Category: Creative Writing

Survivors

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She’s survived another summer in the Valley of the Sun. Living life on the lam.

Climbing walls and trees. Stalking birds, lizards, and rodents. Dodging haboobs, monsoons, and ICE agents. Ducking in and out of covered patios … sleeping on weathered blue cushions melting into wicker chairs outside our front door.

Poly is her given name. Given by me to her. No doubt, she has other assumed names from other presumed cat lovers in our Polynesian Paradise condo community.

I hardly consider her a stray anymore, because we are three years into our relationship … our parlor game of fancy treats followed by quick goodbyes.

In 2022, she wouldn’t get close enough to touch. Tom and I left kibble outside our door in the same chipped dish you see here. She ate quickly, then darted off … back into her Sonoran neverland.

But in 2025 we have reached a deeper level of closeness, intimacy, love perhaps. Maybe she’s been reading the news and needs comforting. I know I do.

Every morning around 6, Tom or I open the security door and look for her. Nine out of ten days, she hops down from that day’s pre-selected chair, meows as she glides and stretches on the mat in our foyer.

She trails around our legs, marks our shoes and furniture with the scent of her furry face, and shimmies up and down as Tom or I (we take turns) prepare her dish of Sheba cuts in gravy with sustainable salmon.

The frequency and volume of meows increase as the dish comes close to the floor. Poly purrs loudly, then polishes that off in less than a minute. Her eyes sparkle with gratitude.

Lately, she’s been staying longer after her meal. Sometimes returning later in the morning or evening for a second round of treats. Dry savory salmon-flavor Temptations for the cat that deserves the best.

On September 1, at 11:13 a.m., Poly allowed me to sit on the floor and give her love. I patted her head, back, and tail as we talked about her morning … our day.

Then, I placed brunch before her and captured this kitty-calendar portrait of Poly, our cagey Sonoran friend, modeling in the kitchen on our new, natural oak flooring.

After she consumed her meal and licked her paws, she glided and sniffed through our bedroom, den, and sunroom.

Poly then departed through the front door, left ajar for her safe departure (she is a free spirit, after all!) back into the wild of intense sun, hissing sprinklers, spiky cacti, and random critters (animals and humans) … all of us living each day, giving and taking what we can, embracing or deflecting each moment as it comes.

Because that is what survivors do.

Prosperity

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Photo by Chris F on Pexels.com

Jeremy’s Scottsdale boutique—southwestern decor and inspirational gifts staged under a vaulted ceiling—survived the pandemic. Barely.

Ten thousand stimulus dollars and the generosity of two tanned-and-moneyed benefactors kept his business afloat.

By August 2025, the store’s cycles—busy mild winters; slow sizzling summers—felt normal again. Jeremy did not.

Like the discarded sneaker he passed on the shoulder of Hayden Road heading to work that morning, Jeremy had no mate. At thirty-seven, he felt alone in his fortunate life.

At four p.m., Jeremy wrapped a batik hummingbird plaque for a browsing customer flowing in lavender linen.

As she left, he decided to close early, gathered artsy pillows—Serenity, Tranquility, and Prosperity inscribed in cursive—closed horizontal blinds, and shut off the lights and ceiling fans.

After he adjusted his visor, locked the door, walked to his parking space, and tossed his cushions next to his golf clubs in the backseat of his SUV, Jeremy drove north toward the freshly painted apricot walls of his north Scottsdale condo.

Fifty yards ahead on the shoulder of the road, Nate—a forlorn figure limping in worn flipflops and sporting a ragged, sleeveless Phoenix Suns jersey—caught Jeremy’s attention.

In the dusty desert breeze, Nate balanced a crumpled plea, “Just a Meal,” scribbled on cardboard in black marker.

A stream of drivers rode by. Jeremy did not.

He pressed a button to lower the passenger-side window and applied his brakes.

“Get outta the heat. I’ll spring for a meal,” Jeremy offered.

“Uh … okay,” Nate reached for his tattered suitcase, climbed into the air-conditioned silver interior, and wedged his bag between his knees.

Nate’s weary smile and scrawny build fooled Jeremy momentarily. He imagined his brother David had resurfaced as a ghostly hologram.

