Suzy Spencer's blog

Today’s the day after Christmas. It’s a day I should be writing my year-end blog where I tell you what wonderful things happened in 2011 and how joyous and grateful I am. And for those of you who haven’t been keeping up with me through Twitter or Facebook (since I haven’t been very good at blogging this year), wonderful things have happened in 2011.

Magician Kent Cummins sawing me in half for the Bess Whitehead Scholarship Fund.

• In May, I finally finished the sex book.
• In July, my publisher, Berkley Books, informally accepted the sex book.
• In August, I accepted an offer to write a screenplay about a topic that takes me back to my undergraduate studies and dreams.
• In September, I got to spend a night in San Francisco reconnecting with dear friends. I got to start research for the screenplay and had some fabulous experiences doing it. And I got to get sawed in half as a fundraiser for the Bess Whitehead Scholarship Fund.
• In October, Berkley Books gave me a firm publication date for the sex book — October 2012. And Red Line Films/Dick Clark Productions interviewed me about my true crime book Wasted for the new Investigation Discovery Channel TV show Deadly Sins, which will premiere in Spring 2012.
• In December, I got a dog from Cocker Spaniel Rescue of Austin/San Antonio. Jacob and I are very simpatico — he likes to spend his time eating and sleeping in front of the TV. And Berkley Books gave me the official title of the sex book – Secret Sex Lives: A Year on the Fringes of American Sexuality.

On set for interview with Investigation Discovery's "Deadly Sins."

Then there are the stories on the news: A Christmas-celebrating family in Grapevine, Texas, shot to death by a presumed family member dressed in a Santa suit, who then killed himself for a total of seven dead. A Connecticut mother lost her three daughters and mother and father – who was the Saks Fifth Avenue Santa Claus – in a house fire as the mother screamed, “My whole life is in there!” Oh, God, that breaks my heart.

I have my family, my health, a dog who loves me, the knowledge that I’ll have a roof over my head and food in my fridge no matter what (thanks to my family), and a book coming out and a screenplay that’s due. I should be screaming from my roof, THANK YOU, JESUS! And part of me does say thank You over and over again. But as I told my sister, the worst thing about depression is that it won’t go away even when you know you have no reason to be depressed, even though you know you are blessed far beyond what you deserve. She understood. Not everyone does. That makes me grieve, and it makes me angry.

Jacob, my "therapy" dog.

This weekend I asked a man, who lost his job last spring and is still unemployed, how his stepdaughter is. I knew she’d had problems, even though even the broadest of details have been kept secret. I surmised the problems had to do with legal issues due to a mental illness. The man’s reply was an angrily whispered, “She’s a sixteen-year-old Casey Anthony.” Oh, God, his comment makes me cry for his stepdaughter. How does this child have a chance with so little support from her own family? I say that because, as far as I know, she hasn’t had a baby and hasn’t been accused of murdering anyone. And either before or after my conversation with the stepfather – my memory is fuzzy because of the stress and shock of the day and learning what I learned – I overheard (though not from him) that the girl had attempted suicide, had been in a coma, and was apparently still in the hospital recovering.

I want to give this man a break and say his ignorance and insensitivity about mental illness are due to the stress of his unemployment, lack of job prospects, and money troubles, and the child’s suicide attempt is beyond what he can bear. I did say to him that I’ve been concerned that the child suffers from schizophrenia. She is of the age when the symptoms begin to appear. Or maybe she’s bipolar. I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist. All I know is that mental illness is not a choice. It’s not a desire. It’s not a call for attention. It’s not being melodramatic. It’s not a matter of bucking up or not praying enough. It is a disorder. A brain disorder. An illness.

Think of it this way, if this child had leukemia, there is no way that she purposely f***ed up her white blood cells to cause leukemia, and there’s nothing she could do to reorder the structure of her white blood cells to make herself healthy. She’d need great doctors and great medicine to have any chance of regaining her health. And everyone knows that and accepts that.

Similarly, a child with a brain disorder did not purposely scramble her brain so that she could be “crazy,” get attention, or cause problems for the family. And she can’t re-order her brain, as if it were a Rubik’s cube that could be twisted and turned until it’s miraculously put back in order. Like a leukemia child, she needs great doctors and great medicine to have any chance of regaining her healthy. Sadly, not everyone knows that or accepts that.

After all, people don’t talk about what a f***up a child with leukemia is or how bad she is or how she’s ruining the lives of everyone in the family. They certainly don’t compare her to Casey Anthony. And they don’t wish her away. Rather, they contact Make-A-Wish Foundation, take her to Disneyland and celebrate her. They pray for her and try to get her the best treatment for possible. Let me repeat: the child with leukemia did not cause or create her disorder of the blood, just as that man’s stepdaughter did not cause or create her disorder of the brain.

So, if there’s one positive thing I can do at the close of 2011, I think that one thing is to attempt to create some understanding about mental illness. Understanding doesn’t just make it easier on the one who is suffering from the brain disease — it increases the chances of recovering mental health. Perhaps equally important, understanding makes it easier on the friends and family members, too. After all, isn’t being empathetic, patient, and caring a heck of a lot easier than being angry and hateful?

Now I’m going to try to practice what I preach – get over my anger at her stepfather and be understanding toward him. After all, a lot of wonderful things happened in 2011, and I have a book coming out in 2012.

Click on the below for additional reading and information regarding brain disorders:

National Alliance on Mental Illness

Breaking Point by Suzy Spencer

Austin American-Statesman columnist Andrea Ball on being bipolar

And posts from my blog:

Update on Tracey Tarlton from The Fortune Hunter

Strong Legs, Fragile Brain: A Guest Post by Diana Kern

A Dark Cloud of Desperation: A Joint Post with D.H. Gregory

One of the many reasons I decided to quit writing true crime is because of convicted killer Tracey Tarlton.  Tracey and I attended the same summer camp, and though Tracey and I didn’t know each other, I knew her name and we shared many friends.

Tracey Tarlton at our summer camp.

In fact, one of those friends, who is mentioned in my book The Fortune Hunter, is the one who suggested I write the book.  What our mutual friend didn’t know is that I already wanted to write the book.  In fact, years earlier I’d pitched it to my then publishing house.

Why did I want to write this book that caused me to quit true crime?  Because of the mental health aspect.

Tracey and Celeste Beard, who was the woman Tracey loved and the woman who convinced Tracey to shoot Celeste’s husband, Steven Beard, met in a mental health facility.  And as someone who has spent too many years in therapy due to an on-going battle with depression, I’m always interested in stories that involve mental health issues, which true crime — or at the least ones I’ve written — always seems to do.

Add to that the fact that Tracey managed BookPeople, the best bookstore in Austin, and had helped me promote my first book Wasted (though I don’t think she remembers that), and that we shared that same summer camp, one that gets in your blood and doesn’t leave you, well, I felt this story was MINE.

Cokie Roberts and Tracey Tarlton at BookPeople

I was wrong about it being MINE.  It wasn’t.  But I sometimes wonder if it was a God-thing that I write the book because, and as I finally get back to my point, it was the one that made me quit true crime.

Let me back track again and explain.  Tracey is probably the only killer I’ve ever interviewed who I respected and that’s because she’s the only killer I’ve interviewed who admitted what she did.  (I didn’t get to interview Andrea Yates.)

So, after a horrible and lengthy trial, I was told that I could speak to Tracey for a few minutes to introduce myself.  Let me repeat, it was a horrible and lengthy trial.  I’d get up, go to court, watch Celeste Beard try to portray herself as a prim and proper innocent lady, have lunch with a Beard family member, go back to court and watch Celeste Beard, again, as witness after witness described Celeste’s cruel, selfish, and manipulative behavior, and then have dinner with Steven Beard’s daughter Becky, during which we’d talk, cry and laugh.  I’d get home around 10 PM, exchange emails with the prosecutor until maybe midnight, and finally crash until I was up early and out the door for court the next day.  And throughout, I was covering the trial for ABC News.

By the time Celeste was convicted of murder, I was punchy with exhaustion, which usually worked out fine because I was Becky Beard’s comic relief … as Becky was my comic relief.  I can’t tell you how many stupid jokes Becky and I cracked.  So when I walked into that room to meet Tracey, I was spent, punchy, and used to cracking less than tasteful jokes with Becky, who had become my friend, and I was singing an old camp song that I knew Tracey knew — “Catfish Floatin’ Down a River.”

I thought it’d make Tracey laugh after a stressful trial, like I knew it’d make Becky laugh.  It didn’t.  Tracey was offended.  She thought I was being disrespectful to Steven Beard.  And since she was horribly guilty of his murder, and knew it and fully admitted to it, and desperately wanted to make it right and knew she couldn’t, she wanted to be respectful of Steve, his memory, and his family.

Steven Beard recuperating from his gunshot wound on his 75th birthday.

And while my singing of “Catfish” turned Tracey off of me, it made me respect Tracey even more.  (No, I didn’t feel like I was betraying the Beard family by respecting Tracey.  I knew that while Becky abhorred what Tracey had done to her father, she was grateful to Tracey because Becky believed that without Tracey’s testimony, Celeste Beard would have gotten away with murder.)

But since Tracey was disgusted by my behavior, she only reluctantly agreed to grant me a couple of prison interviews.  During the first of those interviews, I promised Tracey I would never write another true crime book, because I too was disgusted with my behavior.  No, I’m not talking about innocently but stupidly singing “Catfish Floatin’ Down a River.”  I’m talking about who I’d become as a true crime writer — an insecure, angry, and bitter person.

Certainly there are additional reasons I quit true crime, which you’ll read about when my memoir comes out in October 2012, but my promise to Tracey is one of the primary reasons.  I try my darnedest not to go back on my promises.

By now you may be saying, Suzy, your headline says “Update on Tracey Tarlton” and all you’ve done is talk about yourself.  So here’s the update on Tracey:  She’s out of prison and trying to start over her life in San Antonio, Texas, while never ever forgetting what she did.  And by clicking on this KENS 5 TV link, you can finally hear her speak for herself.  I think you’ll see why I still respect her.

So, Tracey, if it doesn’t offend you, can I offer you one big CLH “Attaway to go!”  Truly, I wish you a great new life.  And with all my heart, I believe Becky does, too.  She was a kind and generous woman.

As you may have noticed, I’ve been more than lax in my blog posts since last spring.  At first I was too busy with the sex book to think about blogging.  Then, after I turned in the manuscript on May 1, I was just plain all “wrote out.”  The book took everything I had to give, emotionally and physically.  More than three months later, I’m still all “wrote out.”  I can barely tap out a word.  But I feel I owe you a few updates.

Fused glass artwork: Kim Brill; Photo: Larry Brill

For those who don’t follow me on Facebook or Twitter, I have some very good news.  On July 15, I learned that my publisher, Berkley Books, has accepted my sex book manuscript and set a tentative publication date of October 2012.  The next 12-plus months will be spent editing, vetting, copy editing, and proofing the manuscript, as well as deciding on a name for the book, designing its cover, and creating marketing, sales and publicity plans.

That sex book acceptance news should have sent me into ecstasy.  Instead, it sent me into panic.  I ate 10 pounds of McDonald’s hot fudge sundaes as I worried and fretted about what neighbors, friends (particularly my Christian friends from high school), co-workers, future employers and, most of all, my family – specifically my mother – would think of me after reading the book.  After an afternoon trip to the emergency room, I begged my mother not to read the book.  She promised she wouldn’t, and I relaxed … some.

Through all of this, indeed, through the past 13 years of writing four true crime books and one sex book, my emotional rock has been my dear Mr. Cool.  In truth, he’s not “my” dear Mr. Cool.  He is my mother’s beautiful, sweet, blond cocker spaniel.  He is the one who calmed me as I wrote about five dead babies and nurtured me as I sank into depression afterwards.  In fact, he has soothed me through many depressions.  And when I panicked over the sex book, all I had to do was think of Mr. Cool because I knew he would be the one who would love me and treat me the same no matter what I revealed in the book.  But on the night of August 9^th, after a brief illness, Mr. Cool moved to puppy heaven.

Earlier in the day, he’d collapsed in my mother’s front yard.  For the next hour and a half, I lay with him in the St. Augustine grass, whispering that I loved him and that it was okay to walk toward the light.  I think he knows how much I hate death because he did not walk toward the light until I told him goodbye, left my mother’s home, and left him with those who are better at death than I – my mother and sister.

But I left with one big regret.  That regret is that I cut Mr. Cool from the sex book.

Please don’t go to any kinky thoughts when you ask why in the world I included my mother’s dog in a book about sex.  It’s a perfectly clean explanation:  Just as Mr. Cool comforted me through the stress and confusion of writing about real life murder, he comforted me through the stress and confusion of writing about real life sex.

More specifically, my boundaries as a journalist constantly blurred as my sex sources turned to me for reassurance and yearned for friendship.  And sometimes I too longed for their friendship, as they often came to my emotional rescue, such as the time they supported me after my mother fell and broke her hip.  Thus, I became confused over my role in their lives and their roles in my life.  And I equally became confused over the role of sex in my life.

So, as a salute to Mr. Cool, I share a (deleted) moment from the sex book.  In it, I’m juggling comforting my sex sources with taking care of my mother.

* * *

I shut down my computer and drove the 40 minutes to my mother’s house.  In the darkness of two and three A.M., as I listened to her obnoxious bird clock tweet the wee hours, I rolled over on her couch and petted her blond cocker spaniel.  Mr. Cool is his name because he’s always calm, cool, and collected and because he’s always known who he is – one cool dog.  Throughout the night, his collar jingle jangling as he walked, Mr. Cool made the rounds from my mother’s bedroom to the couch and back and forth again to check on us both.  And when I lay on my right side, my fingers lightly on Mr. Cool’s head, touching his comfortingly soft hair, I could see into my mother’s bedroom and know for myself that she was safe and hadn’t fallen again.

… This night, as I lay on my mother’s plaid couch, the same couch I’d lain on when that workman had lightly stroked my legs and I hadn’t known how to stop him, part of me wanted desperately to be back in my own house where I was free to think about sex.  And part of me didn’t want to leave my mother.  Unlike Mr. Cool, I didn’t know who I was.

* * *

Today, I know who I am.  I’m an all “wrote out” writer who is blessed to be comforted by the memory of a dog, the friendship of some sex sources, and a mother who loves me enough not to read my book. 

What I would like, he thought, is a tall cold liter of beer in a thick heavy glass and a pomme à l’huile with coarse ground peppercorn on it.  But the beer on this coast was worthless and he thought happily of Paris and other places he had been and was pleased he had written something he knew was good and that he had finished it.  This was the first writing he had finished since they were married.  Finishing is what you have to do, he thought.  If you don’t finish, nothing is worth a damn.  Tomorrow I’ll pick up the narrative where I left it and keep right on until I finish it.  And how are you going to finish it?  How are you going to finish it now? 

As soon as he started to think beyond his work, everything that he had locked out by the work came back to him.  He thought of the night before and of Catherine and the girl today on the road that he and Catherine had driven two days before and he felt sick.  They should be on the way back now.  It’s afternoon.  Maybe they’re at the café.  Don’t be solemn, she had said.  But she meant something else too.  Maybe she knows what she’s doing.  Maybe she knows how it can turn out.  Maybe she does know.  You don’t know.

So you worked and now you worry.  You’d better write another story.  Write the hardest one there is to write that you know.  Go ahead and do that.  You have to last yourself if you’re to be any good to her.  What good have you been to her?  Plenty, he said.  No, not plenty.  Plenty means enough.  Go ahead and start the new one tomorrow.  The hell with tomorrow.  What a way to be.  Tomorrow. Go in and start it now.

He put the note and the key in his pocket and went back into the work room and sat down and wrote the first paragraph of the new story that he had always put off writing since he had known what a story was.  He wrote in in simple declarative sentences with all of the problems ahead to be lived through and made to come alive.  The very beginning was written and all he had to do was go on.  That’s all, he
said.  You see how simple what you cannot do is?  Then he came out onto the terrace and sat down and ordered a whiskey and Perrier.

–Ernest Hemingway, The Garden of Eden

Friday night, around nine or 10 o’clock, my cell phone rang.  I swallowed the bite of peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had in my mouth and answered the phone.

The caller was a friend I hadn’t seen or talked to in months.  We’ve both been too busy.  He asked what I’ve been doing.  “Working,” I said, pacing the kitchen in my gym clothes.

“What else?”

“Nothing.”  I walked over to my briefcase, back to my dinner, over to the sink, back to my briefcase, my dinner, the sink and back.

He asked again what else I’d been doing.

I could tell then that he didn’t understand a writer’s life, particularly a writer under deadline.  I understand that.  One cannot comprehend a writer’s life unless one is a writer, or at least lives with one.  After all, the cliché fantasy is that of a glorious life spent drinking in exotic locales while trading tales of adventure with glamorous people, perhaps making strange and exciting love with those same glamorous people, and then, in the wee hours of the morning, falling into brilliant words that are slammed perfectly onto the page and then fly off the bookstore shelves.

Such wonderful fiction. This is this writer’s life – under deadline:

Yes, I wake whenever I want.  Depending on the stress in my mind, that’s usually somewhere between 5 AM and 8 AM.  I roll over in bed and read my Bible and Al-Anon daily devotional.  If my mind isn’t reeling too much with the worries of work, I lie there and pray for a while.  Yes, I realize that when I’m worried is exactly when I should pray more.

I get up, turn on NPR on an old clock radio, because I’ve purposely disconnected my TV cable and Internet so that I won’t be distracted from work, and jump in the shower.  After I dress, I grab my briefcase, which is really a 30-year-old black leather bag holding my laptop, yesterday’s work for rewrite, today’s work for rewrite, notes on both, notes on characters, basically a ream of paper, a thumb drive or two with the various versions of my book on them, my cell phone, wallet … well, you get the picture.  I throw these pounds over my shoulder and slump out the door.

While slurping down a ridiculously unhealthy breakfast, I check and answer email and start work – editing, cutting, rewriting.  (Yes, I’m writing this while eating breakfast.)  I work until my laptop battery flashes that it’s almost dead.  I pack up, throw my bag over my shoulder, and schlep back home.

There, I fire up both my PC and laptop and get down to the serious work of the day – editing, cutting, rewriting, double-checking facts and timelines, trying to figure out how to make this manuscript riveting and the best book I’ve ever written in my life.  After all, this will be my income for the next three to 10 years.

Around 2 PM, or maybe it’s 4 PM, it all depends on my concentration, I grab a horribly unhealthy lunch.  If I grab it at home, I pace and think about the book while eating.  If I go out, I work while eating.  Usually, somewhere between 4 and 6 PM, my mother phones and asks if I’d like some dinner.  I bark, “I’m working!” even though I know she’s only trying to help.  Around 7 or 7:30 PM, I shut down my computers and pack up my laptop.  My back is burning from being hunched over the keyboards and I’m too tired to think about cooking.  That’s when I often phone my mother and meekly ask, “Are there any leftovers?”

Sometimes I go over to her house, eat fried meat and potatoes, check email and come home and crash.  Other times, I know I need exercise to alleviate the back pain and stress, so I go to the gym, maybe work out 20 minutes, maybe an hour, then crash on one of the gym couches and check email.  That’s what happened Friday night when my friend called.  I’d just gotten home from the gym, had spread a half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sliced half of a banana, and I was pacing around the kitchen, thinking about my book, eating, and stressing.

