Tag: writing

Adrift

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I wrote most of my first book ten years ago. I was consumed by the project … in a purely positive way. Connecting the dots of grief and my family’s writing DNA spurred my energy and creativity.

As late summer 2015 approached, my daily creative output accelerated. Chapter after chapter emerged From Fertile Ground.

We didn’t have a printer at home but lived near a FedEx store. Whenever I completed a new, sizeable chunk of my manuscript, Tom and I walked there to print the updated version. Holding my evolving story in hand gave me a sense of pride and tangible proof of progress.

Now, in late summer 2025, I find myself at a vastly different place in the arc of my literary life. As I look back over the past decade, I feel a tremendous sense of creative accomplishment. … knowing I have produced four memoirs, a book of poetry, three librettos, a litany of essays, and a memoir writing workshop.

Yet I feel adrift.

Part of it is an energy thing … or, more accurately, a focus thing … or, even more pointedly, “maybe-this-is-what-it-means-to-be-68-and-a-compassionate-human-being-and-living-in-the-United-States” thing.

Okay, I’m not being totally transparent. I’m trying to avoid the trauma in our country. I’ve turned off the news. My husband and I are helping each other stay sane. In addition, I have been developing occasional pieces of flash fiction and nonfiction essays for literary contests.

I also have written several chapters for a “how to write a compelling memoir” manuscript. And there is another writing opportunity that is percolating … but it’s premature for me to spill those beans.

Anyway, I don’t feel all that jazzed about any of it … at least not on the scale of my first-born book in 2015. The one I felt like I was meant to write.

Is it weird that I’m getting more energy from writing this blogpost than the projects I mentioned a few paragraphs above? Probably not, because I’ve always enjoyed the raw, immediate-but-winding personal connection that comes with this territory … with this writing forum.

So that’s where I am right now … treading late summer metaphorical waters in the desert … bobbing along in a sea of episodic literary possibilities … exercising four or five times a week to keep my heart strong … taking more naps than I used to … longing for the next big wave of creative energy … gazing back to the distant shoreline of past successes and bittersweet memories … squinting ahead (like many of you) into nasty flames of deception, betrayal, and planned confusion that threaten my country’s future.

No wonder I feel adrift.

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.

You Wouldn’t Believe

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Since you’ve been gone, you

wouldn’t believe how the world

and our lives have changed.

You never knew that I married

a man I love, or that we live

in the desert where I can swim

outside in the winter, or that

I survived a heart attack on

my sixtieth birthday, in the

city where both of us

were born, or that

the grandsons you loved as

children are thriving, though

they have nearly reached

middle age, or that some people

now ride in cars with no

actual drivers, or that it’s kind

of a metaphor for our

country, which has lost

its moral compass, or that

the flag you defended and

saluted is no longer yours, or

that I am thankful to write and

sing in my late sixties, because

I was meant to do those all

along. All of this is true, and

it prompts me to worry and

hope–mostly worry–that

even though I am thankful

for good health, my kind and

compassionate husband, my

own boundless empathy, and

the relationships I’ve nurtured

with my sons, and many diverse

friends, I feel heavy uncertainty

in our country, and anticipate

more losses ahead only

to protect myself, and

of course, it reminds me of

other losses I’ve endured,

especially on the anniversary

of your passing the day after

a big Thanksgiving meal

with your sisters. By now,

you can see that the world

you knew is most definitely

gone, but you live in

my memories, and

I still love you, I grieve for you,

I grieve for me, I grieve for us.

Most of all, I still remember the

many monumental moments

–the good and bad–we shared

so long ago, Dad.

Inside the U

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I have a passion for learning, teaching, and uncovering the truth. So much so, that in another lifetime, I might have pursued a career as a full-time educator.

While that never happened, over the past thirty years, I’ve discovered episodic ways to teach … sharing my communication expertise as an adjunct PR instructor, opening minds as a diversity trainer and consultant, and–now–encouraging others to write and share their stories.

***

On Monday, October 21, fourteen people walked through the door of The Loft on the second floor of the Scottsdale Public Library. Each found a place at the table around a U-shaped configuration.

