majority of those at Sharella's funeral, I don't believe that God takes you when it's your time. That has nothing to do with the strength of my faith, it's simply my own personal belief. I can't open a newspaper and read the headlines and honestly believe that everyone who died that day, whether by accident or murder or other means, died because, as my grandmother would say, "their number was up." To me, it defies logic. Others disagree, and I respect and understand that, knowing the comfort that can bring: That Sharella was summoned, and is now safe in God's embrace.

To me it was simply an unthinkable accident, on the freeway, on her way to work. Now we're all dealing with the fact that the person we spoke with and laughed with one day was, without warning, gone from our lives the next.

Love and prayers to the Thomas and Brown families, and to the countless lives of those whom Sharella touched. Her radiant love will linger forever in our hearts.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
--Mary Elizabeth Frye

Which should tell you something.

My house eats things. It's the ONLY explanation. I mean, how can my earbuds have disappeared when I never take them out of the room? I'd have Eli's stomach X-rayed if I suspected him, but he by far prefers money and paper napkins.

Oh, and I'd sure  like to know what happened to my iPod connector.

And my brown Birkie sandals.

My favorite hoody.

A bottle of onion flakes.

My union contract.

Eli's new rabies tag.

A box of Keurig coffee I was going to take to work.

My brain?

With the rescue of Amanda, Michelle, and Gina last week, the media are stressing the importance of "getting to know" your neighbors.

That's fine, but not always possible. Even if you do get to know them--and people knew Ariel Castro--it doesn't mean you'll discover them holding prisoners in their homes. What, exactly, were his neighbors supposed to do? Demand to search his house? Even his friends and family members, the few times they visited, never insisted on venturing past the designated areas. They respected his boundaries. This is what well-mannered people do.

Yes, I know what the media means: Keep an eye out. Report anything suspicious. Watch out for strangers.

That's all well and good--but, truthfully, I wouldn't know a stranger on my street if I tripped over him on the sidewalk.

Aside from the people who live on either side of us, I don't know my neighbors. It was different when my kids were small and they were playing outside all the time. I kind of knew the moms, and we'd chat a bit, though with one exception we never really became friends. But those kids have grown up and their families have moved away. Now I have no idea who lives in those houses. I am not home in the evening when others are out, if they are out. We have no front porches to sit and chat and watch the goings-on.

Growing up, I knew everyone, and I knew all their stories. My friend C lived two doors down. My grandparents lived next to her. An Italian family lived next to my grandparents; the mom, whose voice could be heard all over the neighborhood, ratted us out whenever C and I did something she didn't approve up. Next to them, a family with two boys: On of them, D, age 7, died a terrible death when a stationary tub fell off the basement wall and landed on his chest. Though I was not allowed to go to the funeral, my grandmother was happy to give me the details: "His chin was purple, all mooshed in..."

Beyond D's house was a bungalow where the neighborhood pedophile lived. Yes, he was. Yes, everyone knew it, most of us from first-hand experience. No, he was never (to my knowledge) arrested for anything. We were simply warned by our parents to stay away from the creep.* He had one eye. To avoid him, I would cross the street on my way home from school. Years later I ran into him at Big Boy. I know he recognized me.

Between my house and C's was A. a family with a bunch of kids, mostly boys, the bullies of the street and the bane of my existence, and B. a childless middle-aged couple who once invited my brother and me over to watch The Wizard of Oz in color (till then I thought the whole movie was in black and white--amazing!) They drove a Cadillac that was almost bigger than our garage. On the other side of us was an older couple with a dog named Fritz that I often played with. Beyond them, a family with two girls I never befriended because, frankly, there were a couple of bitches; I learned a bitter lesson from them, that A.A. isn't at all "anonymous" when one smartly informed me that one of my family members was an alcoholic (as if I didn't know)--something they learned from a family member of their own. When I replied "fuck you" her mother informed my mother. I took my punishment without ever explaining why I said what I'd said.