Yes, I could have told my friend that I did take an hour and a half off one evening to see another friend I hadn’t seen in more than a month.  And, yes, I did take two hours off one Saturday to go see my 11-year-old cousin’s football game.  (He threw one touchdown pass, while playing offense.  He intercepted a pass and ran it in for a touchdown, while playing defense.)  But now I’ve even taken my cousin’s football games off my calendar because that one game blew my concentration for the next two days.

After I hung up from my friend, I finished my sandwich, sank into a bath, climbed into bed, read, and fell into another fitful night of sleep – waking with leg and foot cramps from too much sitting, too little exercise, too much fried food, too few vegetables, and thinking about my book.

The reason writers disappear, cocoon, hibernate, hole up, become anti-social, whatever you want to call it, when we’re writing is because we’ve got to live in the world we’re writing about.  Call it method writing, I guess.  Anything that takes us out of that world – like a football game – destroys our ability to work.  At least it does me.*

So that’s why my friend – any of my friends – won’t see me until I meet my May 2 deadline.  But after May 2, I’ll be ready to live that glorious fantasy life of writers drinking in exotic locales while trading tales of adventure with glamorous people, and then, in the wee hours of the morning, falling into brilliant words that are slammed perfectly onto the page and fly off the bookstore shelves.

And I wouldn’t trade any of it for any other career.  I love what I do.

* Admittedly, mothers who write are better at juggling than I.  They have to be.  And I don’t know how they do it.  I admire them.

In 2001, when I first started covering the story of Andrea Yates, the Houston mother who drowned her five children, I read every article on the case I could find.  I thought the most touching writing came from a reporter for the Los Angeles Times.  I contacted her to tell her how beautiful and emotional her work was.  If I recall correctly, I told her she should be the one writing the Yates book, not me.  Her writing was so moving that I knew she was a much more talented writer than I.  She begged off saying she didn’t like covering the story.  If I remember correctly, she said she preferred covering war.

More than nine years later, after watching the last mine rescuer in Chile safely return to the surface (yes, I mean mine rescuer, not rescued miner), I found myself combing through unread emails, including my daily update from Publishers Lunch.  ”We posted another 35 new deals yesterday at Publisher’s Marketplace,” I read, “among them: Journalist Jonathan Franklin’s inside story of the trapped Chilean miners…”

At that, a bit of sadness washed over me.  I was sad because we were already commercializing such a rare, beautiful victory.  Couldn’t we just savor it in our memories for a while before committing it to commercialism?  Of course, I have no right to feel that way; I was part of the commercialization of Andrea Yates and her five murdered children.  And maybe Jonathan Franklin is like me.  Maybe he didn’t pursue the story.  Maybe, like me, he was asked to write it.

I know I had qualms about writing the Andrea Yates book.  I remember discussing it with my family.  They told me, “Someone’s going to write it.  Why not you?  You’ll handle it with more sensitivity.”  I hope I handled it with sensitivity.

I drew myself away from Mr. Franklin and continued reading Publishers Lunch.  ”National Book Award Nominees Avoid the Predictable…”  I barely glanced at the fiction nominees and focused instead on the nonfiction list, briefly wondering if, briefly dreaming that, my sex book could gain such esteem.  I knocked that embarrassing thought out of my head and kept reading: “Patti Smith, Just Kids (Ecco) … Megan K. Stack, Every Man in this Village is a Liar: An Education in War (Doubleday)”.

I stopped.  Megan K. Stack.  That name sounded so familiar.  Then, I thought I knew why.  I Googled Megan to make sure.  Yes, she was that great LA Times reporter who had covered Andrea Yates with such respectful, touching power.  I’d had no idea how young Megan was when she was covering that case — 25 years old.   At that, I was even more in awe of her talent.  I then went to Amazon to read the opening sentences of her National Book Award nominated book.

* * *

This memory from childhood is still there: the voices of the adults bounce fretfully, eternally in rooms that have since been sold or abandoned.  Beirut, they said, never Lebanon.  John was in Beirut.  All meaning fit into those words.  His barracks had been blown up, but he had survived.

John the drinker, the smoker, the apprentice in three-card monte and hanger-out with New York street cons; his face cut by light, arms angled in salt air, his imprint lingers still in corners and amber edges.  John was my father’s cousin, my godfather’s brother, our two Irish Catholic families braided together in city blocks, in the Bronx, by marriage and the crosshatches of godfathering.  He was adrift between the generations of our family, too old to be a cousin and too young to be an uncle, but still unmistakably one of us, with us in churches and cramped living rooms and summers on the beach.  In my earliest memories I waddle in his retreating shadow, arms in the air and begging, “Johnny! Uppy!”  And then this skinny street hustler sweeps me into the air to swing on the rim of centrifugal force until the salty, sunny world swims.

* * *

As I first read Megan’s words, I thought, oh, my, she still has that ability to paint power with a few, simple words.  As I typed Megan’s words, I remembered my days working in New York City.  I was a researcher for Fortune magazine, just a bit younger than Megan when she’d covered Andrea Yates.  Often, I spent my lunch hour touring the Museum of Modern Art.  There I watched struggling artists – the same age as me – sitting on uncomfortable black benches, sketching the Masters, trying to learn from the best. 

More than 30 years later, I too am trying to do that – learn from the best.  I’m reading memoir after memoir, including Megan’s, trying to figure out what they’re doing right and I’m doing wrong.  And the reason I’m doing that is embarrassing.  My sex memoir, the one that I previously bragged was the best book I’ve ever written, has been returned to me for rewrite, again. 

It’s painfully shaming to admit that a book I’ve been working on since December 2004 isn’t of publishable quality.  How good of an author can I be if I – a professional writer since 1976, an author of four books including one that has New York Times best-seller on the cover – can’t get a manuscript accepted after more than six years of trying to perfect it?

Yes, admitting that is embarrassing.  In fact, I started writing this “embarrassing” blog post in September, continued trying to write it in October, pushed it aside and tried to forget it forever in November because a friend had said I shouldn’t publicly admit my rejection.  I understood why – people want to be associated with winners, not losers.

But I decided to write the post and publish it anyway because, well, I’m tired of hearing, “I can’t wait to read your sex book this summer,” with me replying, “It won’t be out then.”  And I’m tired of hearing, “When’s your sex book coming out?” and me mumbling, “God knows when, if ever.”  But most of all, I’m writing this because I need to for me.  I can’t seem to move forward on the rewrite until I confess my sin of … failing. 

I know I have some terrific friends and fans out there who will say, “Suzy, don’t say that.  You haven’t failed.  You’re not a loser.”  I appreciate that kindness and support.  I really do.  And I have a small fantasy that by admitting this publicly that there will be at least one struggling person out there who will be inspired to keep working toward achieving their …well, whatever they’re pursuing, because I know that I will keep writing and rewriting this manuscript until I get it right.

I also know that one of the reasons I’m having such trouble with this memoir is because – like the Yates book – I have qualms about writing it.  But as I tried to handle the Andrea Yates case with sensitivity, I will try to handle myself with sensitivity too.  And God willing, I’ll succeed.

When I posted last week’s blog on mental illness, I struggled with my usage of the term “mental illness.”  I knew it had a negative connotation, and my readers pointed that out on my Facebook wall.  I was grateful when Diana Kern, a woman who lives with mental illness and who works in the mental health field, told me the proper term to use is brain disorder.  I liked that.  It says what it is without being condemning, insulting, or fearful.  So I asked Diana to post that, not just on Facebook, but on my blog, too.  When she sent me her comment, it was so beautiful and insightful that I decided to make it a guest blog post.  Please, read it.  She educates us not only on the proper terminology but also on the best way to support friends, family, and strangers suffering from a brain disorder.

By the way, when she refers to DH, she’s talking about D.H. Gregory, my friend and fellow journalist who co-authored last week’s blog post.  D.H. copes daily with two brain disorders – brain cancer and bipolar disorder with chronic depression.  If you haven’t already read his essay, “A Dark Cloud of Desperation,” you might want to read it before reading Diana’s excellent piece. 

I have suffered with a mental illness since 1981 after the birth of my baby.  I had many different diagnoses and after years of living in and out of psychosis, depression and mania, I have finally recovered to a level of wellness where I can experience all the good things in life.  Well, most of the good things …  I’d like more $$$ so I could shop at Whole Foods and own a Ralph Lauren oxford button down shirt with the Polo guy on it.

Like DH, I was finally given better medications in the 90′s and my brain finally started to heal.  After over 30 hospitalizations in a 15 year period, I know what it is like to live in a state of gratitude.

My final diagnosis is manic depression with psychotic features.  We now know manic depression as bipolar, but bipolar doesn’t fit me.  I like to call it what it is.

While I take medications to “fix” my brain, I still experience severe highs and lows.  I must be cognizant of the stressors in my life.  I carefully plan my days, my weeks, my work.  I listen to my thoughts and do what’s best for me.

I used to swing into a manic state and then plunge deep into depression.  There were, however, periods of stability, but they never lasted long.  When I would swing into a manic high, I became psychotic.  I would hear voices (auditory hallucinations) and I also was delusional (bizarre beliefs). When I would crash into that “muted agony” as DH calls it, it was the same story.

Those of us who have spent time in the throes of a mental illness refer to our sickness as a brain disorder.  For, indeed, it is our brains that are affected.

We tend to think that in using the term, brain disorder, some of the stigma is let loose.  Whether it is or not, I don’t know.

What I do know is that it is up to me to accept this brain that I was born with and if others choose to open their minds and also their hearts to better understand our experience, we will all be better for it.  In the end, we are all in this together.

Like DH, I wanted my parents and others to quit asking why I was depressed, why I was having so many problems.  It felt as if they were saying that I chose to live in a state of mental undoing.

Didn’t they know that I wanted to be happy, I wanted to think clearly, I wanted to work and be an adult like others my age?  I wanted, I wanted, I wanted and I thought it would never come.  I’m glad I was wrong.

So, for those of you wishing to help people like DH and myself and thousands of others like us, here is some advice:  when we are down, when we are low, when all looks lost to us, don’t give us advice.

What we need is for you to “be” with us.  We need to know that we are accepted for who we are and what we are experiencing.  We need your permission to walk, or maybe just sit, through our darkness.

Don’t tell me to take walks.  I used to walk with the resolve of Forrest Gump.  I had strong legs, but my brain remained fragile.

Don’t tell me to get out and “do” something.  If I can’t even think, I can’t “do.”

This advice of “being” with me might seem counterintuitive.  But, let me tell you, that when we feel your acceptance, we are better able to accept ourselves and find self-compassion.

 A former board member and staff member of the National Alliance of Mental Illness/Texas, Diana Kern is the founder of Expect Recovery, an advocacy enterprise spreading her message of positive wellness, relationships and recovery.  She has testified six times before the State of Texas Senate Finance Committee in support of funding for mental health, most recently on February 2, 2011.

I think about mental health and mental illness a lot.  Serious depression permeates my personal life; serious mental illness permeates my professional life: Andrea Yates, the psychotic mother in my book Breaking Point; Tracey Tarlton, the bipolar book store manager in my book The Fortune Hunter. 

While researching The Fortune Hunter, specifically while sitting in the courtroom every day covering the trial of Celeste Beard, I met a young mother and reporter named Andrea Ball.  I was taken with Ms. Ball because she was hard-working, dedicated, so much more talented than I as both a reporter and writer, funny as hell, and proud of her son.  And being proud of one’s children seemed in short supply in that courtroom.  (Read the book, if you want to understand what I mean.) 

Andrea Ball

I was especially impressed by Ms. Ball when I learned that crime reporting wasn’t her usual beat – philanthropy was.  She has a talent for both.  So on January 15, 2011, when she posted on Facebook her Austin American-Statesman story headlined “Jared Loughner and the stigma and the reality of mental illness,” I was expecting to read more of her great work – heartfelt, accurate, sensitive, insightful, and as my former literary agent would say, “beautifully rendered.”  What I wasn’t expecting was a confession.

“Well, I have bipolar disorder, and I’m not coming to kill you, I promise,” Ms. Ball wrote.

I was thrilled to read her words – not because I’m happy she’s bipolar – but because just a few weeks before a friend had angered me when he’d suggested that I should stop hanging out with another friend because – he’d decided – she’s bipolar.  She’s not, as far as I know.  But I don’t give a flying F whether she is or isn’t, because she’s my friend, and one doesn’t abandon a friend just because she may have a mental disease, just as one doesn’t abandon a friend because she has breast cancer or high cholesterol and heart disease.  Instead, one stands by that friend and loves her through treatment.

The day that that man made his comment, I’d wanted to scream at him, “There are doctors and lawyers and judges who are bipolar and function perfectly well in society.”  But then I decided maybe lawyers weren’t such a good example and I kept quiet.  Then Ms. Ball published her confession, and I had proof that intelligent, hard-working, talented people can be bipolar and functioning members of society who make our world a better place.  (If you don’t believe me, just go to the Austin American-Statesman website and read some of Ms. Ball’s other stories.)

So I posted Ms. Ball’s article on Facebook.  I loved the majority of the responses made by my FB friends.  For the most part, they were kind and showed an understanding of mental disease.  But there was one comment that especially touched my heart.

“Andrea [Ball] hits home with me,” wrote D.H. Gregory.  “I am treated for bipolar and chronic depression.  Out of the closet.  And my stepson is a peaceful, innocent, incurable schizophrenic, who would harm only himself.  The headlines make me flinch, knowing the ignorance of mental illness.”

Yes, the headlines make me flinch, but so do my friends – and family members – who refuse to acknowledge mental illness, particularly that it is real and not simply a matter of “bucking up,” “mind over matter,” or “thinking positive thoughts” … AND who refuse to admit the fact that – like cancer – it can be treated.  But just like cancer, sometimes the proper treatments are difficult to determine and sometimes the results are better than others. 

With that in mind, perhaps it’s ironic that I asked D.H. Gregory to write a guest blog post on his battle with depression.  D.H. is also battling cancer of the brain.  Following are his words on mental illness, words he wrote saddened days after learning that a mutual friend of ours own battle with cancer isn’t going as well as we all prayed.

While still a youngster, depression snuck up on me like a ghost in the night…stealing away whatever blithe boyhood spirit I once had.  And it did usually come at night, upstairs in my top bunk.  A wave of crippling dread would wash over me like a blanket that was too warm.  I couldn’t talk about it, because I didn’t understand what to say.

I did not know about clinical depression back then.  I didn’t know what the hell it was, or the cause of it.  Sure, I had my moments of elation and despair, but not in equal measure.  The unseen flow of sadness was becoming increasingly troublesome. 

My folks would invariably ask me, “What’s wrong?  Why are you so down?”  I didn’t know.  I looked in the mirror through melancholy eyes and didn’t know what I saw.  “Why?”  Stop asking, Dad!

Christ, yeah, I went to church, and even Sunday-damn-School, and sat there drowning in…what? 

Dad, I don’t know!

I sat there in dread of the day, and of the next day.  What young boy sits in Sunday School, not in boredom, but in muted agony?

Funny thing was that my dad was always down too.  He was generally depressed as all hell.  I found out 40 years later that my problem back then, and  now, may be hereditary.

I could have inherited his endorphins or lack of dopamine or serotonin or whatever the hell else.  Re-uptake inhibitors?  Chemical stuff.

By college I was full-fledged down in the dumps.  Unless I was drinking or writing.  Most always both together.  Okay, always together.  When a buzz wore off…thud…back down the dark abyss.  A sort of chronic grief wrapped around my neck like a wool scarf in the heat of summer.  Sure…I could get stoked up over some Bikini Beach Volleyball, but after it was over … then what?  The inevitable descent back into gloom.  Afraid of the next day.

Then when I was about 35 I told my family doctor about it.  He asked my dad the same questions.   “I don’t really know, Doc.”  He said there was a drug called Zoloft that might help.  Sure, I said.  I would have agreed to arsenic.  That drug may have helped.  How could one really know?  I was still depressed, but maybe it was helping and I would have been more depressed if I didn’t take it.  Or maybe it wasn’t helping at all.  Like vitamins, how do you know if a vitamin is working?  I sure don’t.  A V-8 sure tastes good.  But how do I really know what it is doing for me?  Anyone who knows that for sure is a smarter man than I am.  I hear that antidepressants help.  Maybe they do.

But now, years and blues later, I take three medicines for depression … unpredictable permutations piggy-backed together to get me through a day.  That must be working – I am still here.  I have been a dart board of experimentation for many years.  Shrinks talk to me and take notes like they are typing out rapid-fire Morse code.  You know, pinpointing biological and social causes of my ills and afflictions.

Depression can be… well, it can be controlled somewhat.   I often get stuck under a pitiless cloud of desperation.  But help is out there.  So I am told.

After D. H. wrote that piece, he sent it to his best friend.  The friend wrote back and apologized for not recognizing D.H.’s problem, even though they’d hung out constantly, as D.H. said, since the sixth grade. 

So I guess the point I’m trying to make is don’t be afraid and run away if someone you know has a mental illness.  Treat them with the same tender love and compassion you would if they had cancer  … ‘cause maybe like D.H. they’re trying to heal from both. 

D.H. Gregory

D.H. Gregory holds a Master’s degree in English and journalism from Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas.  He was a newspaper columnist and film critic for eight years, followed by 25 years in the college bookstore business.  A native of Rockford, Illinois, he is now retired in Austin, Texas, with his wife Theresa, and he proudly wears the moniker of brain cancer survivor. 

D.H. also wants to write a memoir, and I think we should encourage him to do that.

* * *

For additional information on mental illness, contact the National Alliance on Mental Illness, the Austin Child Guidance Center, and read Andrea Ball’s articles “A thank-you to readers” and “Mental health centers face big cuts in state budget.”

The year 2011 is less than three hours away, at least in the Central time zone, and most people have already reflected on 2010 to say their goodbyes to a year of struggles, losses, and – I hope – at least a few victories.  To a small degree, I’ve done that, too.  Earlier today I glanced back at the year and listed my gratitudes on Facebook.  There were just three of them, in part because of the space limitations of Facebook status updates, but also because I had work to do. 

I’m thankful for that work because when I’m writing my heart beats like it should. When I’m not writing, it pounds with terrifying anxiety.  But now that it is 9:30 at night and my work is finished for the day, I want to reflect on my afternoon and evening as a way of reflecting on 2010.

I missed going to the gym this afternoon.  That too is the way I keep my heart from hurting.  But sometimes I feel work must come first, and last night, over and over, I shouted at myself, “I am NOT a quitter!”  I did that to ensure that I met my work goals.  For me, hitting my work goals improves my confidence as much as pounding the treadmill. 

About 5:30 this evening, hungry but not yet wanting dinner, I drove to McDonald’s for a hot fudge sundae that I could eat while continuing to work.  Calmly and quickly, I did work, getting closer and closer to meeting today’s goal.

When I came to a pausing point, I decided to trek over to the grocery store.  I wanted something to celebrate the New Year.  Already, I’d stopped at the wine store, finding the very last split of the specific champagne I wanted, hiding behind a brand I didn’t want. 

At the grocery store, I hit the shopping jackpot – walking up to the deli counter just as they’d put couscous and shrimp on sale for half price and up to the meat counter just when they had one last package of $12.99/lb. beef tenderloin.  Like the champagne, it was hidden, as if it had been waiting just for me. 

I guess that’s sort of like my year – thinking life is out of what I specifically want and then finding it right there on the shelf, tucked away, just for me.