“You remind me of …” Jeremy steered through a construction zone “… someone I knew who vanished during Covid.”

Defeated at twenty-nine, Nate conceded “I’ve got my own pitiful story.”

“No judgements here.” Jeremy dodged Nate’s revelation. “Burger and fries?” They approached a drive-up window.

“Bottle of water too.” Nate craved cool liquid to soothe his blistered lips and parched throat.

Jeremy placed their order, paid a rumpled attendant, and edged forward. Another uniformed teen leaned out to hand the food and water to Jeremy. He passed them to Nate.

“Social services could help you,” Jeremy nudged.

“They’re invisible. Just like me,” Nate snapped. He tightened his grip on the sack that held his meal. “Let me out here.”

“Wait. Take one of these,” Jeremy pulled over abruptly. He reached into the backseat and tossed Prosperity in Nate’s direction. “They aren’t selling anyway. Stop by my shop … Daydreamers on Fifth Avenue. I’ll help you find a job.”

Nate paused to consider Jeremy’s offer, shielded his eyes, juggled his dinner, jammed Prosperity into his zipper-less bag next to his single sneaker, and stepped to the curb.

In the cocoon of his aloneness, Jeremy sighed. He closed the passenger door, eased into the right lane, and headed home.

In This July

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Wednesday night–in this July–actual raindrops fell from the Arizona sky. They pinged–hypnotic, soothing, and steady–on the roof of our metal carport.

Our mini monsoon was enough to wash away the dust and scrub the air, but not Thursday’s dastardly news of puffy politicians selling unfortunate souls down the river.

Away from the madness, Poly found a dry patch of concrete beyond the storm and platitudes. She rolled side to side, then flicked her tail, as if to say:

“I may be a stray, but I’m not stupid. I know how to get by. I know when to stop by your door. When to come in out the heat. Stick with me. You and I are survivors in this and every July.”

Seven

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I began this blogging odyssey seven years ago today. That’s longer than I stayed in all but one of my jobs during my communication career, and the most obvious measure I can think of to show and tell you how important this is to me.

The crux of it is this. I continue to write here and trade comments with you, because it is the best way I know to express my individual voice at a malignant time in our country. I don’t want our voices to be denied.

But, from a purely literary standpoint, I write and publish my thoughts at least once a week to keep me sharp and centered–despite the rust that has gathered around my edges.

Tom and I gave this angel to my mother many Mays ago when she lived in Winfield, Illinois. It anchored the container garden on her balcony patio.

I remember how much she loved it.

When we moved to Arizona in 2017–four years after she passed–I knew I had to bring it west with us. I knew it needed to adorn our patio in Scottsdale.

So, the angel and her companion bird rest there on this Sunday morning … blowing wishes into the universe and hoping for a better day tomorrow.

Thank you for being my companion on this long-and-winding road.

Ode to April

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April exits stage left,

bidding adieu, waving her

Sonoran brush of trade winds

and soft apricot. They dance

down walls to touch natural oak,

warming, welcoming, watching

every moment of our lives.

Outside, hours before midnight,

cottonwood trees sway.

They whisper of mad

May days to come,

while we will find comfort

in what we can control,

who we greet with love,

even as we ponder what

western treasures to

embrace and behold

in the desert lodge

of our Arizona abode.

Our beloved Brokeback Mountain poster–which Tom and I purchased in Evanston, Illinois, more than fifteen years ago–leans against one of our Scottsdale walls. It waits to see which wall it will grace in our newly remodeled condo.

Hang On

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In the course of any life–whether you are a woodpecker, hummingbird or a species without wings–sometimes the best you can do is to find nourishment where you can … and just hang on.

Destination Unknown

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I was about to embark on a journey. But not remotely ready. Nonetheless, I was expected to begin Day One of a new job, in uniform as a United Airlines flight attendant.

A crowd of other newbies gathered around me. We lined up to have our security photos taken by a young, rather handsome cameraman with a large head. He teetered on a tiny chair with his knees protruding beyond his elbows.

When it came to be my turn, the blond figure told me to stand on an X marked on the floor. Then, he stood to reveal his true height.