Those were only the neighbors on my side of the street. Others I knew by sight and often by name. In the days before the Internet and cable TV, people--kids and parents alike--were out there in the neighborhood, visible in their yards, on the sidewalks, visiting with others in the evenings and on weekends. Would any of them, us, have known if someone was being held captive in a basement?

I will always wonder.

*Pedo-guy definitely could've gotten away with it.

Happy Mother's Day, and Happy Birthday to my mom, who would have been 84 years old today.

Yes, my mom, the master manipulator and queen of cliches--and I mean that in the most loving and reverent way. She had her stock responses which, to this day, my siblings and I can recite by rote:

Whenever we messed with something we shouldn’t have messed with: “You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

When we cried longer than deemed absolutely necessary: “Do you want me to give you something to cry about?”

When we asked what unidentifiable food was sitting on our plate: “Arsenic. Eat it.” If we declined she'd remind us of all the "starving kids in Europe." Always Europe. Never China. (Warning: Do not offer to send it them...)

When responding to noises in another room: “Whatever you’re doing in there, cut it out!” (Warning: Do not say "snip, snip!")

When things didn’t work out because we didn’t follow directions: “Well, that’s what you get!”

When we tried to do X and she didn’t agree: “If you think you’re doing X, you’ve got another think coming!” If we argued about it, she'd demand to know if we were “out of skull” and then suggest, “You need to get your head examined.” If we continued to persist, she'd throw up her hand and say "Fine! Do what you want!" which meant we sure as hell better NOT do what we wanted if we planned to live long enough to celebrate our next birthdays.

When my sister and I got a bit too big for our britches: “Who do you think you are, the Queen of England?” (Word to the wise: Do NOT answer "yes" to this question, nor infer that you're merely Princess Anne...)

When we said “So what?” she’d snark back: “Sew buttons on your pants.”

When something in general simply didn't work out: "Well, that's the end of that."

When we misbehaved she'd threaten to “send you to Jones Home.” Yes, there really was a Jones Home for wayward children. Once she went far enough to pack my suitcase. I was traumatized into my best behavior for weeks. Years, actually.

When we fought we were warned to “Keep you mitts to yourselves.” Always mitts. Never hands.

When we refused to do something, she'd say “All right for you” in a very hurt tone, which usually made us give in. Of course her ultimate guilt trip was “One of these days I’ll be dead and THEN you’ll be sorry."

Yeah, she was right about that one.

Funny how the things that annoyed you most about a person, you look back on with fondness once they’re no longer with you. The way she freely called females “broads” and “dames” in the midst of the women’s lib revolution. How, when we asked for funds for something special, she insisted she wasn’t “made of money”; then, when we protested that all our friends were going, she’d then ask if we’d planned to join them on their trip off the bridge.

Yes, she was tight with a dollar; as adults, if we encouraged her buy something for herself or take a vacation, she’d insist she needed that “like I need another hole in my head.”

She loved Sam Hill, whoever he was, and often invoked his name, as in “What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?”

She loved Ricardo Montalban, coyly confiding that he was free to “put his shoes under my bed any day of the week” and Shirley Temple--"They sure don't make 'em like that anymore."

She loved animals; our house was never without at least one cat and one dog, and often more than one of each. She’d build bird and squirrel feeders (along with shrines to St. Francis in every backyard she owned) to ensure that no critter went hungry over the winter. She rescued baby birds and nursed them back to health, and fostered dogs; one of my earlier memories is of Daisy, an Old English sheepdog, licking my face. I probably wasn’t more than three years old at the time.

It was my mom who introduced to me to the magic of the public library, starting with the Little House series when I was seven. She loved to write; I think, in another time, under different circumstances, she might’ve become a writer herself. She loved music and played the piano. Blessed with a beautiful singing voice, she once recorded the song “Always” for my dad. If something struck her as funny, she'd laugh and laugh and laugh till, quite literally out of air, she actually wheezed--which of course made everyone around her laugh harder.