I came home, unloaded the groceries and started washing a few dishes when I was distracted by a flash of silver light.  I looked up and out my back windows.  Fireworks exploded in the sky.  I cannot tell you how happy fireworks make me.  I grabbed my laptop, plugged it in, turned on the TV, and sat in my easy chair watching fireworks and football and working on my manuscript.  For me, life can’t get much better than that.  Before I knew it, I’d met my day’s goal.

I cooked my steak, along with asparagus, mushrooms, and tomatoes, poured my champagne, and ate and drank.  The steak was glorious, though over cooked on one corner, and perfection on the inside.  Again, isn’t that a bit like life?  The asparagus wasn’t as good as I’d hoped, but it was filling, the mushrooms had me wanting more, and the tomato, which I grew in my backyard, tasted sweet.  Yes, that’s a purposeful analogy of life.  The champagne sits by my side as I type to the rhythm of popping fireworks and wait to take that last sip of the year.

This is the first New Year’s Eve I’ve had at home since I moved into this house, and I am grateful for it.  Until tonight, I never knew that I could sit in my easy chair and watch fireworks and football.  I never knew that I could get so much work done on the last day of the year. 

But before I close out this blog and this year, I’ve got to repeat my Facebook gratitudes.  My number one gratitude is for my trip to China and my friend Candie and her husband Jay.  They made the trip happen and in doing so fulfilled a dream I’ve held for 35 years.  

My number two gratitude is for my fabulous and patient editor at Berkley Books, Denise Silvestro.  She is making my writing better than I deserve.  I owe her more thanks than I can ever say.

My number three gratitude is for the wonderful people who have hired me (and recommended me) for freelance work.  I could not have survived without you.

And since I’m not limited by Facebook’s status update, I also want to think my friend Karl Duvall, who motivates me to get my butt to the gym, my Facebook friends who encourage me, my friends from my hometown who have brightened this year, and you, my blog readers, especially Angela.  She, and you, like fireworks, are light in the darkness.

Together, y’all have made my 2010 a beautiful year.  Thank you.

Yes, even in China, the sex writer is on the job. This is an adult store in Beijing.

Recently, I was reading my friend Ruth Pennebaker’s blog post titled “Is This How It’s Going to be From Now On?” The post is about the many losses she and her friends have suffered in 2010.  By losses, she means deaths.

I’m not one to use words like “loss” or “passed.”  I say “died” or “kicked the bucket.”  To me, “lost” and “passed” seem too namby-pamby dream-like for what’s really happening – a damn hard, mule kick in the heart that leaves a gaping hole.  Yeah, sure, the hole eventually scars over and the soul-shattering pain slowly dulls.  But completely heal?  I don’t think so.

My father’s been dead for 50 years and though my mother, my sister and I have – in so many ways – joyfully moved on, there is that … loss.  Okay, I used that word.  But I didn’t lose my daddy like we lost him in the amusement park of life, because that’s what I always think about when someone says something like, “Oh, we lost our father this Christmas.”  That makes me want to scream, “Well, if he’s lost, go find him!  Say what he really is.  Dead.  Kicked the bucket.  Gone forever.  Sayonara, sonny.  Adios, amigo.  Goodbye.”

It’s not that simple, though.

This week I drove four and a half hours to my hometown, spent two and a half hours having lunch with friends I’ve known since kindergarten and haven’t seen for at least eight years, and drove four and a half hours back to my current home.  The reason I did that is because one of those dear friends “lost” her father a few weeks ago, I couldn’t make it to the funeral, she’s feeling that mule kick to the heart, and like Ruth and her friends, my friend is wondering “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?”

It depends.

I’ve had a lot of experience with death.  My dad dropping dead when I was five.  My grandfather kicking the bucket just before Christmas when I was in the seventh grade.  Our family friend Mark Wayne Conner dying of asphyxiation over spring break when he was a freshman in college and I was in the eighth grade.  Our family friend Rachel Perry shooting and killing her husband over summer vacation when I was in high school.  My friends Steve Brashear, Victor Stua, and Mike Lawrence dying in a water skiing accident, a house fire, and a car wreck between high school graduation and college graduation.  My friend and Sunday school teacher Lynn Grey murdered in a bank robbery not long after I graduated from college.  Or maybe that happened while I was in college.  It all runs together.  I could go on and on.

In fact, back in the days when I lived in Los Angeles, I remember regularly calling my mother before flying home for Christmas and saying, “Do I need to bring funeral clothes?” because it always seemed that someone we were close to died at Christmas time.

It’s a strange thing about Christmas … how death and birth seem to be so tightly twined in the season.  Why is it that we choose to celebrate the birth of the Christ child in the dead of winter?  Is it because we desperately need that hope in this desolate time of the year?*

One Christmas, I got off the plane, walked down the jetway to my mother, and in baggage claim she said, “Rick died today.”

Rick was the son of my mother’s business partner, a wonderful woman named Lavonia.  Our families were entwined like Christmas and death.  Six months before, Rick had gone into a coma.  Publicly, everyone said he was in a diabetic coma.  I believed he was in a cocaine-induced coma.  Once spring fell into summer, summer turned into fall, and fall edged into winter, his sister pulled the plug on him.  There was no other choice.

After the funeral, I stomped to our car, slammed the door, and yelled at my mother, “I’m so angry!”  I was furious that no one had tried to stop Rick from his addiction.  Instead, we’d enabled it.  I screamed, “I’m too angry to go to the cemetery.”  We went home.

A few years later, Lavonia’s daughter died from cirrhosis.

By then, my cousin Kathleen had kicked the bucket at age 32 from breast cancer.  Her mother and grandmother were still suffering from that unhealed kick to the heart.  So I looked at my mother’s business partner, who leaned against a doorframe in her home, and she smiled at me.

I said, “How do you do it?”

“What?” she said.

Both of her children were dead.  Her husband was dead.  Even her businesses were dead.  She and my mother had closed them after my cousin had died.  And my mother now lived four and half hours from her, not four and a half blocks.  So to some degree, their 30-plus years of daily friendship was dead, too.  “Keep smiling,” I said.

“Life’s for the living,” she answered.  And she wasn’t in denial about her life, her kids, their deaths, her … losses.  Life was simply for the living.

Not long after, my mother and I stood by her bedside.  This time, Lavonia was in the hospital.  She’d just had her leg amputated due to diabetes, and she started singing, “Tip toe through the tulips … and through the tulips with me …” 

A week or so ago, my friend whose father just died said to me, “No one copes well with death.”  I wanted to say to her, “Yes, some do.”  Lavonia. But it’s too early to say that to her.  She’s still in the “Is it always going to be like this?” stage.

But for me, when the sadness of Christmastime hits, when the thoughts of those we “lost” cause our scarred hearts to hurt, I think of Lavonia, and in my head I sing, “Tip toe through the tulips with me.  Knee deep in flowers we’ll stray.  We’ll keep the showers away.  And if I kiss you in the garden, in the moonlight, will you pardon me.  Come tip toe through the tulips with me.”  And I smile.  I loved Lavonia.  I miss her.  I weep for her at this moment because she was a second mom to me and she taught me that life is for the living.

I hope my friend can come to understand that, and I hope that someday she, Ruth, and Ruth’s friends will join me in a gentle chorus of “Tip toe through the tulips …  In the garden, in the moonlight …”

*Yes, I’m ignoring the fact that it’s summer in the southern hemisphere.

Today is the official publication date of the 10th anniversary edition of my true crime book Wages of Sin. 

I’m a bit stunned that typing that sentence, hitting that period at the end of it, rendered my fingers motionless.  It wasn’t the end of the sentence that did it.  Mixed emotions did, emotions I didn’t realize I had until that moment.

With my fingers hovering an eighth of an inch above the keyboard, my mind reflected back.  I signed my first true crime contract in 1997.  And just like my fingers hesitated moments ago, they hesitated back then.  Did I – the girl who had attended the largest Southern Baptist university in the nation, the co-ed who had been a missionary over school breaks, the girl who prayerfully had considered going to seminary – want to write about a drug-abusing dead lesbian and her world?  I wasn’t so sure I did.  In fact, I was pretty sure I didn’t.  

Furthermore, did I want to be known as a paperback true crime writer?  Absolutely not.  I wanted to be known as a writer of commercial fiction. 

But the reality was that my career as a novelist was going nowhere and I needed income. So I asked my then literary agent, “Will this book hurt my career as a novelist?  Should I write it under another name?”  She said no, along with the words that I’ll never forget: “No one will ever know you wrote it anyway.”  That was her not-so subtle way of saying the book would disappear into the oblivion of rotten sales figures. 

I was speechless because, strangely enough, her words elicited mixed emotions.  (Man, I have a lot of those.)  Part of me felt safe and comforted that I could make some money, finally get a book published (even if it was a massmarket paperback), no one would know about it (since it was paperback true crime), and my career would be no worse for it.  Another part of me wanted my first book to succeed.  And since I’d never ever read a true crime book in my life, I went out and bought my first true crime and started to report and write my own.

Eighteen months later, Wasted was published.  It soon hit #32 on the New York Times best-seller list.  My publishing house was ecstatic; my then editor Karen Haas told me that a massmarket paperback original true crime rarely makes the New York Times best-seller list.  I too became ecstatic.  After all, for more than a year, I had gone to bed at night and awakened each morning envisioning my name on the New York Times list.  I’d just failed to envision which list – fiction v. nonfiction, hardback v. paper.

The Austin American-Statesman then reported that Wasted had been banned in Nacogdoches, Texas, because the book had the word “lesbian” on the cover. That banning resulted in coast-to-coast press coverage.  Wasted was also named a finalist for the Austin Writers’ League (now Writers’ League of Texas) Violet Crown Award for nonfiction.  All of that combined to send the book into a second printing.  Ten years later, Wasted was updated and reissued, resulting in its third print run.

Austin American-Statesman headline, January 10, 1999

* * *

When I’d signed the contract for Wasted, I’d planned to write one to four true crime books and return to fiction.  As a result, after Wasted was published and it was time to pitch new true crime ideas to my agent, my pitches were half-hearted and subsequently rejected by my agent. 

But one August day in 1999, I was on the phone with my editor when she asked if/when I was ever going to pitch them – the publishing house – another true crime idea.  I relayed that I’d been talking to my agent about it and we’d never found a case she liked.  My editor asked about the rejected ideas, and I told her about the one I called the case of the Southern Baptist killer stripper – a girl who was reared devout Southern Baptist, became a stripper, then a killer.  She screamed, “That’s it!  That’s the one we want!”  And so Wages of Sin came into being. 

Stephanie Martin, the Southern Baptist killer stripper

By then Michael Corcoran of the Austin American-Statesman had started referring to me in print as “true crime writer Suzy Spencer.”  Despite the fact that a few paragraphs above I said I’d asked myself if I wanted to be known as a paperback true crime writer, the truth of the matter is I didn’t think of myself as a true crime writer.  I thought of myself as a writer.  In fact, Michael’s true crime moniker was rather difficult for me to accept … until I added the words tabloid trash to it. 

“Tabloid trash true crime writer Suzy Spencer” – now that’s a title I could embrace.  God only knows why.  My friends were appalled and repeatedly berated me, telling me I shouldn’t put myself down like that.  I didn’t think of it as a put-down.  Again, God only knows why.  But honestly, I love being called a tabloid trash true crime writer.  It suits me.

So I signed the second contract without hesitation and dragged a couple of guy friends to the Yellow Rose strip club.  That’s where the killer stripper had worked.  Over the course of two research trips, I discovered that the type of man with whom you walk into a strip club affects how the dancers interact with you – well, interact with me.  One type of man gets you – me – offers of table dances; another type gets you left alone.

I also learned that if you take notes under the table at a strip club that it can get you surrounded by security and dragged into the manager’s office.  But if you – I – let the manager show off, he’ll be nice to you and let you stay.

I returned a time or two alone to pick up research documents.  On those trips, I discovered that when I go into a strip club by myself I’m invisible to the men and glared at by the women.  Strangely enough, that made me feel completely safe and utterly threatened.  Mixed emotions?

What I’m trying to say as I ramble on far too long is that as I close out my true crime career with the reissue of Wages of Sin, which sends the book into its third print run (and even without the third print run, or any fancy accolades or awards, it is a book that has far outsold Wasted), I’m … well, … overwhelmed.  My life and career have turned out nothing like I expected.  I’m not sure if it was the path that God chose for me or if it’s one I foisted upon Him.  But either way, it’s been a stunning, life altering, soul-changing 13 years, and I thank Jesus for it.

Wasted irrevocably changed my attitude about homosexuality.  Wages of Sin confused me.  Breaking Point broke my heart, while giving me credibility as a journalist.  The Fortune Hunter broke my spirit, and for that I am most grateful. 

In fact, for my entire true crime career – with well more than 300,000 books in print – I am grateful.  God, I am grateful.  That’s the one thing about which I don’t have mixed emotions. 

Now please go out and buy the reissue of Wages of Sin.  I’d be most grateful for that, too.

Lunching with Celeste

Today, Kingwood, Texas, friend and fan Courtney Little posted the above photo on her Facebook page with the words, “Suzy, today I’m lunching with Celeste.  Haha!  I’m a little scared …”  Celeste is the killer in my true crime book The Fortune Hunter.  So, yes, if Courtney truly were having lunch with Celeste, she should be scared.  Celeste is frightening, but she’s also very entertaining. 

When I interviewed Celeste in prison, I didn’t want to leave because she was so much fun.  I know that sounds weird – interviewing a killer in prison and having fun.  But Celeste is funny.  And only by sitting down with her and spending time with her did I understand how and why she could talk a friend into killing her husband for her … and afterwards convince other friends that she was completely innocent.  In my opinion, Celeste wraps her lies in just enough truth – shocking, humorous confessions of truths that most people would want to keep hidden – that everything else she says, including her lies, feels honest.

Strangely enough, The Fortune Hunter is the only true crime book I ever really wanted to write.  I fell into my first true crime book, Wasted.  To a lesser degree, I fell into my second book, Wages of Sin.  (I may explain that in a later post.)  I only did the third book, Breaking Point, because I was asked to write it.  But The Fortune Hunter was different.  I’d wanted to write it ever since I first heard about the crime in 1999. 

I wanted to write about it because the person who pulled the trigger was Tracey Tarlton, a manager at BookPeople, the largest independent bookstore in Texas.  BookPeople had been very good to me in promoting Wasted.  I don’t think Tracey remembers this, but I once contacted her and asked her to make sure another writer who was appearing at BookPeople got a copy of Wasted.  Tracey promised me she’d get it to her, and I appreciated that. 

But I also wanted to write about the case because Celeste and Tracey had met at a mental health facility and mental health issues have always fascinated me.  (I would have been a psychology major if a rat lab hadn’t been a requirement at Baylor.  I’m deathly afraid of rodents).

I pitched the story to my then agent, who pitched it to my then editor.  My editor made an offer on the book, but my agent encouraged me to turn it down.  So, I did. 

Years later, I was having lunch with an old friend from summer camp.  When I say an old friend, I mean we’d first met when we were about eight years old and approximately 40 years later we were still getting together and laughing and talking.  This day, we were scarfing down Mexican food at Hula Hut on Lake Austin, when my friend announced that she and another camp friend had decided what book I should write next – “Tracey Tarlton,” she said.

“What?” I screamed.  I didn’t know how my friend even knew about the case.  For years, she’d been living overseas.  But then she explained that Tracey was the Tracey Tarlton at our summer camp.  In full disclosure, Tracey and I never really knew each other at camp.  I just knew who she was, and, obviously, we had many of the same friends.  In fact, I eventually learned that my friend had been a mentor to Tracey. 

With that, I had to write the book.  It was my story.  I planned on it being the last true crime book I ever wrote, and I planned on it being the best true crime book I ever wrote. 

Well, half came true – it is the last true crime book I ever plan on writing.  But according to many, it is the worst true crime book I ever wrote, and it’s not my story.  The reasons for that are many, and I don’t feel like confessing them right now.  Let’s just say I take the blame.  But the good news is that the events surrounding that book solidified my decision to never write true crime again.  

* * *

Of course, even when one makes a decision that is right for her, it doesn’t mean it’s a decision without mourning.  Today one of those proverbial waves of sadness washed over me when I learned what I had long suspected – The Fortune Hunter has gone out of print.  I knew this day was coming.  In December of 2009, I emailed my editor and asked if it was out of print – too many people had told me they couldn’t find the book.  My editor had someone else email me that the book was still available.

In early September 2010, there was a bit of renewed interest in the book.  Once again, people emailed me that they couldn’t find it and wanted a copy.  Again, I figured it was out of print.  But some people searched, begged, and found a copy.  Courtney Little’s mother, Connie, was one of them.  Connie – a friend from high school – read the book and passed it on to Courtney, which resulted in Courtney’s Facebook post of today.

Courtney doesn’t know how perfect her note and timing were.  It helped with that wash of sadness.  So did her mother’s Facebook comment:  “You know what I like about Celeste?  She makes me look like a really GOOD mother.” 

I know, I know, I shouldn’t be sad.  I’m on to a new, exciting challenge writing a memoir.  And though I say I’m finished with true crime, Wages of Sin is returning to print next month.  Still, I also know that it’s time to move on.  But before I do, I want to say thank you.  Thank you, Courtney, for making me smile.  Thank you, Connie, for making me laugh.  And thank you to all my true crime friends.  You have changed my life.  You have made it better.  I hope you’ll consider following me into my new world of writing. 

In the meantime, let me introduce you to Stephanie Martin, the killer in Wages of Sin, the woman I refer to as the Southern Baptist killer stripper.  She was reared Southern Baptist, became a stripper, and then a killer.  I wonder what Courtney will say about having lunch with Stephanie.

Stephanie Martin, WAGES OF SIN

I’ve been staring at this page for an hour or two.  I want to fill it with perfect words, but the only words that come to my mind are steak and martini.  If I think harder, I hear the hoarse laughter and cough of a woman who has smoked for too many years, and yet I smile.  And in my mind, I see a short, plump woman in a yellow sweater with hair that almost matches, a cigarette in her dainty, tanned, bejeweled fingers, and I smile again.  Then I remember the tears she shed as we talked, and how – thanks to our mutual, warped senses of humor – those tears would often morph into that husky laugh, before falling into her smoker’s cough.  I am thinking of my friend Becky Beard.  Becky died yesterday of an apparent heart attack. 

The first time I met Becky, she, her younger brother Paul, and Paul’s wife Kim and I shared dinner at Ray’s Steakhouse in Austin.  They were in town for the trial of their father’s killer, which I was covering for ABC News. The gist of the story is that after Becky’s mother died, her father Steven, a lonely millionaire TV executive, married a young waitress from Austin Country Club.  Though Steve gave the waitress every material thing she wanted, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on each and every penny he had.  So she romanced a lonely lesbian named Tracey Tarlton and convinced Tracey to kill Steve for her.  If you recognize the story it’s because it became my book The Fortune Hunter. 

But I don’t want to dwell on The Fortune Hunter right now.  I don’t want anyone to think that I’m using Becky’s death to promote my book.  So please, don’t even consider buying it right now.  I’m only telling you this to explain how and why Becky and I met. 

As the murder trial progressed, Paul and Kim had to return to work in Virginia, leaving Becky, who lived in Dallas, alone to bear the stress and grief of the trial in Austin.  That’s what prompted Becky and me to start sharing our courthouse lunches and dinners at Ray’s.  In fact, we ate at least one meal together almost every day of the two-month long trial. 

