Books available on Lulu.com

Four of my books are available on Lulu.com! All of them are available in paperback OR file download form.

Two Poetry Books:
When the Sun Shines in Winter
Unpainted Canvas

Two short stories:
Exile!!!!
The Stick Woman

Artists Unite!

When girls and I first moved in with K., it seemed as though our every prayer had been answered.





Artistic ourselves, we found a strong sense of having slipped into the proper niche from the moment we crossed the threshold. The arrangement promised to be a good fit for all, flexible enough--in a time of upheaval--to allow us to figure out just where we planned to go from here. Truly, the opportunity might have been Heaven-sent.







Little did I recognize just a week go how completely that hackneyed, age-old term would encapsulate this rather remarkable new experience.



















Living here, sharing a house with other highly creative people, editing K.'s book, and even learning a bit about the creative processes of an actual artist: herein lie the seeds of renewed fulfillment...and unexpected joy.

Good!

There is much to be said for finding a place in which one truly belongs.




Here, in the Black Forest--as I work on the final edit for K. Dopita's Even If I Die, paying for my room and board "in trade" until I have fully regained my strength--life is good.

Life is very, very, very good.

Renaissance

Sometimes, I wonder....









What does it mean, this term "inspiration?"







Once upon a time, there was no need to even ask such a thing. "Inspiration" (or so I thought) was some naturally occurring phenomenon which impacted upon every life, saturating anyone, any thing curious enough, impulsive enough to stand ready to absorb the magnificence of life. Like air, like light it pulsed and flashed all around me, and I had only to keep still long enough for it to rush in, to engulf me.





There was no need to define it: it was just there.


Somehow, something inside of me remained perpetually susceptible to its mesmerizing charm.


A glimpse of color, the faint vibration of some unfamiliar sound: these were enough to evoke a roar of activity, shaking the peaceful dormancy of the mind and urging me, teasing me, tempting me to uncover more, more, and more.

Life was a tale without end, unfolding before me with the flip of each new page, never failing to provide some new adventure, present some gripping fresh mystery, draw me into some completely unforeseen conflict or situation which could not possibly be ignored but, instead, absolutely had to be acknowledged.



I thought I could never be anything less than utterly engrossed in it all.

Until recently.

Before, there was no concept of spending even a moment--much less hours, weeks, months--in any state of apathy.


Now I have no concept of any other state.


The whole thing, this change in my attitude of the world and myself in it, has proven quite devastating at times.

I have no idea what to make of it....

Some integral portion of my identity has been lost: misplaced, perhaps...but maybe, I fear, wholly irretrievable.

Gone.

Forever.




Thus, the rather terrifying question for me, lately, has been, where do I go from here?

I keep running here and there, hoping for something that will grab my attention, pique my curiosity, or even cause me to stop--just for a heartbeat--and think. Additionally, I look around me, wondering how I came to be in this foreign environment, unable to understand--or even develop some interest in understanding--when and through what series of odd twists and turns I have come to be here.


Can inspiration be created?

If lost, can it ever again be found?

How, exactly, does one tap into the inmost layer of her being in order to identify the feelings, thoughts, and reactions which imbue the world around her with depth, significance, with meaning when life itself seems to no longer have purpose or merit outside the primal instinct for basic survival.



How often I have asked myself that question--especially in this last, long month, when everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and no activity seemed worth the effort of thought I would have to expend in order to take part in it.

Even writing.

Especially writing.

Time and time again, I found myself defining the hunger to write, the desire to create as a need to tangibly relay all that is inside of the deepest self into those words, images, and impressions which, somehow, resonate powerfully within others.


When, as a child, I began creating fascinating new worlds within that vast, unexplored universe of my budding imagination, it all seemed so very effortless. Human beings naturally long to explore, to learn, and writing became my vehicle for those forays into the wonderfully terrifying unknown, just as an astronaut would aim for the moon in a rocket. There was never a concept of any other pastime, no question as to whether building my image of the world through letters, syllables, and word structures could be anything less than my one true purpose in life.







Now, I find myself wondering how and why that all changed.


Perhaps we each reach a point in life when the universe within begins to feel incredibly small.









Although life itself is ever changing, the day-to-day process of merely living it becomes almost routine. It becomes easy to look without seeing, listen without hearing, devour without tasting. Beauty exists, and to view it is pleasant; yet there really is no time, no inclination, no need to actually experience it any longer.









But why?




What happens in the course of a lifetime that changes a person to such an extent that her priorities so drastically change? At what world does the surrounding world lose its allure? When do those sweet mysteries of being lose their magic?




Of late, I have founding myself drowning in confusion, carried along this sea of my own self-doubt--characterized by a constant flow of inwardly coursing pondering, reflection, and self-recrimination--on this crippling undercurrent of inexplicable doubt and dread. Have I been sucked into another realm? A separate identity? How can one simply "fall out of" love with the one companion who has remained by her side, been her lifelong obsession? And how can anyone that fickle in the first place?

I once loved to write.