She wasn't a perfect mother by a long shot. Then again, she didn't have perfect parents herself. She did not have a perfect husband. She didn't have perfect children. My home life was often an unbearable train wreck; as a depressed, introverted kid I'd agonize over this, convinced that NO one had a family more F'ed up than mine. Only as an adult did I realize how far from the truth that was.

My mom was never one to discuss personal feelings. Once, not long before she died, I tried to talk out some of the issues of my childhood. I'd wanted to understand, to explore, blah, blah--or so I'd convinced myself at the time. Maybe, being selfish and self-centered and dealing my own load of baggage, I'd simply wanted to confront her. When I questioned her parenting skills, my mother grew rigid, looked me straight in the eye, and said, tearfully, "I did the best I could."

I was so ashamed.

Though my mom didn't live long enough for my own children to know her, they "heard" her every day whenever I opened my mouth: "Are you outta your skull?" "Get your mitts off that!" "You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?" "Sew buttons on your pants!" And, best of all, "Arsenic--EAT IT," an expression even my husband occasionally blurts out.

What is my mother's first greatest gift to me? My children. I see her whenever I look into my son's eyes. I hear her whenever my daughter exclaims over an animal in need.

Her next best gift is the gift of serenity. With every year that passes, my appreciation for my mother grows and flourishes. I understand her now. Though I need her less, it's like I want her back more if only for more time to get to know her better. Love is a tenuous thread that can either be broken or knotted. Mothers tie the knots. Children, even as adults, try to jerk them free. With her strained words--"I did the best I could"--she instantly stopped me from ripping that thread.

Manipulation? Maybe.

Well, thank God it worked. No, I am not defined by my past. I can see beyond the bad and continue to be grateful, eternally grateful, for all of the good things that fill my life. My mother was part of it.

All these years later, when I gather with my family and we talk about my mom, about her expressions and goofy habits and idiosyncrasies, and how my sister and I are so much like her ("No, you are!" "No, you are!")...it's absolutely true:

I laugh and laugh and laugh till I wheeze.

1. Well, I already ranted on FB about the local media's treatment of the recently-found Cleveland girls, so I won't bore you with that other than to say, in a nutshell, enough is enough.

2. Tomorrow sweet Corey will be making his First Communion!



Luckily I got someone to work for me so I'll be able to attend. :)

3. I really need a place to write. I used to have a place to write: A little room all to myself. Then one day my darling son showed up with 10 tons of computer parts and *poof*--there went my room. My desk. My chair. Everything. Seriously, MY OWN SON STOLE MY OFFICE. I'm like, "Dude, WHA--???" True, I wasn't using it at the time because we'd had that flood and the room was trashed--but still. Since then I've been writing at the kitchen table or on my lap in the living room. I need a desk, a private cubby, but there's none to be had in this house. *whine*

4. I guess when you start tracking dirt from your house outside, it's definitely time to mop your floor.

5. Eli is not afraid of foxes. The foxes are not afraid of Eli. Is that because they know there's a fence between them? Eli stands there and barks--and it's a very different bark, neither his "Git off my property, you bastard!" bark nor his "Hey, let's play!" bark--while the fox simply stares at him a curious expression. Sometimes they're only 15 to 30 feet apart. These gorgeous critters (there are several) seem to be quite comfortable in this neighborhood, which is weird. I do not live in the country, just a typical suburb.

Yes,
spring
is
here...



...and I'm lazier than this cat.

To do list:

1. Clean
2. Write
3. Clean
4. Write
5. CleanWriteCleanWriteCleanWriteCleanWrite...........

What I want to know is: WHAT TOOK THEM 4 DAYS TO COME BACK WITH A VERDICT?

Can I just say how thrilled I am that this circus is over? I'm so tired of seeing her superior smirk whenever I turn on the TV. Admit it: There's NO ESCAPE! Oy, all that phoney boo-hooing? Even when they read the verdict today, and her poor sweet face crumbled like a graham cracker under your shoe, there wasn't--as usual--a single tear to be seen.