The evenings after especially stressful days, we’d rush to Ray’s, where we’d plop down at the bar.  Becky would order a Ketel One vodka martini, and I’d order a Bombay Sapphire gin martini.  I hate to admit that I introduced her to martinis, but I love to admit that ABC producer Bert Rudman introduced her to Ketel vodka.  Anyway, I digress.  Becky and I both would order filets mignons.  She’d emphasize that hers had to be seared on both sides, which is the way her father liked them cooked.  And she’d order a baked potato, while I would stick with the restaurant’s garlic mashed potatoes. 

We’d sit for hours, eating and drinking, often sipping a second martini.  Sometimes we’d joke with the bartender.  Other times we’d eavesdrop on patrons talking about the trial.  Most times we’d huddle in secret conversation.  Sometimes Becky would rage about the day’s events.  Other times she’d cry.  But always we ended up cracking jokes and laughing.  Her laugh was more like a snort.  To think about it makes me smile.

I know a good reporter is supposed to keep her emotional distance from her sources.  But I failed that miserably with that story.  I grew to love Becky and think of her as a dear friend.  Though I was a bit of an emotional support for her during the trial, she definitely was my emotional support.  Strangely enough, reporters need that during murder trials.

Becky and I stayed in touch for years.  Often she’d phoned me late at night, while sitting in a noisy bar and drinking martinis.  Over the shouts and laughter of drunken patrons, we’d once again cry and laugh together.  She’d send me emails suggesting story ideas, including a clever and funny novel based on our favorite prosecutor, Allison Wetzel.  She’d tell me about her trips to Destin, Florida, and her attendance at pro golf tournaments.  Like her mother, Becky was an avid golfer.  And once her father’s estate was settled, I remember Becky’s excitement over buying a gold-toned Ford Thunderbird convertible.   It was an indulgence for a woman who often worked two jobs.  Becky was a math teacher who moonlighted as a bookkeeper.  I always admired her for her work ethic.

I admired her too for her golden heart.  Becky rarely resented the fact that her father adopted his killer’s teenaged daughters and made those teens equal heirs to his riches.  In fact, Becky expressed gratitude that her father had provided her with sisters; for decades she’d been the reliable middle child between two sons.  At one point, she even included the killer’s daughters in her own will.  Becky was a far, far better and more loving person than I could ever be.

Yesterday, her sister-in-law Kim announced Becky’s passing on Facebook.  In actuality, Kim only said her sister-in-law had passed.  Knowing that Kim has at least two sisters-in-law, I privately emailed her and asked if she was referring to Becky.  All the while, I assured myself that she wasn’t.  But I knew Becky drank too much, smoked too much, and was heavy.  And to my devastation, Kim wrote back that, yes, she was referring to Becky.

I feel indulgent in saying to my “devastation.”  I’m not a relative like Kim.  I hadn’t spoken to Becky in a long while.  I had distanced from her as I had gotten more into my sex book research … and as I had kept firm in my promise to myself that The Fortune Hunter would be my last true crime book.  But I’d thought about Becky last month as I’d traveled to Dallas.  And I think about her today.  She died 11 years and 18 days after her father had been shot while he slept.  I wonder if the month of October had been too emotionally tough for that kind and gracious heart of hers. 

Kim told me to go have a steak and martini in honor of Becky.  I don’t know if I can do that tonight.  My eyes are filled with tears.  Becky was just so damned good to me.  Instead, four hours after I started searching for the perfect words to salute my beautifully imperfect friend, I’m going to go to the gym.  Maybe trying to keep my heart healthy is the best way I can honor her.  But I tell you one thing for darned sure, if Ray’s Steakhouse were still open,* which it isn’t, I’d say screw the gym and I’d go have a steak, seared on both sides, and a martini for Becky.  After all, Ray’s has seen us shed tears before. 

Becky, here’s to you. 

* Strangely enough, Ray LeMay, the owner of Ray’s Steakhouse, died just this past summer.

I recently mentioned on Facebook that I have a fantasy of seeing someone on the beach reading one of my books.  Perhaps that’s not a fantasy you’d expect from a woman who has spent the past five years researching sex.  But I think it is a fantasy of many writers of books.  And since I am, first and foremost, a writer of books, … well, you get the idea.

So, this morning, I opened Facebook and found this:

That’s Diane Nerren Butler reading my book Wasted on a beach in Maui.  Diane, a friend from high school and travel nurse working in Maui, knew my book fantasy and was sweet enough to fulfill it.  All I can say is thank God for friends and thank you, Diane. 

A few minutes later, I got an email from one of my coaching clients, Frances Townsend.  Her email was headlined “Cool pic”.  Inside, Frances wrote, “Just picking up some research books on sociopaths for my book and saw this in true crime.  So cool!!!”  I clicked on the photo Frances had attached, and this is what I found:

That’s Wasted on a bookstore shelf.  I don’t care how many books a writer publishes, there’s still a huge thrill in seeing your book on a bookstore shelf, especially if it’s a brand spanking new copy of your book selling for full price and not a used copy selling for 50-cents. 

This afternoon, what I write is so cool!!! that I have such great friends.  Thank you, both.

By the way, I have fantasies of seeing someone reading my book in any Whataburger, on a train from Philly to New York … or in the Swiss Alps for that matter, on a plane to anywhere, in a bar in Japan, seaside in Greece, along the Amazon, snapped by the paparazzi at LAX — shoot, since I’m fantasizing, let’s make that the paparazzi in Paris — along a riverbank in Africa … even along the Angelina River near my hometown.  I just love seeing people read my books.

Until I have those fantasies fulfilled, in my mind, I hear Bette Midler singing, “You got to have friends, the feelings oh so strong … la, la, la, la, la … you got to have friends.”

THANKS, Y’ALL!!

In the days following the June 20, 2001, murder of Andrea Yates’ five children, the City of Houston buzzed with shock, gossip, and confusion.  But on September 11, 2001, it was eerily desolate, a quiet stillness I’ve never experienced in decades of traveling to the Bayou City.

I think I was the only lunch hour customer in the sidewalk cafe not far from the downtown courthouse — the place where the Andrea Yates competency hearing was supposed to be underway.  I sat by a multi-lane street, its silent emptiness a contrast to the screaming panic, chaos and violence in New York, Washington, D.C, and on a field in Pennsylvania.

My waiter and I traded polite smiles and whispered our words as I asked for, and he tried to provide, news updates.  I think I wanted him to stay with me, but he left me alone.  I leaned back in my chair.  I stared down the street.  I watched the fear, in the form of greed, that was overtaking our nation — a convenience store worker walked outside, looked up at his towering gasoline sign, and repeatedly raised his prices.

I paid for my meal and got in my car and drove past the gas station.  I wanted to steer west onto I-10 to Austin, to my home and my family.  I drove east on I-45, towards Friendswood, to park in front of a former home of Rusty and Andrea Yates, to walk up the sidewalk of their former next-door neighbors, and to knock on their door.  In my arms I carried my bag, notepad, recorder, and a nearly foot-high stack of Andrea Yates’ medical records.

With constant replays of the burning and collapsing World Trade Center playing on a large screen TV, Andrea Yates’ … friend, fan, and fellow nurse wanted to study Andrea’s medical records.  She read out loud from the Methodist Hospital records, as Katie Couric described the falling buildings over and over again.

We sat at the family dining table, and as the woman read aloud, her husband munched on tortilla chips like this was any other mundane Tuesday and talked over his wife.  “Nice guy,” he said about Andrea’s husband, Rusty.  The man cocked his head toward the TV.

“I know Rusty didn’t drown those kids,” the wife said.  “She did.”  But the wife – a psych nurse – believed Rusty slowly killed Andrea.

Her husband tried to stand up for Rusty, pointing out that Andrea was severely depressed.  The husband and wife bantered back and forth, she defending Andrea, he defending Rusty.

“Rusty—he’s a pretty good man,” the husband said.

“You can’t say that,” the wife interrupted, then argued that Rusty knew Andrea suffered from postpartum depression, kept having babies, had her living in a bus.  “He’s keeping her confined 24/7 and she’s having no interaction with anybody else but the kids and him…  That’s evidence there …”

And if I recall correctly, a child wandered in and out of the room as this discussion of insanity and murder wore on and 9/11 raged in the background.  I remember worrying about such a young child being exposed to such violence.  I stared at the TV as reporter Ashley Banfield watched a gray cloud speed toward her.  She screamed at woman with a child, “Get out of here!  Get out of here!  Look out for your baby!”**

But the woman in Houston, Texas, staring at Andrea Yates’ psychiatric history, turned to her husband and said, “How can you say this is such a good guy when he’s stupid?”

“He doesn’t have the knowledge that we do.”

“He’s controlling and selfish.”

I spent hours in that home, and all I wanted to do was get to my home.

Finally, well past dark, I was on I-10, tuning my radio to KTRH NewsRadio Houston.  As I drove, I listened to the reports coming out of New York, I watched the waning moon, and I prayed … and I realized that this day of death was my cousin’s birthday, and I’d completely forgotten.  I reached for my phone and dialed her number.  “Happy Birthday.”  How does one say those words cheerily on a day when our nation is burning and thousands are dying? 

She thanked me for calling, and we hung up.  I kept driving.  The last thing I remember that night is seeing the bright lights of a gas station on the outskirts of Austin.  Cars were lined up, their owners fearfully waiting to top-off their tanks.  Just as I’d passed by that gas station in Houston with the jacked-up prices, I passed by this one too.  I didn’t want to feed into the panic.  I just wanted my mother’s voice in my ear, as I phoned her and reported, “I’m home.”  Safe.  Sound.  In the quiet stillness of my own bed.

I wonder if that’s how Andrea Yates’ children felt – safe, sound, in the quiet stillness of their parents’ bed as they went home to Jesus.  I know many will disagree with me, but combing through Andrea’s medical records for hours on end, for months on end, knowing them better than one of her own defense attorneys did, I believe with all my heart and soul that that’s all she was trying to do the morning of June 20, 2001 – send her children home where they’d be safe and sound from the evils of this world.  For her, that evil was herself.  For America, on 9/11, it was Osama bin Ladin.

I will never forget Andrea Yates’ children.

And I will never forget September 11, 2001.

* * *

*  To read The Writing Life I Live, part 1, click here.

** For that one action, I will always respect Ashley Banfield.

When I wrote fiction, the life I lived became my writing.  A hometown visit with my friend Paula Sue inspired my short story My Sweet Sheri Sue, which you’ll find here and was published in a slightly different form in the anthology Red Boots & Attitude: The Spirit of Texas Women Writers (Eakin Press, 2002).  Another short story (that I now find embarrassing) was inspired by an obsession, and a regrettably lost short story was the result of a vacation to Hawaii.

Since I’ve been writing solely nonfiction, my writing has become the life I live.  What I mean by that is that if I’m not researching nonfiction, I’m not having any life adventures or experiences that create stories.  There are no visits home.  There are no obsessions other than work.  And there are no non-nonfiction trips.  As I said, my nonfiction writing has become the life I live.

For example, whenever we remember the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, I recall the night before it hit.  I sat at my computer doing research for my sex book.  As I did so often back then, I was cruising Craigslist’s Casual Encounters.  With Katrina coverage buzzing on the TV, I decided to click on Casual Encounters in New Orleans.  I was a bit shocked, dismayed, and laughing a bit, too, when I saw how many New Orleanians were looking for quick sex rather than evacuating from the storm.  Of course, many of those seekers of sex appeared to be prostitutes.

Today I wonder how many of them washed away in the storm and how many of them lived.  Maybe wondering that, imagining that, will send me back to writing fiction.

I doubt that though, because I remember just before the Andrea Yates trial, I was having dinner with Dateline NBC’s Keith Morrison and his production crew.  I was talking about how I wanted to return to fiction.  He asked me why since there are so many true stories out there that need to be told.  I think Keith Morrison changed my life that night, and I doubt Keith Morrison even remembers who I am.

* * *

Andrea Yates is one of the strongest examples of the writing I do becoming the life I live.  When 9/11 happened I was in a hotel in Clear Lake, Texas, researching my Yates book.  I’d stayed at that hotel before, specifically when I was covering the funeral of her four young sons and infant daughter, all of whom she’d methodically drowned in the family bathtub.

The coastal Texas morning seared hot, humid, and hazy with pollution.  … Already five black hearses were parked close to the sanctuary.  … Fat drops of water wept from trees …

That’s what I wrote about that June 26^th day in 2001 in my book Breaking Point.

I still remember the tiny white coffins and the blankets that Rusty Yates, the children’s father, tucked next to the five cold bodies.

“This is Mary’s little blankie,” he said, holding it up for the mourners to see.  It was a loosely crocheted baby blanket.  “… Her little toes used to slip through it.”

Approximately, 140 pages later in Breaking Point I wrote:

Tuesday, September 11, 2001, dawned with beauty in Houston, Texas.  The air was stunningly clear, the sky autumn bright.  The temperature was almost crisp as Bay Area residents walked out their doors and picked up the Houston Chronicle from their driveways.  They opened the paper and saw a front page headline: “Yates jury selection is today.”

That’s why I was in Houston on September 11, 2001 – to cover the Andrea Yates competency hearing, a hearing that would determine whether the psychotic mother was competent to stand trial for her children’s murders.

* * *

The hotel in which I stayed was just down the street from the extended stay hotel where Andrea’s mother-in-law was registered during the murders, and across the street from NASA, where Andrea’s husband Rusty sat at his desk working until Andrea phoned him after she’d placed the children’s corpses in the bed she shared with him.  “You need to come home,” she told Rusty.

Considering that, it may sound oxymoronic when I say my hotel was a quiet, safe place, so when I slowly woke to the constant sound of sirens on September 11, 2001, I was confused.  Never before had I heard sirens outside of NASA.  I picked up a USA Today and stared at the five and half inch by seven and a half color photograph of Andrea Yates centering the newspaper’s front page.  “’Psychotic,’” it said, “but is Andrea Yates legally insane?”

I had been led to believe that Andrea’s competency hearing didn’t begin until September 12^th.  But as the Houston Chronicle and USA Today said, jury selection was beginning that morning.   Furious and frustrated that I hadn’t known that, I started throwing on clothes while dialing a friend in Austin and griping about my misinformation.

Calmly, firmly she said, “Have you turned on the TV?”

“No, I haven’t had time,” I said, and I kept griping.

Repeatedly, calmly, firmly, she interrupted and told me to turn on the TV.

Finally, I did.  And there I found why sirens were blaring outside of NASA – the World Trade Centers and the Pentagon had been hit by planes and were in flames.  (The news about Pennsylvania had not aired yet.)

I dialed the Harris County courthouse to see if the Yates jury selection was still on.  I was told, yes, it was, 120 potential jurors were already there.

I grabbed my bags, checked out, and blasted up I-45 from Clear Lake to Houston, stunned at the empty freeway heading into downtown, equally stunned at the gridlock caused by workers fleeing the city.  NASA, oil companies, Enron, and major banks were in lockdown and under guard.  Everything was in lockdown, I believed, except the Harris County courthouse.  But in the mere minutes it took me to race from Clear Lake to Houston, the courthouse had been closed too and the potential jurors sent home.

I wanted to go home, too.  But I had an interview to conduct that night with a former neighbor of Rusty and Andrea’s, and she still wanted to keep our appointment.  So on this stunningly crystal blue day of violence, I found a sidewalk café and sat alone in the silent city, the sun warming my face as if I were on vacation in Hawaii.

To Be Continued

I’m stuck in Whataburger and I don’t want to be. 

Rain from Tropical Storm Hermine is slashing out of the sky.  As much as I don’t want to be in the WB, even more of me doesn’t want to get soaked to the bone, as my grandmother would have said, running to my car.

I don’t want to be at the WB because I think I may have just written the opening of my book-after-next (meaning the book to be written after I write my second sex book).  This book-after-next is an idea that’s been sitting in my brain for years.  I’ve written openings for it before, but I knew they weren’t quite there yet.  This one may not be there yet either, but it’s closer than any of the other of the openings I’ve written.  In fact, it’s so much closer that it has me eager to research the book and write it; I want to be sitting at home writing emails to begin the research rather than sitting in the WB.

But since I’m stuck in the WB without my laptop and without my cell phone, which I accidentally forgot and regret because I’d like to post a photo of my WB “desk” and work, let me back up and write by hand how this all started.

It started with the Sept/Oct 2010 issue of Poets & Writers magazine.  I’ve been reading this one issue of P&W for weeks, savoring it like a fine chocolate truffle.  Okay, truth – savoring it like the fine hamburger I ate at the St. Regis Hotel in Beijing.

Where I ate my St. Regis hamburger

Oh, my lord, that was a great hamburger.  Wish I had a photograph of it.  Anyway, I’m digressing with food as I frequently do, so back to the subject.

The Sept/Oct issue of P&W is so inspiring that, since the second day of reading it, I’ve been bringing my yellow legal pad to the WB so that I can scribble notes as the P&W articles evoke ideas in me – hence, my ability to write this blog even though I don’t have my laptop with me.  

I want to post links to the articles “The Porn Star Who Came to Dinner”, to which I could relate, and “Face the Fear”, which encouraged me.  Alas, both are available only in the print version of P&W.  So please, subscribe to P&W.  Often, a one-year subscription is less than $10 and less expensive than buying two issues off the newsstand rack. 

But it’s another print only piece that inspired me today – “The Taste of Memory”, which is a profile of novelist and attorney Monique Truong.  I’m embarrassed to say I’d never heard of Ms. Truong until P&W.

… For the narrative of her first novel, The Book of Salt (Houghton Mifflin, 2003), she imagined Binh, a gay Vietnamese cook who worked on the home of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. The book was enthusiastically received and went on to win the New York Public Library Young Lions Fiction Award, the Bard Fiction Price, a Stonewall Book Award—Barbara Gittings Literature Award, and the Asian-American Literature Award.

– Renee H. Shea, describing novelist Monique Truong in Poets & Writers

Though that quote opens the P&W profile of Ms. Truong, it’s not the one that grabbed me.  The one that made me stop and think I’ve got to share this was deeper into the article.  It was a quote from Ms. Truong.

As writers we are socialized into a state of perpetual gratefulness—to receive a grant, a publishing contract, a book tour—as if we didn’t earn anything with our labor and talents. Lawyers don’t think that way. They know that they have valuable skill and expect valuable compensation for it. I love my fellow writers, but I wish that they would think and behave—just in this instance—more like lawyers.

– Monique Truong

That quote was especially poignant today as I lost a gig.  The potential client didn’t think I was worth the money. We writers get that all the time.  And we encourage such thinking by offering our services for pennies, if not for free.  After all, I’m laying out my heart and soul, my work and my writing, to you for free right now, which insinuates, and thus perpetuates the belief, that my time, talent, and work – that a writer’s time, talent, and work – are worthless.

The only way we writers are going to change such thinking is if we start demanding just pay for our words.  But in a poor economy, with thousands of writers struggling to be discovered, with class after class and magazine after magazine and blog after blog advising yet-to-be-published writers to write anything, anywhere just to get their work and names out there, well, that’s probably not going to happen.

Just today, Arianna Huffington was on ABC World News promoting her new book Third World America. As part of the story, Diane Sawyer and Ms. Huffington discussed how our nation’s economy could improve if each business would hire just one more person for six months.  I found this ironic since Ms. Huffington doesn’t pay the majority of the writers who contribute to her highly successful Huffington Post.