Lisanne, the library’s program supervisor, welcomed them, introduced me, and described each of my books (which she propped on easels at the far end of the room).

I sat–inside the U–smiling and ready to share my tips and guide them on their memoir-writing journey.

First, I asked each writer to introduce themselves. Some told me they have been writing in various forms for years.

Others have fought the impulse to do so or simply have never found the time or place but have always wanted to write.

“This is a safe space for you to begin,” I told them.

To mine vivid memories. To spin them into previously unwritten sentences. To shape them into stories that one day they may want to share with the world or simply pass along to immediate family and friends.

By the end of our first session together, we got to know each other better. I walked them through a “prompting” exercise.

Each person selected a random image–fanned out in my hands like a deck of playing cards–and then proceeded to write a paragraph or two relating to it.

One selected a photo of a tiger lily. She wrote (and shared) an especially sad, but poignant and revealing story about her flower-loving mother.

Another recalled a funny encounter with a monarch butterfly. All of the stories written and shared had merit.

During the last part of the class, they completed a three-page “Telling Your Story” Worksheet I prepared. It will be the baseline for each participant to begin to write their memoirs.

I asked each person to write one to two manuscript pages for next Monday’s session. I will offer constructive feedback at that time, and they will share insights with each other.

We will meet one final time to discuss another round of writing on Monday, November 4.

Already, this workshop is proving to be a meaningful experience for me.

I hope it is a catalyst for each of my fourteen fellow writers.

If I can make even a small difference as a library volunteer to help them on their storytelling journeys, my time–inside and outside the U–will be time well spent.

Turning Memories into Memoirs

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Writing is a solitary practice. But when our best ideas flow from our brains through our fingertips, it can feel like we are creating a galaxy of possibilities and fascinating characters to keep us company.

Still, we all need the support and encouragement of others to help us tell our personal-yet-universal stories, so that they touch the hearts and stimulate the minds of our readers.

To meet that need for external creative input, for the next three Mondays –October 21, October 28, and November 4 (from 4 to 6 p.m.) — I will lead a fun, interactive, and free memoir writing workshop at the Scottsdale Public Library, Civic Center location.

If you live in the Phoenix area, I hope you will join me. No reservations are required, but space will be limited. Arrive 30 minutes before the first class to get a ticket at the door. It will entitle you to participate in all three sessions.

Honestly, I’m excited to share a little of my time and memoir writing tips. And–perhaps–give a literary boost to a few individuals who are where I was ten years ago: ready to cross the creative threshold, but in need of direction and inspiration to turn memories into memoirs.

Smaller and Taller

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The smaller one opened the door for me this morning … sometimes it’s the taller one. That made me happy … they were happy, too … I needed to feel the cool tile on my parched paws.

I was hungry … I didn’t catch a bird or a rat yesterday. Today I twirled around the taller one’s legs … the smaller one’s legs, too. They gave me something fishy and yummy … a little crunchy, too.

The taller one watched me as I ate … said something about a gold-framed mirror (I think) from his mom (I think)? He was happy he and the smaller one kept it when they came here 7 years ago … I guess, like me, they came from some other place.

They were opening lots of bottles … taking lots of pills … washing them down with water … their voices were scratchy … I think the smaller one and the taller one like each other.

I heard the taller one say that he was happy with the success (I think) of his concerts (I think) … but that it sucks (I think) that both of them (the taller one and smaller one) have to fight off Covid (I think) … again.

Hmmm, what is Covid?

The smaller one said it was like having a vacation (I think) at home together … that doesn’t sound so bad.

The smaller one and the taller one are nice to me every morning … and they keep feeding me. So, I want them to always be here when I stretch out on their mat … or under their bench while I eye the birds.

I want them … the smaller one and the taller one … to never go away.

I will keep coming back as long as they … the smaller one and the taller one … are here to rub my back and feed me.

The Soldier on the Hill

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I last visited my father’s grave at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery in September 2021.

If there is such a thing as beauty to behold in a final resting place for those who served, it exists there just south of St. Louis on the banks of the Mississippi River–fourteen hundred miles east of where I live and write today.