Yes, I'm an avid true crime fan. I'd say it's my morbid little secret, but seriously, it's no secret. I'm addicted to the shows. I follow most of the major trials. I pray I'm reincarnated as Ann Rule one day. But I found this unbearable, primarily for 3 reasons:

1) Did we really need to hear all that sex stuff? Really? REALLY? I mean, after 2 or 3 weeks, we got the gist, okay?

2) It monopolized the late night news shows when there were so many other things going on. Things that did not involve Jodi Arias.

(Jodi: "What? I'm not important?!?")

3). They put her on the stand.

Seriously. Her "brilliant" lawyer PUT HER ON THE FREAKIN' STAND. And kept her on the stand for what felt like two years and let her simper and yammer, and fake-boo-hoo, and do that irritating smirk thing, and flounce and aaaargue and, oh, did I mention LIE her sociopathic, borderline, entitled little tush off? Now watch her claim inadequate/incompetent counsel and demand a new trial.

Guess what? She'll probably get it. And not take the stand.

Bye-bye for now, Jodi. By the way, Toots, if you think jail is bad--

3/28/13 HLN News/Jane Velez Mitchell: "Reports claim that Jodi Arias and other inmates only eat 2 meals a day and sometimes those meals are more than 12 hours apart.  A friend of the Arias family says that Jodi Arias is woken up in the middle of the night.  Wednesday Jodi Arias brought the trial to a halt complaining of migraines."

--wait till you get to you-know-where.

It happened in the very neighborhood that used to be own.

In 2002, Michelle Knight, 20, disappeared after visiting her cousin. One year later, Amanda Berry, 16, never returned home after her shift at a local Burger King. In 2004, 14-year-old Gina DeJesus vanished on her way from school. The abductions happened all in the same area, two on the same block. By now everyone has heard the joyous news that Michelle, Amanda, and Gina have been found—unbelievably, only several miles away from where they originally were taken.


     Amanda Berry and Gina DeJesus

For a good part of my childhood, I lived in that neighborhood and attended the same elementary school as Gina, though of course many years earlier. At that time it was a cozy, mostly white, working-class neighborhood with a small Hispanic population. Some areas were shabby and somewhat questionable; others were meticulously cared for, bordering on gracious.

Though it seems impossible by today’s standards, I walked to school from kindergarten on. Starting in first grade, this meant I also had to come for lunch, which entailed crossing two four-lane streets (W. 105th and West Boulevard) by myself. Being a lollygagger and a daydreamer, I often arrived home for lunch precisely in time for me to turn right around and head back to school.

It was a neighborhood where people watched out for each other’s children—not only to keep them safe, but to rat them out to their parents if they were, oh, say, running on lawns or teasing dogs or throwing rocks at windows of abandoned buildings, Trust me, you got away with nothing in those days. While we swam at Sunrise in the summer, skated at the old Rollercade on Denison Avenue, and hung out at the playground at Wilbur Wright Junior High--all without any parental supervision--the ghost of Beverly Potts hovered over all of us.

No way could you grow up on the west side of Cleveland and not know about Beverly, who disappeared on her way home from Halloran Park back in 1951.



The warnings given to us by our parents, “Don’t talk to strangers” and “Don’t get into a car with someone you don’t know” were often supplemented with, “You don’t want to end up like Beverly Potts.” Hers was a cautionary tale we took very seriously because, back in those days, kids (or so it seemed) simply didn’t vanish into thin air. If they were kidnapped and murdered, their bodies were found. Beverly’s disappearance remains a mystery to this day.

While my old neighborhood has grown tougher and shabbier over the years, the makeup of this area has little to do with what happened to Gina, Michelle, and Amanda. As in the Jaycee Dugard case, these girls, now young women—one with a child—were kidnapped and held captive for years by a man who can only be best described as a monster. How eerie is it that this scumbag Ariel Castro (whose two brothers have also been arrested) passed as a "regular" guy, school bus driver of all things, who barbequed with his neighbors, played the bass guitar in local haunts, and even friended a relative of Gina on Facebook?