Apparently, at least as evidenced by the fact that she doesn’t pay the majority of her contributors, Ms. Huffington has little or no respect for the written word, unless she’s writing it.  After all, she’s not offering her book for free—at least that I’m aware of.  But maybe I’m wrong about that.  Since I’m not being paid to write this, I haven’t bothered to do in-depth investigative research.  In fact, that’s why much of journalism suffers today.  A writer can’t afford to do quality research when one is being paid perhaps $7 for 500 or 1000 words.  If you don’t believe that’s a going rate, just check out the job postings for writers at Craigslist or www.journalismjobs.com and see the pay rates.

But I’m not going to put the blame on those hiring us.  I’m putting the blame on us.  We writers don’t have enough self-confidence to demand what’s just.  Perhaps that’s why we’re writers – we can write and bare the weaknesses, such as lack of confidence, that every human being experiences at some point but most are loathe to admit.  Indeed, we writers seem to find inspiration in our weaknesses and loathing.  For some reason, novelist David Foster Wallace comes to mind, but maybe I’m wrong about that.  Just as I’m embarrassed to admit that I’d never heard of Ms. Truong, I’m even more embarrassed to admit that I’ve never read Mr. Wallace, though I did read quite a bit about his suicide.

Again, I’m digressing.  Apparently, my mind is flowing in and out with the bands of rain.  So I want to say one more thing before I return to the point of this blog post.

Today, after lamenting to one of my sex source friends about the lost gig, which I guess I should admit that I somewhat sabotaged because I was concerned that the potential client might be a pain-in-the butt to work with, my friend wrote me, “well, remember you are worth what you charge and good riddance to that pain!  hope you have a good day, and STOP doubting yourself!!!!”

No wonder she’s become one of my most cherished friends.

Besides, as I told her, I know that if I’d use the time I would have spent working on that non-client’s work to write my own book, I could make more money (I hope).

What I didn’t say to her is that I also know that if I’d use that time to write my own book I’d feel so much better about myself.  Maybe that’s the real reason we writers show so little respect for ourselves and our work by giving it away for free – writing makes us feel so good.  I don’t mean to shock you here, but I’d gladly trade one great sentence for that fabulous hamburger in China.  And I LOVED that hamburger and that trip to China.  Someday, maybe I’ll tell you how that trip changed my life.  But if I do, that will be in a book.

Anyway, and finally, back to Monique Truong.  According to P&W, on April 23, 1975, when she was six years old, Ms. Truong was airlifted out of Vietnam and relocated to the United States. 

Just the month before, in March 1975, I’d been in Malaysia on a mission trip with the Baylor University Baptist Student Union.  We’d flown over South Vietnam, and I’d peered out the plane window, into the darkness, and watched the orange and yellow glow of the bomb fire below us.  I remember the anger, fear, and violence in Texas over the following months (and years) as the refugees from Vietnam came to our Gulf shores and began shrimping.

In small town North Carolina and in Houston, Texas, Ms. Truong, the daughter of a Shell Oil executive, was the victim of prejudice and racism.  In part, that motivated her to become a lawyer – she didn’t want to feel helpless in a country (the U.S.) governed by attorneys.

But Truong was also influenced by Southern Gothic novels and Harper Lee, William Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor.

“One of the things I always try to think about when I am telling a story is that I want to reclaim certain things that belong to me, my personal history and the larger History with a capital H,” she told P&W.  “I wanted to tell a story of the American South that included someone like me in one way or another.”

And maybe that’s what motivated me to start writing on book-after-next.  But I’m not sure.  I started writing this at noon. It’s now well past midnight.  Tropical Storm Hermine has been lashing at my windowpanes for 12 hours, and I’ve been toiling over these words, trying to get them right, for that same length of time.  They still aren’t right.  But the rain is so hard and loud that it sounds like water banging against tin rather than drops striking double-paned glass.  I can’t hear myself think.  So I’m going to beg you once again to go buy the Sept/Oct issue of Poets & Writers. Read the article on Monique Troung, pay attention to the way she talks about writing, about the South, about family, and maybe you’ll understand why I’m inspired.

“I think this story starts with Henry, my father,” I wrote at Whataburger.  “At least that’s the way I intended it to start.  But maybe it begins with L’Ida Lee.  If it hadn’t been for L’Ida Lee, I never would have been born.  L’Ida Lee killed herself.”

* * *

Monique Truong’s latest novel is Bitter in the Mouth.

The day after I emailed my sex book to my editor in New York, I had so much I wanted to blog about.  Ideas and words kept popping into my head.  But I wouldn’t let myself write them because I felt I needed to take the day off.  The previous four months had been long, hard, and stressful – editing and rewriting my own work under a tight deadline, along with editing and coaching others, teaching, prepping for and going to China, family responsibilities, and perhaps most stressful of all, the fear and anxiety of revealing my soul in a memoir that I dream hundreds of thousands of people will read.

The second day after turning in my sex memoir, the blog ideas and words continued popping into my brain.  I still had a hunger to write them down.  Instead, I returned to my sex book and did a week’s worth of rewrite and re-turned in the book, a “whopping” five pages shorter than the original, but with an ending I hope is stronger and more satisfying to the reader.  (And please pardon that ridiculous pun.  It’s one I wouldn’t have used if a better word had popped into my brain).

Just like the week before when I’d first turned in the sex book, that hunger and desire to blog returned.  Still I wouldn’t let myself write.  I knew I needed rest, and I had freelance assignments that had been waiting for two months.  I had to dive into them.  (Thank you, kind clients, for waiting for me.)

By the time I turned in those assignments, complete and utter physical, mental and emotional exhaustion overwhelmed me.  I think that happens to most writers once we finish a book.  After the exhaustion, or perhaps more accurately, in the midst of the exhaustion, depression sets in as we grieve over our projects and the loss of our characters.  Whether one is writing nonfiction or fiction our characters are real to us.  They are our friends and constant companions.  When they are no longer there for us on a daily basis, we mourn their passing.  Without them, we are a bit lost.

That’s where I am right now.  I’m a bit lost.  That sounds silly when I have another freelance project to do, one that will take months, when I know what I want my next two books to be and I need to get cracking on them, and when I have another secret project that I want to do and must be done now if it is to happen at all.

But instead of working and accomplishing, I sit at my computer and stare at TMZ and Facebook as if someone is going to post something that will forever alter my future for the positive if I don’t read that post within five seconds of it going online.  I then tell myself that I’m not writing because I’ve first got to clean my desk, my office, and my house.  I need to clear out the old and get organized before I can start the new.  Instead, I walk around in circles, fuming at the mess that won’t walk out on its own like cartoon ants exiting a picnic.

So I exit, stand on the edge of my back porch, stare at my Hill Country view, and remind myself how lucky and blessed I am.  I look at my yard, notice how it needs mowing and weeding and how it’s turning brown under the relentless heat.  I think about how desperately we need rain, and I walk back inside, to my bedroom, and collapse into my bed, even though it’s only three or four in the afternoon.  I do that because I’ve got nothing left inside me to give.

As I lie there in the cool quiet, I realize that is exactly what I need – cool, quiet. I thank God for the moment of peace.  It’s been so long since my mind has been able to rest.  I know I’m repeating myself, but I am so frigging tired; I am lost.

I want to be lost on the beach where my mind can wash in and out with the waves.  I want to taste the salt sea water on my lips.  And I want to lie in a king-sized bed with white Egyptian cotton sheets, a friend’s arms wrapped around me as a way to say it’s going to be okay, while I weep for my characters lost.  But I know that’s not going to happen.  I won’t let it because I know that in truth I have no reason to weep.  I’ve just written the best book of my life.  And maybe that’s the real reason I want to weep.  Victory can bring us to tears.

* * *

Addendum:  As some of you may have noticed, I wrote my sex memoir.  Yes, this book isn’t just a look at Americans’ alternative sex practices, as originally planned.  At my editor’s request, it’s been turned into a memoir.  That changed has made this not only the best book I’ve ever written, but the most difficult, honest , and self-revealing.  So the tears I won’t allow myself to weep aren’t just tears of grief and victory.  They’re tears of fear too as I worry about how my family, friends, fans, and freelance employers will react.

But strangely enough, as I typed the words “victory can bring us to tears,” I looked out my window.  And this is what I saw. 

I’m hoping this rainbow is a sign that all is going to be okay with my sex memoir.

I’m sitting in Whataburger trying to work on my sex book.  I’m editing a chapter in which I meet swingers – lifestylers, partner-swappers – through Craigslist.  But I’m having trouble concentrating because there’s a lifestyle group meeting in my neighborhood this weekend.  Part of me, a large part of me, wants to be at their party watching and reporting.  Since I can’t, since I need to write rather than report, I came to the WB thinking the lifestylers might drop in for breakfast.  I think I was right … as I sit here watching the customers, trying to figure out who might and might not be swingers.

So far, I think I’ve seen six possibles.  (Freudian slip – I initially typed sex possibles.)  Two were females who ran in to get drinks and as they filled their soda cups, they talked about the men they’d seen and the ones they were attracted to.  Two were male-female couples.  One couple was older and ultra-fit.  In fact, the man – if not for his aged face and toupee – would have passed for 20 years younger.  He was that buff.  After briefly checking me out, he kept watching the two younger women getting their drinks.  His wife?  She reminded me of a fit blonde I saw at the first swing club I went to.

Piles of garbage lined the sidewalk to our right.  Three lengths of velvet rope stretched along the sidewalk to our left.  Maybe a dozen people stood behind the rope trying to get into the club, but we weren’t going to that nightclub.  We were going to the one across the street, the one that had garbage in front of it – a club for couples who have recreational sex with multiple, consenting partners.  Utilizing the vernacular of the 1970s, it is a club for swingers, though today’s practitioners prefer to be called lifestylers.*

For those who don’t know me, I was at the swing club solely for research.  The WB?  Well, I’m here for the sausage biscuit, endless supply of Diet Coke, and the swingers. 

As for the other swinging couple at the WB, actually, they were the first ones here.  They were sitting near my favorite table, so normally I would have sat near them.  Today, I didn’t.  I was thinking I needed space and privacy to edit.  Now I wish I had sat near them so that I could have talked to them.  He wasn’t as fit as the older gentleman, but he was flirtatious with his wife like he was ready to party.  And she was dressed ready to flirt in her bikini with a skimpy cover-up that revealed her pierced belly button.  In fact, that’s something I noticed about lifestyling women – the older they get, the more likely they are to get piercings and tattoos.  But that’s for book two, not the book I’m working on today.

Oh, wait!  Four more lifestylers just walked in.  I gotta go watch.  As a friend of mine said about me, “I watch; I write.”  The writing’s going to have to wait ‘cause … “Are you with the lifestyle group?” I whisper.

“Yes,” he says.

* From my sex book-in-progress.

Who would have ever thought that researching and writing a book on sex in America would result in a life-changing business trip to China?  Certainly, I wouldn’t have, but it did.  Alas, I don’t have time to tell you about it right now because the trip put me severely behind in my sex book rewrite.  In fact, it’s nearly 10 o’clock at night and I haven’t met today’s minimum page count, which is imperative to do because my August 1 deadline is non-negotiable.  So, I need to get back to the book. 

In fact, since I am so behind in rewrite, my planned one-month blogging hiatus is going to have to change to a two-month hiatus. 

But I will tell you this tidbit of info because it explains the title of this blog post and the photo below:

I met some businessmen from Hong Kong who have a company that grows, processes, and sells organic ginger.  They joked that my trip was going to result in a novel about a reporter who meets and falls in love with a ginger farmer.  Then they drove our little entourage  into the mountainous farmlands of China where we walked through their leased caves storing their fresh ginger.  As we emerged from a dark, chilly, spider-infested cave into the Chinese sunlight, I saw a tall, lean Chinaman in a navy blue shirt and wearing a coolie hat.  He was the owner of the ginger caves and a farmer, too.  I wanted a picture of him, so I had my traveling companion stand where it looked like I was taking a picture of my friend, but was really photographing the farmer.  But when the farmer grinned and scooted into frame, I realized he wanted his photo taken. 

Unfortunately, just like now, I was in rush.  We had another cave to tour.  So I drew down my camera, and we hiked through the farmer’s fields of peanuts, walked through another cave, and hiked back down the mountain.  As we walked, I told my companion that I wanted him to take a picture of me with the farmer.  But when we returned, the farmer wasn’t there … at least not at first.  Then I saw him literally trotting toward us.  I smiled, and I laughed.  He’d changed from his navy blue shirt into a white shirt that matched mine.  We stood next to each other, and my friend took our picture.  When I saw it, I laughed again.  Notice that we aren’t simply wearing the same color of v-neck, knit shirt, we’re tilting our heads the exact same way, too.  Maybe the reporter and ginger farmer are meant to be … or are at least meant to be another book. 

The Reporter and the Ginger Farmer

Dear Friends,

I barely got this blog going (meaning posting regularly), when I got hit with sex book deadline, teaching, freelance work, and business travel.  Forgive me, but I’m going to take a blogging hiatus for the month of June.  I know my limits.  I know I’m not a great multi-tasker.  And I know the quality of my writing here has suffered due to my inability to multi-task.  In 2005, I swore to myself that I’d work toward publishing only the best that I can write, and that includes this blog.  So … I hope to be back by Fourth of July weekend.  And when I do return, I should have some interesting news and posts. 

Have a great June!  And I’ll see you next month.

Suzy

I love writing notes on napkins.  I think it makes me feel important because when I was a little kid in East Texas, only important people jotted notes on napkins – at least that’s what I thought.  

When I moved to New York City, it seemed like people bragged about doing deals on a napkin.  And when I lived in Los Angeles, I felt like everyone exchanged phone numbers on napkins.  It helped me remember where I met them and how I met them.

Oh, yeah, that’s the napkin with a bit of spilled salsa on it.  We met at Cugat’s while drinking margaritas.  And that red napkin there, that was from Ashley’s Christmas party when she was living in the high-rise downtown. 

Now days, whenever anyone asks me for my email or website, I don’t hand them a business card.  That seems too ordinary.  I grab a napkin and write down the info.  In fact, I’ve gotten where I don’t even bother to carry business cards.

I’ve designed dresses and jewelry on napkins.  I’ve drawn house plans on napkins.  I’ve made grocery lists and to-do lists on napkins.  And, of course, I’ve jotted a jillion and one book ideas on napkins. 

Many of these squares and rectangles of paper stay in the bottom of my purse so long that they turn into unreadable shreds of coin-colored tissue.  Others get tucked into notebooks and files to be discovered years later.  But just the other day, as I sat in Whataburger, I jotted notes about the sex book.  That napkin I keep tucked safely on my desk.  And that napkin I share it with you now … because I’ve been so busy with the sex book that I haven’t had time to blog.  All I have to offer is a note on a napkin.  But after reading this, I hope you know how important a note on a napkin is to me. 

Sex Book Napkin Notes

For those of you who know I’m writing a book about sex, get your minds out of the gutter.  When I say I’m going to bed with my work, that’s not what I mean.

For those of you who regularly read my blog, you’ll know exactly what I mean.  I’m climbing into bed with my research.  Well, that doesn’t sound right either.

What I mean is that I’m so bogged down in my work that I’m finishing late at night and need to go to sleep thinking about my work so that I wake up the next day and know exactly where to start.  That means I take my notes to bed with me and read them just before going to sleep.  That’s what I did in college – go to sleep with my notes, study in my dreams, and wake up the next day to take the tests.  Then again, I didn’t do so great in undergrad.  Let’s hope it works better now.  I’m behind schedule on the rewrite.

Today, I re-edited for the gazillionith time the pages covering May 13, 2005.  That day, I met with two sex sources who have commented here, did a photo shoot during which the photographer told me about a dildo bar in San Francisco, and went to a seminar on the psychology of bondage.  I was exhausted at the end of the day … just like I am now.

Let’s hope while I dream I can figure out … zzzzzzzzzz.

I saw something the other day that caused mixed emotions in me.  It was a hardback book, spread-eagle in the middle of the parkway, its pages flapping in the wind as cars drove over it.  Now the cars weren’t smashing it with their tires, thank God.  They were straddling it.  (Yes, I know, there are lots of sex puns there.  They’re not intended.)

My mixed emotions came from the fact that I was so thrilled that someone was actually buying books, perhaps even reading them.  That was juxtaposed with an equal amount of sadness that the book was being treated so poorly.  I wanted to rush into traffic and grab it and protect it like a child.  But I was rushing to Mickey D’s for a sausage biscuit.*

Besides, maybe the owner of the book would miss it and come looking for it.  Then again, maybe the owner didn’t give a hoot about the book and had tossed it in a rage.  A wife furious at what her husband was reading?  A student fed-up with school?  Maybe furious at a specific teacher?  Or did it accidentally fly out of the bed of a pick-up truck and that student wants that book?  Will he get in trouble for his carelessness?  Does he need the information it contains to get into college?   Does he love that book?  Maybe it holds a love sonnet he wanted to copy for his girlfriend – or words of inspiration for his baseball team. 

For struggling writers, this is where stories and books come from … from seeing something that triggers questions and daring to find the answers to those questions.  

Yes, part of that is the proverbial “then what” or “what happens next” question.  I used to use that when I talked to elementary students about writing.  A kid’s dreaming of a Slurpee, I’d tell them.  He goes to the 7-Eleven with a dollar in his pocket, but just as he gets to the 7-Eleven, that dollar blows out of his hand, and he’s really, really thirsty.  Then what?  From that, the kids would take off on an adventure, with me constantly asking, “Then what?”  And it’d usually end when the teacher and I would get freaked when the kids would have the monsters or bad guys show up.

But that doesn’t just work in fiction; it works in nonfiction too.  Suzy, an uptight, white Southern Baptist chick, starts researching and investigating Americans’ alternative sex practices.  Then what happens … to her?

Now I’m dreaming of the book I could write if I’d picked up the book I saw spread-eagle in the middle of the parkway and searched for the story behind it.  Maybe it’s the book owner’s story?  Maybe it’s the story of the book’s author?

But I’ll never know because I went to Mickey D’s and stood at the counter with mixed emotions.  They were serving breakfast and lunch.  I didn’t know what to choose.  I hate breakfast; I love lunch.  But if I had lunch now, which is 1000 calories, I couldn’t have lunch later today.  But if I had breakfast, ugh, that’d be 500 calories, and I could still have lunch later today.  Then what?

Mixed emotions. 

* So what happened that Suzy ended up at Mickey D’s instead of Whataburger?  My neighborhood Whataburger has gotten so filthy that I’m not going as often.  And Suzy really wants her daily Whataburger.  What happens next?

I’ve got the shakes.  On top of that, I just knocked over a glass of water and a large cup of Diet Coke, both spilling onto my cream-colored carpet.  The carpet is only two years old.  I don’t want it stained, so I just spent 30 minutes or so standing on towels trying to soak up the mess.  It’s now 1:32 PM and I still haven’t started work.  I thought I was starting work when I knocked over the glasses.  Now I’m writing this instead of working on my sex book. 

Last Friday night, I broke or jammed a toe.  Last night, as I sat in bed with two computers, working hard on everything but the sex book, I accidentally slammed the injured toe into one of the computers. Man, that hurt.  I have a tendency to break toes and sprain ankles when I’m under deadline.  As you can imagine, I’ve broken a lot of toes over the years.

I know that my behavior — the spilling of drinks, the breaking of toes, the shakes — sounds like I’ve been experiencing boozy nights.  No.  Though I have been indulging in unhealthy behavior lately, it’s not alcohol.  It’s cookies and cake and pizza and skipped workouts.  This too is typical of me when I’m under deadline.  I get to the point of saying screw everything until I get this book finished, though I guess since I’m writing a sex book I need to clarify that I don’t mean screw in the sexual sense.