No, the very thought of writing sucks the very air from my lungs.

I am left weak, shaken, and completely disoriented.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

Finally!!!!!!!!!!!!

















The girls and I are settling in!



As can be seen from the pictures, New Hampshire was quite lovely. Despite the biting unseasonable cold, the area itself was pleasant enough. Unfortunately, however, it was not (nor could it ever be) home.


So, here we are, temporarily ensconced in lush Colorado scenery, eager to begin our lives anew. I have just been informed that although the laptop on which my written works from the past six months were kept is still LOST, a replacement will be available Monday. The prospect of writing again leaves me somewhat nervous. My mind screams at me that my former passion and creativity were lost with it. Well, that, I suppose remains to be seen. In the meantime...












I feel more hopeful, more optimistic than I have in a very, very, very long time!

Homecoming

The return to Colorado Springs has reminded me of the true kindness inherent in (most) human beings.

Since the girls and I arrived at the airport, nothing has gone smoothly. Why, then, are we in such good spirits? Because nearly everyone we have encountered--from airport security personnel to overworked housekeeping staff, restaurant owners, and vendors have gone out of their way to offer support, kindness, and encouragement simply because they noticed three "women" stranded in the lobby with three-hundred enormous bags!

Today, I found myself more than a little disheartened by our situation. Here I am, the mother of these phenomenal children, the product of a background that was in many ways "privileged yet unable to provide basic stability for myself or, more importantly, my family. Because I am neither naturally negative or prone to despair, moments of gloom or melancholia are immediately apparent to my children; and, when those sweet little voiced cry out, "Mommy, don't be sad!" the sound is enough to shatter the stoniest of hearts.

Today, I was feeling worn out, worn down, and a bit overwhelmed. At the very moment I was feeling most discouraged, yet another perfect stranger walked up, asked if we were stranded, introduced himself as the cook at the Gordon Biersch restaurant, then all but insisted that we allow him to bring us drinks, "because it's hot today!"

We are sitting beneath the air conditioning.

Nevertheless, when he--Rory--returned with our sodas (in the refillable cups from a sister restaurant) he insisted that we come and find him if we became thirsty or hungry. Of course, we did not want to take advantage of his generosity.

Less than an hour later, Rory returned with "something for you to eat," seeming somewhat embarrassed by our thanks. For the food? Most certainly. But mainly for the simple, human compassion which--when offered freely and of genuine concern for others--often provides for the recipient far more than creature comforts...

Hope.

Faith: in oneself as well as others.

That sense of not being alone in the world, or lost in those dark places to be found in the shadows of one's hardship, misfortune, or despair...!

So many pretend to believe selflessness by its very definition exists as no more than a mask, any outward acts of it carried out not altruistically but in a very self-serving need to the "good deed doer"'s hidden sanctimonious nature and only for the most selfish of motives. My time here, however, has disproved such a theory as no more than the insipid justification of that speaker's lack of basic human decency.

The true majesty of the human condition does live within the hearts and spirits of modern men and women. And, although it is easy to forget or doubt this fact, gentle acts of empathy like those my daughters and I have encountered (kind words, kind deeds, kind hearts) remind us just how remarkable we humans are at our best...and how easy it is, effortless it can be to help each other along this collection of meandering, unpredictable peregrinations we call Life.

Thanks, Rory.

(Did I mention that even as I was typing my closing thanks, yet another security guard just came over to ask if we needed cots or could think of anything we might need that the airport could provide to make us more comfortable...after congratulating my daughter with a "hi-five" for her recent graduation from Exeter?)

...People! ?!?!? (You Say This Entry Makes No Sense? Neither Do They!)

I knew there was a reason why I make a point not to read other people's blogs.

Every once in a while, I find myself sitting at a computer determined to impart great wisdom, to share great thoughts, only to--instead--end up on some meaningless tirade about an event or peeve which means nothing to anyone in this world but me!

This issue is one of little significance. In fact, had I not already begun pondering the topic of People (and why I oftentimes I think we exist for no other purpose but comedy relief for the Cosmic Unknown), the situation would not have made it to print in the first place. Yet, here I sit, forcing myself to fulfill my thousand-word-per-day quota, rambling on about something which, ordinarily, I might have deemed too foolish to waste ink upon.

A very long time ago, I made the mistake of logging on to the site of one of my dozen-or-more actor friends. Now, those with whom I attended school know my position on the entertainment industry; thus there is no need for me launch into that particular rant today. Still, it has never failed to amaze me how followers of a particular "personality" conveniently forget that the individual is simply a human being doing that which he or she loves--be it dancing, acting, singing, directing, shooting hoops, or running touchdowns--and not some superhuman marvel constructed of silver and gold and mystical, magical fairy dust, the combination of which render him (or her) flawlessly perfect in every way.