On this Memorial Day, I remember Dad–and the thousands of fallen soldiers gathered around him–with twelve lines I wrote on August 27, 1996 … almost three years after he died.

This poem and forty-one others appear in my book A Path I Might Have Missed.

***

The Soldier on the Hill

I talked with the soldier on the hill today.

We sat, we cried, we laughed, we prayed.

The bells rang true, the trees stood free.

A breeze swept past to welcome me.

Shadows filled the landscape then.

Tempers rose without his pen.

Snowflakes fell, the grass turned green.

All without a change of scene.

Now the soldier rests with them,

Hand-in-hand–all blessed again.

They greet another trailing soul.

Who makes the journey past the knoll.

In a Blur

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Reflecting and writing meld in my brain. They often occur — in a blur — before I touch my keyboard.

Yesterday, I witnessed a graduation celebration, one table over in an outdoor cafe in Tempe, Arizona.

Today, it has morphed and merged with a blurry family photo, a 1979 memory in Columbia, Missouri.

Graduation day is just the beginning, the departure leading to unknown learnings and destinations.

We can’t really know where we will land, who we will love, or what we will do, until we make our way.

It is less about what we do, more about how we do it and the contributions we make along our journey.

That’s what determines who we become, what we recount decades later miles from where we began.

In May 1979, my extended family joined me in Columbia in front of the University of Missouri columns to celebrate my graduation from the school of journalism.

Five Hundred

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Numbers–like true stories that capture a moment on a page–are meaningful.

They aren’t merely markers on the shore of life waiting to be washed away with the next high tide.

They measure our progress. They tell us how far we’ve gone; how much we’ve achieved; how many we’ve accumulated.

My dad loved numbers, especially twin digits. On his fifty-second birthday–December 4, 1965–he wrote a poem about their significance in his life as a twin.

I published Unity 66 and the Twin Digits in the context of my first book. It belongs there, embedded alongside and intertwined with the writings of my grandfather, mother, and me. In its purest form, From Fertile Ground is an immersion into our family’s writing DNA.

Despite Dad’s volatility, he could be an exuberant, charming man. He believed in celebrating life’s mundane and magnificent moments as they happened.

On the road of our family vacations in the late 1960s (from his position behind the wheel of our white, four-door, 1965 Chevy Biscayne sedan), he announced to my mother (in front) and my sister and I (in back) when the odometer of our car was about to reach a milestone.

“Hey kids … we’re about to reach 50,000 miles.”

That was our cue to sing with him like circus clowns dancing to a calliope from the backseat.

“Da da da da … da da da da … da da da, da da … da da … da da da!”

Earlier this week–on April 7, 2024, to be precise–I hit the five hundred books sold mark since February 2016 when I first became a published author.

(If you are one of those who have supported my creative writing pursuits, thank you! I’ll bet there are a five hundred more who’ve read my books free through libraries and Goodreads giveaways I’ve sponsored.)

How do I know? First, I keep track of all my book sales on a spreadsheet I update monthly. Second, my Amazon sales dashboard tells me that someone in the United States bought number 500, my book of poetry, that day.

Of course, these aren’t best-selling numbers. Not even close. I’d need to add a few more zeroes to play with the big leaguers. However, numbers–while important–aren’t necessarily equivalent to quality or creative impact. (If you’ve seen the movie American Fiction, you know what I mean.)

At any rate, for an independent writer operating with a paltry budget, my book sales numbers aren’t too shabby.

Somewhere, on the highway of life and in the universe of creative possibilities, I imagine my father smiling at me from the front seat through the rearview mirror with the wind buffeting his combed-back hair.

He’s gripping the wheel with his left hand, while waving an imaginary conductor’s wand with his right. He’s singing along with the crazy circus music from our 60s family vacations.

Like my husband Tom–last night sitting on the fold out couch in our cozy Arizona den–my father Walter–if he were still alive–would be telling me to keep writing about the things I enjoy.

Because writing, telling, and sharing serendipitous stories is what I was meant to do. No matter what the numbers say.