His elongated body stretched for nearly eight feet before he snapped my photograph and disappeared behind a funhouse mirror.

A primitive machine spit out my image, but I don’t remember receiving my security credentials.

About this time, my husband appeared on the other side of a window that contained a metal tray below. He told me he wanted to slide cash to me under the glass. He thought I might need it on my journey. He said he would meet me on the other side. I felt disoriented and dismayed.

Moments later, I found myself standing in front of a harried female administrative assistant. She sat behind an old desk with stacks of papers and files surrounding her. She worked for United. She told me I needed to board my first flight in about thirty minutes, but that my hair was unkempt.

As she handed me a boarding pass, she spieled off a list of complicated directions that would lead me to a trusted stylist in the terminal. She insisted there was time to accomplish this necessary task, though I would need to run to catch my flight.

I felt anxious. Unprepared for my journey. Unsure of the safety protocols. Disturbed that the length of my hair was causing me trouble. Lost in a once-familiar Chicago terminal that was now foreign to me.

That’s when I woke up.

Photo by Keith Lobo on Pexels.com

Keep On Swimming

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This hollow ache persists

with every desperate breath,

every tear-stained cheek,

every filthy promise,

every shattered dream,

every shady severance.

As sorry, shallow sands

erode under our bare feet

and wash away at sea

with this tidal wave

of falsities and regrets,

we must link arms,

preserve those struggling

to tread treacherous waters,

and resolve together

to fight these shark attacks,

to keep on swimming.

Photo by Emiliano Arano on Pexels.com

Wrist-banding Together

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When you’re living through a full-blown constitutional crisis–and feeling vulnerable–you need to find ways of coping and caring for the ones you love.

So, I bought two of these beaded rainbow wristbands from the Human Rights Campaign for Tom and me to wear.

We are wrist-banding together.

This is a symbolic gesture. I want the world to know that this gay couple isn’t going anywhere, though it is a period in the United States where some would prefer that those of us who are different would go away.

But I–we–remain visible.

As I write this blogpost, I realize it is number 500 … a true milestone for any writer.

When I began blogging in May 2018, I had no illusions of where it might lead.

I simply wanted to give my books and literary voice more room to grow, more visibility.

For that reason, I suppose it is fitting that today I choose to write about my gay identity and continue to exercise personal aspects of my voice … visibly.

In many respects, the life my husband and I lead is not all that different from any couple.

We shop for groceries together. Go to the gym together. Enjoy quiet moments and meals together. Love and nurture each other.

We do our best to support each other and our family members during highs and lows.

We spend time with our friends. They are young and old, straight and gay, black and white.

We love and respect them, and they love and respect us.

I think it’s accurate to say this about our friends: we enrich each other’s lives, no matter our skin color, religious beliefs, cultural perspectives, gender identities, or sexual orientations.

It is a personal jolt to realize–and read on trusted news sources each day–that our differences are under attack and being eroded in my home country … the country I still love.

I don’t think I’m depressed. But I am definitely sad and angry. Definitely grieving. Me and a boatload of others of all backgrounds and persuasions.

There are times when I want to scream from the top of a mountain. “This is my country, too. How dare you try to take that away from me!” But then I wonder, “Is anybody listening?”

So, I bring this here, instead and I type these words in blogpost number 500.

At any rate, thank you for joining me–possibly even enduring me at times–on this blogging journey since May 2018.

As long as I continue to feel I have something important and relevant to say (to shed light on the topics of the day … to celebrate a literary success or the latest Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus performance … to pay tribute to those I love … to tell a funny story about our stray cat Poly … to observe and honor the beauty of nature … to share a vivid, meaningful memory about my childhood … or to pen a poem that is in need of artistic space and oxygen) you will find me here.

I hope you have been informed or entertained and will continue to tag along with me on this organic literary odyssey, wherever it may lead.

As I walked the treadmill at the gym this morning–on Abraham Lincoln’s two-hundred-sixteenth birthday–a weird, dark, and discomforting question swirled through my brain.

What if we–all the diverse people in this country, all the people of color, all the LGBTQ folks–were gone?