Sex book.  There you have it.  That’s why I have the shakes.  I’m terrified of this book.  Of what I’ll expose.  Of what my editor wants me to expose.  What I need to expose to make this book great.

No, I’m not sure that’s true.  I’m not terrified of the exposure.  I’m terrified of the repercussions of the exposure.  Of what my friends and family will think of me.  How they’ll judge me.  And … well, I could tell you more, but I’m not comfortable exposing all that right now and it might distract from my point, which by now you’re probably wondering what it is.

My point is that this is normal modus operandi for a writer.  And I’m making this point for all the writers out there who come to me for coaching, who take classes from me, who come to my book signings to ask for advice, and who seek me out at conferences for a few words of encouragement.

My words of advice and encouragement are don’t be afraid of the fear or the panic.  It’s part of writing.  Now go (figuratively) jam a few toes, spill a few drinks, and get the shakes.

By the way, I wrote this a while back, so my toe is doing better.   I haven’t spilled anything in a few days.  I’ve eaten fish two nights in a row.  I don’t have a slice of pizza or cake or a cookie in the house.  And I’ve been making it to the gym four days a week.  You can imagine how my rewrite is going.  Well, okay, I haven’t had the shakes either but I have wakened in panic.  Maybe there’s hope!

Puttanesca

Maybe it’s because I’m a writer and words are important to me, powerful to me.  Just a few moments ago, I heard a poem on the radio, Puttanesca by Michael Heffernan.  The words that caught my ears were simple — “a street walker’s sweat.” 

Words like that stun me with their beauty that comes from their vividness.  They encourage me.  They make me want to do better, be better.  Not just a better writer, but a better person … someone who is worthy of such poetry.

When I was a student at Baylor University, I remember learning the meaning of a specific New Testament Bible verse, which unfortunately I can’t find right now, though it’s in something like Galatians or Ephesians.  But that verse, in its original language, said that we are God’s poetry. 

I think about that verse and I think about how hard I work on my words for a book, how I write them, read them, rewrite them, rework them, leave them alone, polish them, and try to perfect them over and over again, each time with love, passion, and desire.  And if I do that for my words, and if we’re God’s poetry, oh, my gosh, how He works, polishes, and loves us. 

What I’m trying to say is that it’s the words that get to me.  Specifically, it’s the name-calling words that get to me.

I hear it a lot in myself.  I hear it a lot on TV.  When I do, I wonder what kind of example we’re setting for our children  — that it’s okay to spew hate-filled words just for the sake venting, for the chance to rage and get on TV, to start and have a career as a pundit or reality TV star.  I hear it even more on radio.  I remember I heard it on the radio the morning after the Fort Hood shooting, as I was driving down I-35, returning to Killeen and the hospital where the injured and dying had been taken. 

Strangely enough, I didn’t hear it from the doctors and nurses who frantically worked to save lives.  I saw exhausted smiles of pride over the lives they had saved.  And I didn’t hear it from the victims who lived to tell their stories of that horrible day.  I heard gratitude.

But on the radio, from people who were miles from the blood and the death, I heard it.  Perhaps it was understandable.  That’s not the way it came across, though.  It came across as trying to stir up people for ratings and advertising dollars. 

What really gets to me, though, is the every day name-calling.   I’m not talking name-calling against people like Major Nidal Malik Hassan, the Fort Hood shooter.  I’m talking about name-calling that’s screamed and shouted under the guise of  freedom of speech in the name of trying to save our nation from … whichever side they think is wrong and they’re right.  I’m talking name-calling and hate in the name of superiority, name-calling and hate in the name of righteousness, name-calling and hate out of fear. 

Do not fear, for I am with you.  I will bless you …

Genesis 26:24

I read it a lot on newspaper websites, where people can anonymously vent their anger, rage, insanity, and hate.  And I read it a lot on Facebook.  I think that’s where it gets to me the most — reading name-calling from my friends. 

All I know is that it makes me lose respect for those I once admired, just like I lose respect for myself when I do it.  I don’t want to lose respect for them … or for me.  I know they are smart people.  I know I’m smart.  I know they are kind, giving, and gracious people in the majority of their lives.  I’d like to think I’m kind, giving and gracious in the majority of my life.  But, when it comes to politics, we become the very essence of what we’re accusing the other side of being. 

I guess for that very reason I can’t give up.  Nor can I spew back.  After all, I’m God’s poetry — written, read, rewritten, reworked, trying to get perfected. 

*  I wrote this last March and revamped it and rewrote it in May.  I don’t think I ever had any intention of ever posting it.  And maybe I shouldn’t be posting it now because it may be too similar to I Don’t Know Where to Start.  Yet that very blog post, I Don’t Know Where to Start – specifically some of the comments posted here — is what motivated me to go ahead and publish this.  Forgive me if you find it redundant.

I don’t know where to start. 

That’s not a very good thing for a writer to say.  Even if we don’t know where to start, we usually write until we know where to begin.

But finding where to begin takes time.  It takes lots of typing and retyping.  Rearranging.  Starting over.  And finding our way again.  I don’t have time to do that.  There’s a book to write.  There’s freelance work that’s due.   And I’m constantly distracted. 

Last night and today I was distracted by Facebook.  Specifically, I was distracted by a “prayer” that many of my Christian friends were posting on Facebook and other Christian friends were clicking that they “liked.” 

“DEAR LORD, THIS YEAR YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTOR, PATRICK SWAYZIE [sic]. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTRESS, FARAH [sic] FAWCETT. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE SINGER, MICHAEL JACKSON. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, MY FAVORITE PRESIDENT IS BARACK OBAMA. AMEN”

For nearly 24 hours I’ve been raging against this “joke” because, as a Christian, I felt I had to.  As a Christian, I’m shamed by such hate.  My Jesus isn’t about hate.  My Jesus – as you’ll read in my sex book – is about love, grace, and mercy. 

I have no issue with people expressing their disagreement with our President.  I don’t even have a problem with people expressing their dislike for him.  What I do have a problem with is Christians praying for a person’s death.  As a Christian, I don’t feel like we have the right to decide when another dies.  That’s up to God.

I’ve heard people compare this “joke” to the cruelties spoken about former President George W. Bush.  They say that those on the left – specifically Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks – wished President Bush dead, so those on the right are justified in doing the same regarding President Barack Obama. 

If I recall correctly, Ms. Maines didn’t wish any sort of thing on our President.  She simply said she was ashamed he was from Texas. 

“Just so you know, we’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas.” — Natalie Maines, 2003

I have no objection to people saying they’re ashamed President Obama is from Hawaii … or that he’s an embarrassment … or, even as I heard tonight, that he’s an idiot.*  Again, my problem is Christians praying for his death.

In fact, that seems to go against the essence of Christianity, especially since there are many Christians who believe our President is a Muslim.  That very belief – inaccurate as it is – is all the more reason they should be praying for our President, rather than praying for his death.  In other words, they should be praying for his salvation rather than praying that he dies before he’s saved.  Isn’t that what evangelical Christianity is all about?

But there’s another reason I’m upset that Christians are “joking” and praying for our President’s death, and that reason is personal.  He has two little girls.  I cannot imagine what it’d be like for those children to hear that others – specifically Christians – are praying for their father’s death.  How cruel is that?  And, oh, how it would turn them away from Christianity.  At least it would me. 

Still, that doesn’t explain why it’s personal.  My father died when I was five years old leaving my mother to rear two girls by herself.  I look at those children and I see my sister and me.  I think about what it’s like to grow up with a dead daddy, and I don’t want that for them.

This is what I mean about not knowing where to start and not having time to find out where to begin.  This blog is nothing like what I wanted or intended.  It’s not even covering the topics I thought I’d discuss.  But it’s what has come out of my fingertips, so I guess it’s where I’ll end.

By the way, for those who have forgotten, Natalie Maines later apologized to President Bush.  I wonder if there are any Christians out there who will apologize to President Obama.

“As a concerned American citizen, I apologize to President Bush because my remark was disrespectful. I feel that whoever holds that office should be treated with the utmost respect.” — Natalie Maines, 2003

* Okay, truth — I’d prefer he not be called an idiot, but calling him an idiot is an improvement over praying for his death.

As many of you know, the making of the sex book has been a long and trying process.  I started the book in December 2004.  For the next year and a half, I researched, reported, wrote, rewrote, rewrote, and rewrote the book’s proposal.  The research continued through 2007.  During those years, I traveled from Texas to New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey to California, Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico to Florida, Jamaica, and Mexico, and ofttimes I traveled to those places more than once. 

A few of the year 2005 sex source emails

In January 2010, Denise Silvestro, who is my editor at Berkley Books, and I started talking about rewrite and publication.  We both knew that 200 pages had to be cut.  Over the next few months, she began sending me her suggestions for those cuts, as well as other thoughts about the manuscript.  In April, Denise emailed me her final set of editorial notes and we agreed on a rewrite deadline and publication date – August 1, 2010 deadline, summer 2011 publication.

That’s my first big news – after six and a half years in the making, the sex book will finally be on the bookstore shelves the summer of 2011.  I am psyched and stressed about this.  I’m psyched because it will be the first new book I’ve had on the shelves since December 2004.  I’m psyched because, in many ways, this was – and is – the most difficult book I’ve ever written.  Why do I get psyched about a difficult book?  Because it stretched me as a writer and as a person.  The reporting experience took me into worlds that I never fathomed I’d go into.  Sometimes those worlds were a tad frightening and intimidating; frequently they were – and are – confusing. 

But this hasn’t been simply one of my most difficult books, it’s been one of the best reporting experiences and perhaps the more rewarding writing experience of my life, too.  Along the way I’ve met some wonderful people who have encouraged me, inspired me, and changed me, in part because they have been my friends in the truest essence of the word – they love me and accept me despite our differences. 

Now the hard work is in front of me – the discipline of cutting, rewriting, delving deeper into the soul and revealing that on paper.  That’s not a task I cherish.  In fact, it frightens me a lot more than walking into a swing club with a man I met only a few minutes before. 

Since the rewrite is going to take the majority of my time, energy and spirit, for the next few months I’m going to have to limit my coaching.  I will continue with my current clients.  I might take on one or two new ones, if I really believe in them.  And I will be available for one-hour consultations to help authors prepare for the Writers’ League of Texas annual agents conference. 

But, and here’s the second big news, the best option for writers who want to work with me over the next few months is to sign up for my True Kick in the Pants class offered May 22, June 5 and 12, through the Writers’ League of Texas.  This is a shortened version of the week-long seminar I taught a couple of years ago for the Writers’ League’s Summer Writing Retreat held each year at Sul Ross State University in Alpine, Texas.  That class was aimed at the serious narrative nonfiction writer prepping a book and proposal.  In contrast, this class is geared to both fiction and nonfiction authors who want to polish their first 50 pages in preparation for the agents conference.  As the class description says: 

Through critique and encouragement, we’ll discuss story, hook, and pacing, as well as self-editing. We’ll delve into topics like self-talk, discipline, determination, how to take criticism (constructive and otherwise), and how to bounce back and keep up one’s confidence no matter the circumstances. Making it as an author is about the craft of writing, but it’s also about self-confidence and marketing–knowing who you are as a writer and how to express that to others so that you’re completely prepared to meet agents and editors.

The class is focused on the first 50 pages because that’s what agents usually ask to see, before requesting for the complete manuscript. 

So join me for the WLT class.  Send me some good luck for the rewrite.  And – and maybe this is my third bit of big news, though I think I’ve mentioned it before – look for the December 2010 republication of my true crime book Wages of Sin.  Perhaps it’s appropriate that Wages of Sin is being reissued just before the sex book because I always describe it as the story of the Southern Baptist killer stripper – a girl who was reared Southern Baptist, became a stripper, and then a killer.

Yep, these days, this writer is always thinking about sex.  Maybe that’s not such big news after all. 

Some of the sex research and interview notes from year 2005

New Colors by Jesse Sublett

The other night I dreamed I was in a strip club.  It was a great dream.  I woke rested and happy for the first time in … I can’t remember when.  But the dream, oh, that I remember.  I was working in the club.  I don’t mean stripping.  I was reporting and researching.  From afternoon to well past dark, through shift changes of day strippers to night dancers, I was there … out front, watching and talking with both servers and entertainers … and backstage too, hanging with the dancers in their dressing room, learning about life, being guided and protected by them, seeing the good and illegal of strip clubs. 

I remember the exact positions a man and dancer were in when he penetrated her in the dressing room.  I remember the look on her face … the initial pain of having someone she didn’t want, then the resignation, and finally the numbness.   

For my friends who work in the sex industry, please know I’m not saying this is what a dancer feels when she prostitutes herself.  I’m simply relaying what I read on the face of the woman in my dream, as she watched me watching her.  A writer friend of mine would argue that I have no right — in fact that I can’t — go into the point of view of the stripper’s mind when I’m writing from my POV.  But it was my dream, and I’m telling you what I saw and interpreted.  And if we’re talking interpretations, and Freudian interpretations at that, I guess I should admit that the prostitute stripper was closer to my age than the cliché stripper, and she was brunette like me.

I recall the man’s grin of satisfaction after completion and that same look in his dark eyes as he looked at me.  In my dream, I felt my fear.  And I felt my thankfulness as the women surrounded me and eased me away, not so that I wouldn’t see the reality of their industry, but to protect me from him. 

Again, for those I know who have worked or presently work in the sex industry, I’m not saying there is or isn’t such camaraderie among strippers.  This is just what happened in my dream.   

Dance Party Napkin by Jesse Sublett

As I left the dressing room and returned to the floor, I ran into my friend Casey Dancer, a former student.  She was exhausted from the work, but kept at it.  I also ran into my friend Bonnie, a screenwriter and producer.  She was there working, too.  I suppose researching.  Or maybe she was there watching out for me.  Bonnie’s like that – she’s always got my back. 

When I walked toward the front door to leave, I spotted a friend I’ve known since childhood.  We’d gone to church together.  We’d gone on church mission trips together.  She was at the club having dinner with another family from our church – a woman who’d been our Sunday school teacher, a man who’d been a prominent doctor and church deacon, and their three adult children. 

I specifically wrote that they were “at the club” having dinner, because the white linens and the good silver on the table insinuated that they were dining at our old country club.  The light, happy looks on their faces indicated that too.  But just a few steps behind them was that loud and shadowy strip club. 

Again, there are so many obvious Freudian interpretations there.  I’m going to leave those to you.  Instead, I’m going to answer why this dream, which some people would consider dark and maybe even sinful, awakened me refreshed and happy.   

The answer is because I was back in my element.  I don’t mean hanging out in strip clubs is my element.  I mean working … learning … understanding others who are so different from me.  That’s being in my element.  That’s what I love about what I do.  And that’s what makes me happy.  I am one blessed writer. 

I have a thing for clean fingernails.  Usually, mine are clean.  Everyone can see that because I don’t wear nail polish.  Nail polish just isn’t me.

Today, while eating lunch alone, I stared at my fingernails.  There was dirt underneath them.  That upset me.  I’ve noticed dirt under them a lot lately.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been pulling a lot of weeds, which are thick in my backyard.  I have to dig deep to get to their roots.  The dirt they’re in is damp and sticky.  It gets between the ridges of my fingerprints.  It ekes beneath my cuticles.  It sticks under my fingernails.  I scrub.  I scrap.  I scrub and scrap some more, and the dirt refuses to come out.  It makes me mad.

As I sat there staring at my fingernails, I thought about my sex book.  I can’t figure out how to open it.  My editor knows how I should – just the way it’s written right now.  I know that opening’s okay, but I also know it’s not great.  It needs to be great. 

My friend Carol knows exactly how I should open the book.  She’s told me precisely how to do it.  I started a rough draft of her version.  It’s not bad, not bad at all.  But I’m not sure it works for me. 

I have a third version that I’ve written, too.  That version involves my family, which could be misinterpreted to sound a bit kinky.  It’s not at all.  It’s very clean.  But that version made me think about my little guy and his fingernails, which are always filthy.  Then again, what does one expect from a little boy? 

I remember when he was three or four years old.  I gave him a fingernail brush.  I tried to teach him to use it, but when they’re that age it’s hard to explain a fingernail brush in words and mimicked motions only.  I needed to show him with soap and water, and I wasn’t ever around him at bath time. 

When he turned five, his dad and I took him to Mexico so that he could swim with dolphins.  My little guy and I went to the beach; his dad went to play golf.  Before his dad got back, my little guy and I returned to our rooms to get ready for dinner.  I sent him off to the shower, or so I thought.  After I discovered him still covered in salt water and sand, he eventually confessed that he didn’t know how to wash his hair.  I poured out some shampoo, smeared it on his blond head, quickly tried to show him what to do and left him alone.  A bit later he walked into my room, all smiles, all wet, all proud of himself, and with sand still in his hair.  I bragged about what a good job he’d done.

Now that my little guy has a stepmom, I thought she’d make sure he keeps his fingernails clean.  But, they’re still dirty.  I make myself keep quiet about it, though I want to buy him another fingernail brush.  I look down at my fingernails and want to buy me one too. 

Though my editor is content with the opening of my book, she wants me to put more of “me” into the book.  As she says, she wants me to reveal my soul.  I don’t want to do that.  I think about the weeds I’ve been pulling.  They fight me to come out of the ground, just like this book fights me too.  When I finally do manage to yank out the weeds, a ball of damp dirt covers their roots.  It’s that root dirt that sticks to me. 

I look down at my hamburger and French fries.  When there’s just ketchup and mustard under my fingernails, I can wash that out quickly.  But when I’m pulling weeds … well,  I wonder if that’s why most women wear fingernail polish … so that no one can see their root dirt underneath.

I want to curl into pill bug formation and protect myself.  I’m sitting in a Schlotsky’s restaurant.  It used to be the best Schlotsky’s in the nation with upscale décor and classical music.  That was back when the founders of Schlotsky’s owned the place.  But then they expanded the company too quickly, got into financial trouble and sold the chain to Texas Burger.  Texas Burger sold it to … lord, I lost track.  All I know is that now the place is a dump with torn burgundy booth cushions, wobbly tables, and chairs that need refinishing.  Even the ice machine is broken.

Why am I mentioning all of this?  I’m trying to be observant.  I used to notice everything — décor, music, scents in the air, people, their clothes, their hair, their faces, their moles, their conversations, their language, how they treated and interacted with their children, everything.  Now, I notice nothing.  I don’t know if I’ve become so narcissistic that I don’t care or think about anyone else or if I prefer pill bug mode out of self-preservation.

Perhaps this started after Breaking Point and the first Andrea Yates trial.  For those who don’t recognize the name Andrea Yates, she is the Houston mother who drowned her five children in 2001.  Breaking Point is my book about the case.  It came out just before Andrea’s first trial began.  Since the judge on the case placed a gag order* on the family, the attorneys, the cops, the experts witnesses, and any other person remotely connected to the crime, investigation, and court proceedings, the media had no one to interview … but me.  I was considered the expert on the case.  Often I was on TV multiple times a day talking about Andrea, her husband Rusty, the children, mental illness, and the trial.  I was on TV so often that I’d walk down the street in Houston and someone would yell at me, “Hey, Suzy!”  I’d turn around with a big smile on my face expecting to say hello to a friend or acquaintance only to see a complete stranger.  It was a bit frightening.  And it made me understand why singer Debbie Boone’s mother had given me such a terrified look.