Months before making this particular blunder, I made the catastrophic mistake of first directing friends (and a few prized contacts, unfortunately) to the blog of a former friend whose writing projects had truly impressed me. Yes, it was an ill-advised thing to do; however, in my own defense, I--at that time--sincerely thinking myself in a race against the imaginary clock described to me by a slew of infallible medical professionals, all of whom assured me that I was soon to kick the proverbial bucket! Convinced I had but mere hours left on this Earth, it must be understood, rendered such considerations as prudence, common sense, and inescapable regret insignificant. All I could think of was making that last-ditched effort to give what help I could while I could.

Of course, the whole thing backfired.

Quite deservedly was I read the Riot Act when those very friends and colleagues visited the site (at my insistence) only to be attacked by rabid fans, incensed by any hint that their idol--a man I had once loved then hated, respected then disdained, known then recognized to be an absolute stranger in every way that counted (in short, a wonderfully flawed human being far more interesting for his very real, distinctly imperfect personality than the images of insultingly inaccurate perfection constructed of him by strangers)--might not walk water. Frankly, those who ripped me up one side and down the other should have saturated the wounds with 91-percent isopropyl alcohol for good measure: it was such a stupid thing for me to have done! Quite literally, I cast those poor, loyal souls into a grotesque Comedy of Errors, complete with the requisite distorted masks, trick mirrors, and upside rooms; ergo, they were more than justified in coming after me with pain-inflicting, limb-cleaving weapons. Naturally, what amends I attempted to make only made them (the "masses and the multitudes," as a delightfully caustic Adonis of a boyfriend from a decade ago often referred to those lesser beings otherwise known as "mere mortals") all more furious (and, as a result, more vicious)...all of which led me to this examination of the distinct peculiarities of People in general.

Why is it that we as People so often find impossible illusions safer, easier, to embrace than the more attractive realities? As People, we tend to create alternative realities in which to hide, even when that which we most desire is right there, easily within reach. It is utterly, astoundingly stupefying. There they are--a core following of less than ten women--in the unique position of actually idolizing the kind of person who really does strive to be "gracious" (in his own words) to his fans, who would willingly enter into any conversation that piqued his interest or afforded him the opportunity to share his views...and they waste it bickering amongst themselves and bullying any and every one who comes onto the poor man's blog without first paying homage to the greatness that is his celebrity.

I remember being a little girl and wanting nothing more than the chance to make friends with "Luis" from Sesame Street. Or Captain Kangaroo. I wanted to talk to them about normal things, such as kindergarten and learning to tie my shoe, cloud pictures and the possibility of minuscule people living in teeny-tiny houses amid the blades of grass in my back yard. Certainly, such conversations could never actually take place; and on some level--even as young as I was--I understood this.

Even so, had such a thing been even remotely possible...!

Today, nevertheless, despite every instinct tingling within me, I gave in to the inexplicable, totally ridiculous impulse to see if my attempt to make right my mistake--an apology to not only the man (let us call him "Old Green Eyes") himself but the rather incensed fans who all but tarred-and-feathered the poor souls who visited the site (not to mention any "poor souls" brave enough to have held their ground in the ensuing fray)--had made any difference at all.

Imagine my surprise (and disbelief) that even the apology itself was taken as an insult against the graven image of the Great Being, Himself. Speculation abounded. Accusations flew. Nastiness beyond anything I ever could have imagined spread like some noxious form of flesh-devouring mold. No one was safe, especially those attempting to hide behind the insubstantial barrier of reason! These women were out for blood--lying in wait to shred to pieces any one or anything which stood between them and their beloved transmogrification of the man they claimed to adore. And, after I accepted the fact that the Green-Eyed One would probably kill me himself (with his bare hands) if I ever happened to cross his path, (not a scenario likely to come to pass in this lifetime or a myriad of others, thankfully) I could not help but marvel at the irony of it all. Here they all were--gifted with the very real, very opportunity to get to know the man--wasting their time snipping and sniping with each other instead of focusing on the fact that he was right there, within reach, actually offering them each a bit of insight into who he is and how he thinks!

Amazing.

Truthfully, I have no further desire to see how (or if) the whole senseless mess resolves itself. Part of me would like to think that eventually, Old Green Eyes will find himself frustrated enough to let loose that cutting wit and pithy sarcasm I grew to appreciate (with great relish, I might add.) Some people are magnificent in a temper, and--despite any lingering ill-will between us--I must admit that he was most certainly one of them. It is, therefore, oddly comforting and more than a little satisfying to envision him letting down those carefully-constructed barriers of his long enough to allow the rest of the world to see the man, the person occasionally revealed to me during those long-ago moments of unadorned spontaneity which now, after my anger has abated (though I would not for a truck filled with cash money admit that to him) for the most part, I recall with fond amusement and an affectionate (incredulous) shake of the head. Of course, such a reaction is not likely--more's the pity. Although I do not doubt he could more than stand to "let off" the steam, more than likely, he will do nothing more than step back until the smoke has cleared, then go on as if the display of fireworks had never taken place.

Regardless, I cannot help but wonder why, why, why so many People settle for iron pyrite...when pure gold lies easily within reach.

(Perhaps within this question itself lies one of the reasons I find the study of human nature so inexhaustibly fascinating.)