That fearful quandary led me to write this poem.

****

If We Were Gone

If we were gone,

you would miss

our minds, our hearts,

our beauty, our tenacity,

our sensitivity,

our sensibility,

our kindness, our love,

our compassion, our humor,

our leadership, our style,

our guidance, our wisdom,

our friendship, our support,

our joy, our pain, our truth,

our sun, our moon, our stars,

our books, our movies,

our artistry,

our contributions,

our serendipitous stories.

But, most of all, you

would miss us.

You would miss

the clarity and

strength of our

distinctive lives

and beautiful voices.

That would be

the greatest loss of all.

Write a Memoir, Read a Memoir

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It’s a beautiful Friday in Scottsdale, Arizona. The weather is sunny and mild–warm enough for me to swim laps outside a few hours ago–and my brain is firing creatively.

I’m preparing to lead my next memoir writing workshop later this month at the Scottsdale Public Library (Mustang location).

I expect a dozen aspiring writers will file into a large conference room on January 17 for session #1.

I will welcome them with a smile and a commitment to prompt and guide them as they move ahead on their memoir writing journeys.

It will be a free-and-safe space to begin to dislodge vivid memories, write a few pages, share respectful feedback across a table with other writers, develop a writing practice, and (hopefully) leave on the last day (January 31) with a little momentum to tell their stories.

I know how much work, time, and commitment is required to make it happen. But when you are a writer, it’s worth it. It’s what you are meant to do.

You tell stories of all kinds. Simple. Complicated. Painful. Joyful. Unbelievable true-and-false stories.

The best memoirs are filled with emotional and sensory details: visuals, smells, tastes, sounds, personal touches.

I think that is one of my strong suits … not only telling but showing readers the story, so that they must keep reading to find out what happens at the end of the story.

It’s rather like sitting with a friend in front of a cozy fireplace. That is what I will tell my workshop attendees to imagine as they begin to write their memoirs.

I don’t think you need to be famous to write a great memoir. It’s really the story that must be compelling, not the namedropping that some celebrities like to smear over every page.

You simply must be authentic and artful in the way you approach your story–whether it’s a story of love and loss, transformation, redemption, survival, success, or a recollection of a vivid place, time or person that makes your heart swell.

In addition to writing memoirs (somehow, I’ve written and published four since 2016) and encouraging others to bring their stories to the page, I enjoy reading memoirs.

January is a good time of year to assemble a recommended reading list.

Here are ten memoirs (written by famous and ordinary people) I have read over the past ten years that have moved me, entertained me, spoken to me, and broadened my appreciation for creative, true storytelling in the world of nonfiction.

By the way, I will share this same list with my memoir writing workshop attendees later this month. So, in a sense, you are getting an insider’s preview.

(Note: I have included one of my books–From Fertile Ground–on this list … because I feel it is an unusual creative concept/structure for a memoir about a family of writers sharing their diverse voices across three generations.)

Happy memoir reading (and writing), everyone!

***

My Recommended Memoir Reading List

The Year of Magical Thinking (by Joan Didion; 2005) … possibly the best book I’ve read about grief.

Ever By My Side: A Memoir in Eight Pets (by Nick Trout; 2011) … perfect if you are an animal lover.

From Fertile Ground: The Story of My Journey, My Grief, My Life (by Mark Johnson; 2016) … a writer’s mosaic about love and loss.

Between Them: Remembering My Parents (by Richard Ford; 2017) … revealing portrait of parents.

Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me (by Bill Hayes; 2017) … gripping, personal, New York study.

The Best of Us (by Joyce Maynard; 2017) … finding true love late in life, then losing it to pancreatic cancer.

Pops: Fatherhood in Pieces (by Michael Chabon; 2018) … poetic snippets about a son’s love for his father.

All the Young Men (by Ruth Coker Burks; 2020) … a woman comes to the rescue for dying AIDS patients in the 1980s.

My Name is Barbra (by Barbra Streisand; 2023) … if you love Barbra, a must read.

My Mama, Cass: A Memoir (by Owen Elliot-Kugell; 2024) … revealing odyssey of a daughter constructing her life after the death of her famous mother.