How bizarre is it that his very own son wrote a newspaper article about Gina's disappearance without suspecting his father was involved?

How is it possible that these girls were imprisoned for a decade and more, and nobody knew? Nobody suspected?

“Watch who your neighbor is, because you never know,” said Sandra Ruiz, Gina’s aunt, on Fox 8 News this morning.

It’s so terrifying that she’s right: You never know.

“If you don’t believe in miracles,” she added, “I suggest you think again.”

Gina and Amanda’s families never gave up hope. They regularly held vigils. They kept their loved ones’ names in the local and often national news. They appeared on TV shows like America’s Most Wanted and Oprah. To this day you can’t walk down Lorain Avenue without seeing the faces of these girls taped to windows and telephone poles. Thankfully Amanda had the courage to break free at last, and God bless Charles Ramsey, the neighbor who raced to her aid.

“Sisterhood…” Sandra Ruiz’s single word broke my heart. “What we did in ten years is nothing compared to what those women did to survive.”

Please keep them all in your prayers.

Well, I got a chuckle out of this:

Teacher Buys Student "50 Shades of Grey" and Ticks off Mom.

Maybe it wasn't a chuckle. Maybe more of a snort.

In a nutshell, a teacher (I assume he's an English teacher) bought this book for a ninth-grade male student. The book was on the kid's "wish list." I have no idea why the teacher bought the book, which seems to be what everyone is objecting to. No teacher ever bought me book, but...whatever.

Disclaimer: I haven't read the book myself. I don't read erotica. But you'd have to LIVE UNDER A FREAKING ROCK to not know what this book is about. The teacher claims ignorance. Seriously? For his stupidity alone the man should be fired.

My reading material was never censored by my parents. I still remember one teacher's horrified reaction when he saw me carrying around Valley of the Dolls. That was pretty racy stuff back in those days. Still, no teacher gave me a copy--I got it from the library, which this young man could just as easily have done, or purchased it himself from a local bookstore.

If kids want to read something, particularly a book that's gotten so much publicity (again, funny the KID knew about the book, but not the teacher) they'll find a way. I'm more concerned about the questionable character of this teacher who is highly educated and teaching English to children, yet insists he had no clue was what Fifty Shades was about. The man admitted he went online and ordered it with his own money. Did he see NOTHING ELSE about this book on the Internet? Did he even read the description?

1. Not cool to leave your credit card sitting on a cash register at 1230 a.m. I didn't miss it till the next day when I stopped at the drug store to buy TP of all things. Luckily I learned someone had  turned it in--but not before I had a major freakout.

2. I just tried to read a novel that started in 1911-ish...then proceeded to jumped back and forth between 2005, 1975, 1913, 2005, 1903, 1913, 2005, the seventies, etc. I managed to stick with it when it only involved two main characters. When a third was introduced, and stories-within-a-story were added, I almost threw it across the room. I refrained. It's a borrowed book.

3. Sunday is Orthodox Easter (or "Kosher" Easter as Grandma calls it.) I'm also church-hopping again, so I'll be visiting a new one that day.


       "OMG! That's Jen! In CHURCH!"

4. I'm guessing paper towels/napkins/etc. are perfectly digestible since Eli's been eating them on a regular basis. Paper currency he simply shreds.

5. I hope everyone has a great weekend!

Kim Reed, voiceover in PRODIGAL SONS: "My brother had been in the hospital for a week and I went to visit him. It's weird to visit your brother in a mental hospital.. And, being transgender, I was technically more mentally ill than he was. Marc didn't have a diagnosis yet, but officially I did. I'd experienced so much frustration with the body I was born into, but I always knew I could rely on my mind. Now Marc was losing his."