Decades before, I was walking down a street in Beverly Hills, when I saw Mrs. Boone staring into a store window.  I said, “Hello, Mrs. Boone.”  She turned around with a bright smile on her face, ready to say hello to a friend of her daughter, and saw an absolute stranger.  The fear on her face read that she was terrified I was going to do her harm.  I felt badly about that.  I wanted to say, hey, I know your son-in-law.  He was a gospel music record executive and I sometimes wrote bios and album liner notes for gospel singers (back when there were lps).  But Mrs. Boone and I both rushed our separate ways.

Now, sitting in the Schlotzsky’s, I force myself to look around.

A man at the next table is talking too loudly for my comfort.  I want to hide in my computer.  Three men sitting behind me feel like they’re sitting too close to me.  I want to hide in my computer.  An overweight elementary student is licking a Carvel’s ice cream cone as her overweight father and obese mother watch and laugh with her.  She has on cute black sneakers.  I realize I don’t notice details like I used to.  Cute black sneakers — what does that tell you?  If I closed my eyes, I couldn’t tell you the details that would make this child come alive in my writing so that you could see her, smell her, hear her, know her.  How are her shoelaces tied?  Are they loose like she’s just learning to tie them?  Like she’s been running and playing so hard that they came apart?  Are the toes scuffed from tripping in the sand or kicking walls?

I go back to typing and slowly, this shift of people leaves.  I can actually hear music.  It’s jazz — elevator jazz.  Back when I used to notice my surroundings, I was sitting in this same restaurant.  I spotted a group of cops sitting near me, their pistols at their hips.  I read their nametags.  That’s not true.  I read one nametag.  “Sgt. David Carter.”  And I got no farther.  I took a deep breath.  I kept on eating.  I needed to talk to Sgt. Carter.  He’d handled the Regina Hartwell murder investigation.  Regina was the murder victim in my first book Wasted.  But I’d been too chicken to call Sgt. Carter.  Now he was sitting steps away from me.  I kept eating, trying to gut up and go talk to him.  I pulled out a business card.  I stood up, dumped my trash, walked over to his table, handed him my card, spoke a few words, and exited as fast as I could.

By the time I got home, my phone was ringing. It was Sgt. Carter.

* * *

The din of conversation grows as a new group of customers takes over. They’re a bit quieter than the previous.  Part of me wants to look around, notice their clothes, their faces, and make up stories about them.  That’s what I did when I wrote fiction – stare at people and make up stories about them.  Their histories.  Their arguments.  Their loves.  Their losses.  Their desires.  But I don’t do that this day.  I feel like I’ve taken this table too long and that I need to get home and get to work.  Maybe that’s why I don’t notice my surroundings and people anymore.  Maybe I’m always working.  That’s the strange thing about being a writer.  We have to go into pill bug formation to observe to find stories and characters.  We have to go into pill bug formation to sit alone and write.  But if we stay in pill bug formation, well, it’s almost like we become self-absorbed narcissists.

*  After the trial, the judge’s gag order was ruled illegal.

Liz Carpenter

This past Saturday, Liz Carpenter died from pneumonia at age 89.  For those of you who may not know Liz, among many, many accomplishments, she was Vice President Lyndon Baines Johnson’s press secretary when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.  She wrote the words Johnson spoke to the nation immediately after Kennedy’s death:

This is a sad time for all people. We have suffered a loss that cannot be weighed.  For me, it is a deep personal tragedy.  I know that the world shares the sorrow that Mrs. Kennedy and her family bear.  I will do my best.  That is all I can do.  I ask for your help and God’s.

She was also a rebel-rousing, loud-talking, quick-witted yellow dog Democrat.  For those of you who may not know what that is, it’s a Texan who will vote for an old yellow dog over a Republican.

The day after Liz’s death, I read in the New York Times that Body Heat actress Kathleen Turner was about to star in the one-woman play Red Hot Patriot:  The Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins.  I think most of you know who Molly Ivins was.  If not, she was a fiery liberal columnist and co-author of Shrub:  The Short but Happy Political Life of George W. Bush.  In other words, she was a rebel-rousing, loud-talking, quick-witted yellow dog Democrat.  Molly died in 2007 from breast cancer.  She was 62.

The New York Times article mentioned that Kathleen Turner used to hang out with Molly and Ann Richards.  For those of you who don’t remember Ann, she served one term as governor of Texas.  She ran for a second term but lost to George W. Bush.  Arguably, she’s best known for her 1988 keynote address at the Democratic National Convention where she spoke about W’s father: 

Poor George, he can’t help it.  He was born with a silver foot in his mouth.

To say the least, Ann was another rebel-rousing, loud-talking, quick-witted yellow dog Democrat.  She died at age 73 from esophageal cancer.

Now my far right-wing friends might fear that I’m about to write what they may call some liberal promoting b.s.  I’m not.  I’m going to write about what I remember – my memories of these three Grand Dames of Austin and why I love the Writers’ League of Texas. 

For the most part, I knew these three women only because of the Writers’ League.  The one semi-exception is Molly.  I met her not long after I moved back to Texas. 

Molly Ivins

Utterly starving for some writerly camaraderie, and trying to move forward my career as an author, I attended a writers’ conference in New Orleans.  I remember I wore a red pants suit, wanting so much to stand out and make a professional appearance to any literary agent I might meet.  I also remember standing alone in the conference hotel elevator, the doors closing, when they burst open and in squeezed Molly, one of the conference speakers.  Her big and tall body filled that elevator and so did her smell.  She steamed sweat.  In fact, sweat as plump as raindrops dripped off her and spotted deep her navy dress.  And then she smiled.  Oh, man, that was big too.

I have no idea what we talked about.  I think maybe how she was running late for her panel.  I think she’d had a drinking lunch with some of her buddies.  And I think I was wondering how she was going to freshen up in time to make it to her panel.  But she made it, rushing in just like she’d rushed into that elevator.  And she was oh-so-entertaining, though I don’t recall any flaming liberal politics shooting out of her mouth. 

Years later, I was helping with publicity for the Writers’ League’s first of three annual fundraisers held at Esther’s Follies, a downtown Austin institution known for magic and irreverent comedy.  We’d named the evening Molly’s Follies because Molly was the guest star of our show.  Graciously, she’d waived her normal appearance fee so that every ticket we sold went straight to the Writers’ League.

The night of the event, she was harried again, as she was running a bit late.  And just like the first time we’d met, she seemed to burst into the room, steaming with sweat.  I got her a drink and we sat down to talk and calm before her appearance.  Again, I don’t remember what we discussed.  I just remember that like in New Orleans, she was gracious and treated me like I was “somebody,” rather than a struggling wannabe. 

More years passed.  She suffered her first breast cancer diagnosis, and I was sitting in the Tree House Italian Grill, when I looked up and spotted Molly sitting at the bar by herself, drinking and eating dinner.  As I exited, I veered over to her, reintroduced myself, and said hello.  Molly smiled that big grin, pulled back the stool next to her, and invited me to join her.  I said thanks, but no thanks, and I regret that.  I could have shared a drink with history.

Governor Ann Richards

The year of the Writers’ League second Esther’s Follies fundraiser, I served as chairperson and producer of the event.  Ann Richards was to be our star.  So was Liz Carpenter.  Liz had booked Ann for us, and since Liz had done us the favor of getting our former Governor to perform for us for free, … well, you get the idea, … Liz was added to the program.  Then Ann backed out.  I begged Liz to get us another big name because I didn’t think Liz was a big enough draw by herself.  I suggested she call her friend Carol Channing.  Liz turned that wide mouth of hers into a shape that clearly said, even though no words were spoken, “Get real.  I’m not going to call in a favor that big for you.”  She called Cactus Pryor instead.  And I thought, oh, crap, here goes failure.  As proof, our ticket sales were going nowhere.

But we trudged on.  I drove Liz to our rehearsals, hefting her in and out my car as her floral muumuus and brightly painted cane fought against me.  Bumping down the streets of Austin, I tried to turn her cell phone on and off for her because she couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t either.  Then she could, and I looked like an idiot.  I also drove her home after rehearsals, as she ordered me into which lane at which time.  In between bellowing me driving instructions, she talked about how she was furious with Ann for becoming a lobbyist, but most of all for lobbying for things that were so unhealthy for Americans. 

I picked up Liz and drove her to KUT radio for an appearance on John Aielle’s Ekletickos, too.  We were both supposed to be on the show.  Then, and I’m grinning as I write this, Liz introduced me – not as the producer of the show, not as the chair of the fundraiser, but – as her driver.  I wondered if she’d ever before had a driver with two masters degrees.  I imagine she had many of them.  That’s the way Liz was.

Anyway, Liz had barely told her first joke to John before the phones started ringing over at the Writers’ League office.  Over the next two hours, we sold every single ticket.  I was completely and utterly wrong about Liz Carpenter not being a good enough draw.

Then, Ann Richards rejoined our show.  In her honor, we named the event The Big Hair Follies.  It was to be held on a Sunday night.  That Sunday morning, I believe around 10 AM, my phone rang.  It was Ann, and she was furious.  “Who’s the bozo in charge!”  Ann didn’t speak in question marks.

“That’s me,” I said.  “I’m the head bozo.”

She ranted.  She raged.  About everything.  She even complained about the Big Hair Follies name.  She no longer had big hair, she said, and she hadn’t had big hair in years – therefore, the name was ridiculous.

Oh, geez, I thought, this is going to be a rough day.  It seemed with everything I said, Ann came back with a slam.  Then, as we were closing our conversation, I said, “Would you like me to pick you up tonight?”

“Why!  You think I’m too old to drive!  That I can’t drive myself!”  Again, she didn’t speak in question marks.

There were other events going on in the same area that night, parking would be difficult, and I didn’t think she’d want to fight that, I explained.

Governor Ann climbed into the front passenger seat of my car while a friend of hers climbed into the back.  As I drove, Ann smoothed her hand over the dashboard and said, “This is nice.  What kind of car is it?” 

“A Jeep Grand Cherokee,” I answered, stunned that she didn’t recognize it.  At the time, it was one of the most popular cars in America.  And that was about all I said on that drive from Lamar to Sixth Street.  Instead, I listend to Ann and her friend talk, trading gossip as if I weren’t there.  And I smiled inside thinking how lucky I am to hear these insider secrets.

At Esther’s Follies, Ann and I stood alone in a darkened hallway, as she waited to take the stage.  This time, I spoke.  I remember the topic of our conversation, but I don’t remember the details except that she listened and softly replied with a caring tenderness that I will never forget. 

When she took the stage and performed her speech, I stood in awe.  Every insult she’d launched at me that day was in her talk.  Only her tone of voice was different.  And that one little change had me laughing at every word, not just because it was funny, but because I realized she’d used me to rehearse, and I felt honored and proud to be a part of that. 

I sent Ann a copy of my book Wasted when it came out, and she sent me a thank you letter.  “I’ll take it to the beach and read it over the Thanksgiving holiday.” 

Oh … my … gosh.  My book was going to be spending Thanksgiving with Ann Richards and her family.  I smiled as big as Molly Ivins.  In fact, that’s something all three of these Grand Dames had in common – great big Texas smiles.

Now I feel like I’ve slighted Liz some because I worry I’ve only conveyed her bossiness.  But then again, she is the one who pulled off the Big Hair Follies for us and sold all of our tickets.  And she is the one with whom I had the most interaction because Liz Carpenter continually supported Austin’s writing community.  So, we often found ourselves at the same events. 

At those gatherings, Liz always managed to crack me up simply because she never remembered me.  I’d spent a week driving her to and fro Westlake and Austin.  I’d been re-introduced to her at countless parties.  I even remember lunching with her at the Four Seasons Hotel, and that’s where I realized that Liz Carpenter had the most amazing memory for long ago details, but she couldn’t remember squat that happened 10 minutes ago.  But when I was around Liz, that didn’t matter, because I was laughing so hard as she wove those long ago memories into fascinating tales of history. 

So while others remember Liz Carpenter, Molly Ivins, and Ann Richards for their so-called liberal, yellow dog Democrat politics, I remember them for the kindnesses, especially their kindnesses to me.  And I thank the Writers’ League of Texas for putting me in a position to meet these three Grand Dames of Austin.  Yes, they were really Grand Dames of Texas, and even Grand Dames of the United States of America.  But I want to hold them close, so to me, they’ll be the Grand Dames of Austin.

Thank you, ladies.

When I was a kid at summer camp, in order to get dinner, we had to create marching routines.  We’d rehearse our routines, march to the chow hall, perform our drills, and be judged on them.  Only then were we allowed to grab our military dinner trays and eat.  On the first night of camp, it was usually a simple routine as 12 barefoot girls would line up in rows of two, arms length apart, and march to the chow hall calling, “Left.  Left.  Left, right, left.”  We urged our voices as deep as schoolgirls could go.

As the camp term wore on, we morphed into lyrists and choreographers creating unique songs accompanied by elaborate maneuvers.  When we marched, we were part drill team and part chorus line dressed in faded cut-off jeans and t-shirts, usually with a pocket over the left breast.

There are two things I remember most about those marching drills.  First, I never could get in sync with my cabin mates.  While they were calling, “Left.  Left,” with their bare left feet hitting the hot pavement in perfect beat to the word left, my right foot was hitting the pavement, then stumbling over a stray pebble of granite, or my left foot was hitting the pavement two milliseconds after theirs.  To say I have no sense of rhythm is an understatement.

Yet, the second thing I remember is the bellowing rhythm of “left, left, left, right, left.”  It is so engraved into my memory that 40 years later I would hear it in my head as I walked the outdoor track at my old gym.  “Left.  Left.  Left, right, left,” and I stumbled over a chunk of cedar bark. 

But, no!  I couldn’t be thinking about summer camp and the way granite smells when it’s heated in the sun.  I couldn’t think about the sound of the motorboats as they skipped over the water, the rhythmic chirps of crickets in the late afternoon, or the chit-chit-chit of the water sprinklers on the Saint Augustine grass.  I needed to be thinking about SEX!  I had a sex book to write. 

Yes, some people have to force themselves to not think about sex.  I have to force myself to think about sex.  So as I stumbled and tumbled along that cedar bark track, I coaxed myself into calling, “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex,” for at least three figure eights around that track.  “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex.”  For one mile.  “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex.”

I always wondered what the male joggers thought as they passed me.

“Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex.”

No, I only wondered for a split second because I was trying – forcing – myself to think about sex. 

As many of you know, I turned in the first draft of that book on May 1, 2009, which was a little over a year after I switched gyms.  There’s no track at my current gym, and now I’m back to trying – forcing – myself to think about sex because my editor has sent me her notes on the first two-thirds of the sex book.  They aren’t horrible notes.  In fact, I like them.  There’s a part of me that is so psyched and – do I dare say – excited to get back to working on the sex book.  But when it comes right down to it, I can’t seem to do it.  I’ll do anything other than think about sex.  I’ll write this blog.  I’ll vacuum.  I’ll even iron, which I hate doing.  I’ll go outside and pull weeds, and believe me, there are enough weeds to keep me pulling until next fall.  I’ll even work on my taxes … because that HAS to be done.

And still, the sex book sits on my desk – the first 230 pages printed out, my editor’s notes laying on top of them.  I glance at them and read:  “I think the main narrative of the book definitely starts in the right place with you talking about your …”

Ah, this is good, I think.  I can do this.  I turn on the computer, check Facebook, pull weeds, check Facebook again, and pretty soon it’s time to go the gym.  My new gym is small, intimate even.  Though the trainers and I sometimes quietly joke about sex, they don’t have me constantly thinking about sex like I need to.  And it’s too small of a gym to be pushing my feet against the footplates of the elliptical trainer while calling out, “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex.”

I’ve got to start thinking march, food, sex.  March, food, sex.  March, food, sex.  So if you see a brunette, wearing red eyeglasses, marching and stumbling somewhat rhythmically into a Whataburger, using her laptop as a military serving tray, and crazily shouting, “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex,” as she exits, maybe even swinging her laptop over her head as she throws in some fancy arm routines, “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex,” you’ll know it’s just me working on my sex book.  “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex.”* 

*  I don’t know what happened to me.  When I was typing that last line of “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex,” suddenly I heard a new line with it.  “Thrust that laptop toward his chest.”  You know, like, “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex.  Thrust that laptop toward his chest.”  Oh, geez, I don’t know where it came from.  Maybe it means I’m thinking about sex.  “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex.” 

By the way, let me know if you start walking around saying, “Sex.  Sex.  Sex, right, sex.”  Especially let me know if you add, “Thrust that laptop toward his chest!”

Sarah Bird lifted her right hand into the air as if she were holding a silver tray of hors d’oeurves, thrust her pelvis toward the audience, lowered her make-believe platter to hip level, and said, “May I offer you an ovary?”  The audience roared with laughter.

I hate using clichés like roared with laughter, but whenever Sarah walks into a room, there’s a roar, usually a rushing roar of fawning, followed by laughter.  Her cult of fans feels honored just to be in the room with her.  They’re so enamored that they’d laugh if she bought a box of Girl Scout cookies, and they’d be right to laugh. 

Sarah could turn buying a box of cookies into a Texas Monthly column that has one smiling while reading it, and maybe even chuckling aloud once or twice.  Then, one would laugh so hard and loud that one would miss half of the best lines if they heard her read the story.  That’s because Sarah doesn’t simply read her words; she acts them out.  Hence, ovaries thrust into the audience’s faces.  In fact, her ovary line was from a Texas Monthly piece she’d written about attending a high society event in Houston. 

For those who may not know Sarah, she is a mega-star writer in Austin, a star writer in Texas, and a respected writer elsewhere, despite the fact that early in her career she wrote romance novels.  Now she’s known for her back page column she used to write for Texas Monthly and her literary novels.  In my opinion, not all of her recent novels are literary.  In fact, I think her most recent book, How Perfect is That, is downright commercial fiction.

Many of my literary novelist friends would consider that an insult – hearing me say that they write commercial fiction.  I mean it as a compliment.  And in reality, I can’t imagine a literary novelist who doesn’t secretly yearn for commercial success. 

Anyway, I digress … as I usually do.  I’ve known Sarah for years.  She and I were two of the original members of the now gone-by-the-wayside Chick Writers group.  Or was it Writer Chicks?  I can’t remember.  I just know that we usually got together for bad pancakes at Kerbey Lane Café and better huevos at Curra’s Grill.  My preferred meeting was for wine and, dare I say, hors d’oeurves at Fonda San Miguel.  (Can one have hors d’oeurves in a Mexican restaurant?)  In fact, it was there that Sarah and Writer Chick Carol Dawson suggested a huge change in my sex book, a change that my editor later asked me to make. 

Having said all of that, Sarah and I aren’t close enough friends that I’d call her up and say, “Hey, Sarah, I have a flat tire, and I’m three blocks from your house.  Can you come give me a lift?”  But we’re good enough friends that she’ll introduce me to a group of librarians, bother to notice that they don’t recognize my name and are somewhat dismissive of me, and good enough that she’ll then add, “She’s a New York Times best-selling author” so that they’ll begin to ooh and ah over me a bit. 

So, on a cold, stormy night, I jumped in my car and drove 10 minutes to attend a Sarah Bird reading/performance.  I did that because it’s rare for a writer to come out to the boondocks where I live, and I want to encourage more of that.  I did it because it was a cold and stormy night and I feared attendance might be poor, so I wanted to support a friend.  And, I wanted to watch and learn what makes Sarah such a success. 