This film is so much more than what I expected, i.e. a transgendered woman returning to her hometown in Montana (from New York) for the first time since her transition. Though her family and friends are surprisingly (and touchingly) accepting, she has to deal with her adoptive brother who suffers from a traumatic brain injury and severe, often dangerous mood swings, several of which disturbingly appear on screen. Also, though Kim initially appears to have made peace with herself, it becomes evident later on that she's never fully dealt with the ghost of the person she used to be. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED! Available on Netflix.

Amazon description: Returning home to a small town in Montana for her high school reunion, filmmaker Kimberly Reed hopes for reconciliation with her long-estranged adopted brother, Marc. But along the way she uncovers stunning revelations, including Marc's blood relationship with Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth, intense sibling rivalries and unforeseeable twists of plot and gender that forces them to face challenges no one could imagine.

Winner of Thessaloniki Documentary Film Festival's FIPRESCI prize, Jury Award for Best Documentary at Newfest, and Special Jury Prizes for Bravery in Filmmaking at the Florida and Nashville Film Festivals, Prodigal Sons is a raw and provocative examination of one family's struggle to come to terms with its past and present.

Happy Birthday to GRANDMA:



Have I mentioned she's a maniac? Yes, she's a maniac. Also, quite talented: She can burp on command! Not just your ordinary burp--a long, earsplitting, drawn-out belch that instantly makes you check the front of your shirt. In her ultimate wisdom, she taught her grandson to do the same. He took advantage of that and would speak in "burps" when he was small rather than answering my questions. Um, I think he still does that...

When she laughs, it's a loud, hearty belly laugh that can be heard down the halls of her nursing home. She tools around with a wheeled walker decorated with stuffed animals and Hawaiian leis, stopping to chat with long-time residents and nurses whose names she can no longer remember. She flirts with the EMTS who pass through to cart off her neighbors ("Hmm, that one's cute!"). Though she can't tell you what she had for dinner five minutes ago, she knows exactly what time they serve ice cream on every unit.


"This is MY hamburger. DON'T TOUCH IT!"

With Grandma now in the moderate stages of Alzheimers, our conversations are circular--stuck in "The Loop" as Beth calls it. Little hints every now and then warn us that, sadly, if she does live to be 100 as she so often threatens us, she may not recognize us anymore. After her last trip to the hospital she briefly forgot my name. When Nate visited her the other day, without the rest of the family around as a cue, she continuously asked him, "How's Nate?" She obviously identified him as part of the family. But something was missing.

We are prepared. In the meantime, though, we are truly blessed to have her.

HAMMING IT UP!

Yeah, so, I haven't blogged much for the month of April. Initially my excuse was because I needed to revise. Then I received additional feedback on my LMB synopsis, so I worked on that (sporadically) and pretty much ignored my other project.

I've officially declared April SLUMP MONTH for me. My concentration sucked. I was distracted by so many things in the news (including the Boston bombers, several sensational local homicides, and a very bitter school strike) that I found it impossible to tear myself away from the stories, the blogs, and the message boards.

Adderall, anyone?

I supposed everyone deserves a few weeks of playtime now and then. But for someone who generally has a stick-to-it attitude, I disappointed myself. I claim writers don't have the luxury of waiting to "be in the mood" to write, and yet I'm the one who used this same excuse all month: "I'm not in the mood. Wahhhhh!"



Anyway...though a revised-revised-revised synopsis wasn't on the menu for April, that is done.

May goals: Continue to revise Berta project while feedback on LMB project is pending.

AND BLOG, for pete's sake. One note a day for the month of May. Pinkie promise.

I do plan to blog one of these days...

Sigh.

Kindle special today! THE UNQUIET is available today for $2.99.

THE UNQUIET on Kindle

I had the honor of speaking to a group of teens at Hubbard Public Library yesterday. I shared with them one of my bullying experiences (Mr. F? Are you listening?) and how my love for writing helped me get through it. These kids were amazing--smart, outspoken, attentive, funny.

(Got the "mom finger" going on here...)

Beautiful kids of Hubbard, thank you so much for sharing your time with me.