Let me back up here and give you an example of her success.  When Sarah comes out with a new novel, the movers and shakers of Austin throw parties for her in their homes, which, of course, are located in the most exclusive neighborhoods of the city.  Hundreds of people turn out for these parties.  One such event was sweat-dripping humid.  Still, name musicians, award-winning writers, influential editors, at least one multi-millionaire celebrity business couple, and a camera crew crowded the home of a local socialite.  A line of people, juggling armfuls of Sarah books, wound through several rooms, waiting to get her autograph.  I stood in that line, salty dampness wrinkling the cover of the one book I clutched in wet palms. 

Lord, I stood in that line for at least two hours, and as the miserably hot time eked by, I watched a woman holding at least a half dozen books gradually maneuver and manipulate her way into the line and then in front of me.  So I glared at her.  She glared back … with a don’t-you-know-who-I-am look oozing from steely hot, condescending eyes.  This perspiring paperback peon true crime writer wasn’t going to back down.  I kept glaring.  Then I angrily tapped my toes as Sarah signed the woman’s half dozen books.

Sarah Bird

Sarah politely smiled.  “Don’t you know who she is?”

I snapped back something like, “Obviously not, but she sure as hell looked at me like I should know.” 

Sarah explained that the woman was the attorney handling the divorce of Austin’s most famous, successful, and richest professional athlete.  I thought, “Big—” 

Well, I’m not going to tell you the words that went through my head, because they’re not exactly polite.  But I will say that I didn’t give a hoot about that lady and her divorce abilities because I’m not married, never have been married, don’t intend to get married, and if I did marry, chances of me marrying and divorcing a multi-, multi-, multi-millionaire and needing an attorney of that woman’s self-importance are … zero.

Why am I rambling about this and exposing my cattiness?  Because it has to do with another reason why I came out in the cold rain to hear Sarah.  When I got home from that party and read Sarah’s highly entertaining How Perfect is That, I was stunned.  In my opinion, the book makes fun of the very so-called high society people who throw Sarah such extravagant parties, the very people who clamor to be in the same room as she and boast that they’re friends.

I even talked to my friend Carol Dawson about this because Carol’s good friends with Sarah, not a friend/acquaintance like I am.  I said, “Are these people so stupid that they don’t know Sarah’s making fun of them?  Or are they that desperate for their fifteen minutes of fame that they don’t mind being made fun of in a book?” 

(Obviously, these people are never going to throw me a party — not after what I’m saying here.)

Carol protested, oh, no, Sarah’s not making fun of them. 

I don’t really remember what else Carol said after that because I tuned her out since I thought she was so very wrong.  I think she said something like Sarah was honoring them, and Carol may have pointed out how these rich, society women truly are Sarah’s friends and helped Sarah research her book.  I do know that I had noticed that Sarah had thanked them in the acknowledgements of her book.

What does this have to do with why I drove out on a cold rainy night to hear Sarah?  I wanted to learn how she does it – how she woos and wins people who, I think, she’s making fun of.  How people who are so very different from her – often hardcore Republicans to her flaming liberal points of view – love her, worship her, and support her.  After all, on this cold, rainy night, she was about to perform in a solidly Republican neighborhood.  She even whipped out her ink-stained left palm and read notes from it, a mocking salute to palm-cheat sheet reading Sarah Palin.  The women in the audience roared.  One obviously Republican man was not as enamored, though he did eventually come around.

I also wanted to learn how Sarah transformed herself from a romance writer to a respected writer of literature.  So I sat in the back of the room with a middle distance curiosity, jotting black ink notes, not on my hand, but on a pale yellow flyer. 

“Works crowd before reading,” I wrote.  While the audience filtered in, Sarah started going row by row, shaking hands, and talking to everyone.  It was a much bigger crowd than I’d expected on a bad weather night, proof of Sarah’s cult following.  Then, she realized she’d forgotten her notes.  She charmed the crowd by admitting that and running out the door, to her car, and back again with her notes.  Finally, she began her reading, the aforementioned Texas Monthly piece and the opening chapter of her next book, which won’t be out until 2011.  The audience loved that because it made them feel like they were being allowed a peek at her work in progress, something that only the most intimate of friends are allowed, even though she’s been reading it publicly for months.

From the podium, she asked the audience questions, involving them, interacting with them, listening to them.  Listening.  That’s a key to great writing.  Apparently it’s a key to creating a cult of fans, too.  I’m guessing Sarah got this ability to schmooze strangers from being a military brat who constantly had to make new friends.  I’m also guessing Sarah transformed herself from romance writer to respected writer of literary novels by believing in herself.  She is a woman who always appears to be in control – of herself and the room. 

Oh, I don’t know.  I don’t know that I came away from the evening with any answers to my questions.  All I know is that Sarah’s adulation and success seem to owe as much to her personality and marketing talent as it does to her writing talent.  And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.  In fact, I think it’s a smart thing.  I love smart writers.  So, maybe I’ll join the Sarah Bird cult.  Maybe I’ll practice that silver platter, thrust your pelvis, may-I-offer-you-an-ovary move to promote my sex book. 

Nah, I’ll leave that to Sarah.

Sarah Bird

I wrote this in January, but I kept it to myself because I’m old school journalism who believes in keeping my politics out of my writing.  Plus, I’m not knowledgeable enough to write about this subject.  That’s why this piece is rather superficial.  But most of all, I’m too chicken to write about anything that involves political points of view for fear of ticking off and losing people I care about and who believe differently than me.  That includes friends, family, and, yes, fans of my books.

Then something happened … and, well, I want to stay alive.  For those of you who have children, and for my many Christian friends, my reason for wanting to live will sound trite.  I want to live to make sure my sex book gets finished, published, and promoted.  So … there you have it

Once again, I’m wondering if I’m having a heart attack.

I’m driving down Capital of Texas Highway when I feel a pain in my left arm.  Then it seems to go into my left shoulder blade and back down to my hand.  Suddenly I’m wondering if I feel pain in my left jaw too.  I know my left teeth hurt last night and a heart attack crossed my mind.  I start wondering if I should find a Walgreen’s and buy some aspirin.  But I know I need to make a bank deposit before noon and I fear if I stop for aspirin, I won’t make my deadline.

Crazy thinking, huh?

I think crazy like this quite often.  In fact, as I type this, my left arm is feeling weird again.  Of course, I’m typing from a Schlotzsky’s restaurant after I just ate The Original sandwich dripping and oozing with three kinds of cheese, two kinds of salami, and just about anything else that can give you a heart attack or stroke.  And, no, I never stopped to get those aspirin.

Hey, if I’m having a heart attack – if I have heart disease – I’ve just got to die.  I can’t afford not to.  I don’t have health insurance.

Freelance writers don’t have a lot of options when it comes to health insurance.  I used to have very expensive health insurance through the National Writers Union, but then they lost their coverage.  They now have it for New York, but not for Texas.  The same goes for other writers’ organizations that offer health insurance.  The Authors Guild has coverage for New York and Massachusetts, as well as a few other states, but not Texas.  Even the Guild admits that their insurance offerings in those few other states are “unaffordable to most members.”

* * *

A few months ago, a friend of mine, upset over the exorbitant cost of health insurance – his just surpassed his mortgage payment – and distressed by the war in Congress and our nation over this necessary evil, scheduled an appointment with his Republican Congressman to discuss health insurance.  He then asked his friends what questions they wanted answered.  I wanted to know why Texas writers can’t get health insurance, while writers in other states can get coverage.  I wondered if we’re unhealthier than other states.  After all, I’m typing from a Schlotzsky’s where my sandwich alone has 559 calories, 12 grams of saturated fat, which is 60 percent daily recommended values, and 1834 grams of sodium, which is 76 percent of the daily recommended values.

My friend didn’t come back with an answer from his Congressman.  But I guess that’s typical.  We expect answers; we don’t get any.

Now it’s a week later.  The pains in my left arm, shoulder blade, and jaw have subsided.  But I’m still fearful.  Republican Scott Brown has won the Massachusetts senatorial seat held for more than 40 years by health insurance advocate Ted Kennedy, effectively killing any chance of health insurance reform.  According to the media, the pundits, the professional partisans, this is what the people of the United States want – the death of health care reform.

I’m not so sure I believe them.  My friends are far left Democrats; my family members are far right Republicans.  I hear them both calling for reform.  The problem is that they’re yelling so loudly that neither can hear what the other is saying.  Perhaps they don’t want to.  Perhaps they don’t want to admit that such diverse believers can agree on anything.

Today, I phoned Alexandra Owens, executive director of The American Society of Journalists and Authors, to confirm whether or not ASJA offers health insurance to freelance writers in Texas.  After all, the ASJA website touts one of its member benefits as being access to competitive health insurance products in 30 different states.  And when I talked to Ms. Owens, she emphasized just that – that they offer access to individual products, i.e. individual providers just like I, as an individual consumer, could go out and shop for insurance in Texas.  I’ve tried shopping for health insurance in Texas.  I haven’t succeeded.  The last time I applied for health insurance, I was turned down due acne, despite the fact that I hadn’t been treated for it in years.

No organization can provide national group health insurance, Ms. Owens said.  Not ASJA, not the National Writers Union, not the Authors Guild, not even Exxon.  Group policies can’t be written for such national organizations because each state has its own laws regarding insurance, as well as the fact that health insurance cannot be sold across state lines.  Ms. Owens did clarify that there are “pockets” of older policies that do cover multiple states such as New York and Massachusetts.  And when she said Massachusetts, I listened.

Just the night before I’d heard a pundit say that since Brown had voted for Massachusetts’ health insurance reform, simply present him with that — an identical, national version of that bill – and he’d have no grounds for voting against it.  Of course, I don’t have much hope in that.  I believe in these days of partisan rancor, anyone can find any excuse to do their party’s bidding, and it’s my biased opinion that no Republican wants a Democratic President to succeed in any way.

Ms. Owen, however, has hope in the talk of trading health insurance across state lines.  That would help associations provide national, group health plans to its members.  She stressed that that is even more important now due to the very fact that the number of self-employed is growing every single day.  And I know for fact that my Fox-watching, Republican-voting relatives are all for selling health insurance across state lines.

Yeah, I know.  That’s crazy thinking again – that I wonder if maybe the Republicans and Democrats could agree on just one line of health insurance reform, especially since each side, and I’m including the partisan public here, appears to say I’m 100 percent right, you’re 100 percent wrong, it’s 100 percent my way or no way.

I hear Rodney King in my head – “Can we all get along?”

No.  Not when politics is involved.  It’s enough to give me a heart attack.

Hear that tapping?  It’s my fingers … as I wait … and wonder … when my editor is going to call.  This is what it’s like for writers … waiting.  Even published writers.  Wondering.  Maybe it’s not that way for writers like Nelson DeMille.  But for those of us in the middle, it’s tapping fingers … anxiously waiting … maddeningly waiting.

My editor was supposed to call me on February 1.  She didn’t.  I let it slide.  Previously, she’d said she was going to send me editorial notes in five weeks.  In five weeks would have been February 16.  Now it’s more than seven weeks.  She emailed me yesterday and asked if we could we talk today.  That made me nervous … that she wanted to talk … rather than just email me her notes on the sex book I’m writing.  I’m not the type of person who likes to talk on the phone.  I’d rather do email … or do lunch.  But considering she’s in New York and I’m in Texas and I’m not Nelson DeMille …

Today, I ate a half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich standing by myself at my kitchen counter.   Well, I wasn’t actually alone.  My nerves were with me.  I ate the sandwich 20 minutes before my editor was supposed to call so that I’d have the energy to clearly focus on every comment she made.  Now I’m hungry for dinner.  Now I’ve gone from anxious to angry.  I’m not angry at her.  I’m angry at someone else … a man who emailed me and told me he hadn’t answered the multiple emails I’d sent him in January because he didn’t think they were intended for him.

I wrote him back that if I hadn’t intended them for him I wouldn’t have sent them to him.  He hasn’t responded. 

Neither has my editor.  I phoned her.  Her assistant said she’d see if she was available.  As I waited, I clicked through my emails.  That’s when I found the one from the man who said he didn’t think my emails addressed to him were intended for him.  I also found a frantic sounding note from my editor saying she was running late and asking if she could call me “in a bit.”  That was an hour and 33 minutes ago, not that I’m counting.  Her assistant came back on the line and said my editor would call me in a few minutes.

I need to remind myself that New York time is different than Texas time.  I learned that when I lived in New York.  They may move fast and talk fast, but when it comes to business, boy, do they ever move slowly.  In Texas, we do business fast; we just walk and talk slow.

I told the assistant to let my editor know that I wasn’t trying to rush her, that I’d just found her email saying she was running late.  Then I answered the email from the man who thought my emails addressed to him weren’t to him.  Then I swallowed back a Bayer aspirin because my heart was starting to ache.  And now, I’m still waiting.  At least now my fingers are tapping on the keyboard rather than simply on the desk … or in my mind. 

But in my mind, I hear Edgar Allan Poe:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.’

Yes, I hear The Raven in my head.  I don’t think I’ve thought about this poem since eighth grade. 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

For some reason, Poe’s rapping, tapping words calm me, though I don’t understand why.  It’s now 6:07 PM in New York.  It’s time for my editor to go home from work.  And still I wait. 

My Facebook friends know how this story ends.  But I’m going to fill in some of the details anyway.  I want my non-writer friends to get an idea of what a writer’s life is really like.  On second thought, maybe it’s better not to tell you so that you’ll create a glamorous fantasy for me.  Non-writer friends, quit reading now!

Published writer friends, you too have to stop reading now.  I want to maintain some semblance of success in your eyes.  Then again, you probably know my truth. 

Non-published writer friends, keep reading so that you’ll learn the realities of this business. 

At 6:08 PM in New York, the literary agent who sold the sex book emailed me and asked how my phone call with my editor went.  At 6:16 PM, I told him it hadn’t gone.  I won’t tell you everything else that I said or he said, but I will state that he told me to try to make another telephone appointment with her.

So, I stopped cutting and pasting the lines:

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

And I started typing an email.

“Since it’s 6:25 PM in New York, I’m guessing we’re not having our phone meeting today.  Can we make a firm appointment for tomorrow?  Or … I can continue to wait here by the phone this evening … it’s just whichever works best for you.  I’m just eager to get this rewrite done and provide you with a great manuscript.”

“Eager” is a weak word for what I feel about completing this book.  But at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about that.  I was obsessing over striking a firm but respectful tone, unlike with the man who had thought my emails to him weren’t for him, while debating in my mind whether – after hitting the send button – I was going to rush to the gym or to my mother’s house to cope with my anxiety.  Weight lifting v. roast beef dinner with the family.

The clock on the computer still read 6:25 PM in New York when I did hit send, and just as I did, my phone rang.  Caller ID simply said, “New York, NY.”  I let the phone ring twice before answering.  Yes, it was my editor. 

We talked for 26 minutes and 25 seconds, not that I was counting.  (I really wasn’t.  I just read the timer on my phone right after I hung up.)  Again, I’m not going to confess all the details.  That’s between my editor and me.  Besides, I don’t want to tell you too much about the book.  Let me just say, in my opinion, it was a G-R-E-A-T conversation.  I’m talking P-O-S-I-T-I-V-E. 

As she scanned down my manuscript, I heard her whisper, “Oh, this is good.”

Lordy mercy, my spirit is hungry for such encouragement.

And, she got what I was trying to accomplish with this book.  She sees what I see in the future.  In fact, what she sees is even better than what I dreamed.  She said this is going to change my career.  I could tell you the exact word she used to describe that future, but if I did, it’d reveal too much about the book.  I’ll just say I emailed my agent, “It’s all super good.  I am so totally psyched!!”  And I posted on my Facebook page, “YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Great convo with my editor. I am TOTALLY PSYCHED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I then grabbed my phone and purse, ran out the door, jumped in my car, zipped down the hill, over the highway, and wound my way over to my mother’s house for victory roast beef.  Okay, it wasn’t really victory roast beef.  Roast beef is far from my favorite food.  But, hey, it was cooked with TLC, and I was hungry.  I walked in the door smiling, which I rarely do.  I don’t mean that I don’t smile.  I just don’t like to walk in smiling.  My sister stood at the kitchen counter.  She looked up, and I announced, “I have a career.”

She said, “What?  As a sexpert?”  Her tone of voice wasn’t p-o-s-i-t-i-v-e. 

“No,” I said, still smiling.  I was smiling ‘cause I hear tapping, rapping at my door, and it’s all good for evermore*. 

*  Okay, truth – it’s “all good” for today, not evermore … because writers have serious ups and downs.  In fact, I’m thinking about chronicling those ups and downs as I go through the rewrite and publication process on the sex book.  Is that a good idea?  Would you be interested in reading about the rewrite of the sex book?  Tell me what you think.  

My blog generates frequent comments, though they’ve never shown up here.  Most often they’re posted on Facebook.  Sometimes, they arrive in my private email box.  A few days ago, I received what I felt was a powerful response to my Working Through the Struggle post.  That’s the one where I quoted award-winning novelist Joe O’Connell.  The response was so powerful that I asked its author if I could post the comment here.  I was told yes.  So, here it is.

“A few years ago I started an alternative teaching certification program so I could be an English teacher.  My big thing in the classroom was going to be making those kids write something every day.  Writing is that important and students are not being taught the skills necessary to succeed in freshman-level composition classes. And why is this? 

1.  “Name the two school subjects that consistently receive government funding and attention from the media?  Science and mathematics.

2.  “Name two careers that are consistently portrayed in the media as being glamorous?  Scientists and engineers.

3.  “Name two careers that pay the highest salaries to graduating college seniors?  Scientists and engineers.

“Now compare that to the way writers and other creative-types are portrayed.  It’s a little depressing, especially when it is we creative-types that the scientists and engineers approach to create their business ad campaigns or write their press releases.  Are we trying to be subversive?  Counter to the culture?  Our little way of raging against the Man?  Well, maybe we’ve been doing it a little too well. Maybe we need to light the fires under our own ‘hey, ho, look at us creative types go!’ kind of marketing campaign.  A ‘where would the world be without journalists or writers?’ type of campaign?

“Do we minimize our contribution to society because for so long we have been made to feel less-than-intelligent due to our lackluster math skills or inability to understand the human genome?

“Now don’t get me wrong, I love science and the fact that there are people that spend their entire life in the pursuit of science excellence.  I know several scientists and engineers that write extremely well and sell value in a well-turned phrase.  They also contribute significantly to the advancement of humanity and all that jazz.  However, the last time I checked, so did Shakespeare, Alcott, Cather, Shaw, Twain, and thousands of other writers.

“Why then do I have college grad students approach me seeking guidance on what makes a good writer or what makes a good article?  One grad student in particular comes to mind.  He attends a very prestigious*, highly regarded East Coast university, is a native speaker and is a product of American public school system, yet he struggles to write a simple article.  Writing clearly makes him, a math god, uncomfortable.  And you know what?  When the people in power are uncomfortable with doing something, then that something (writing, journalism, etc.) struggles. 

“One last story before I go.  When I was in college, my roommate was an engineering major.  She used to give me hell for wasting my time with an English degree, said that technical writing was a joke.  After graduating, she went to work for one of the major oil and gas exploration companies*, making near six-figures when they started.  Ten years went by before we spoke again. 

“Imagine her astonishment when she learned that I, a lowly technical writer with my joke of a degree, was working offshore doing the type of work that she dreamed of doing while in college.  She now sits in an office all day, every day.  Me?  I do the same, but every once in a while I get to go offshore and see and do some pretty amazing stuff. Stuff that is pretty darn close to ’cutting edge’ as one can get without getting cut.  So, yeah, it goes to show that a liberal arts education makes you a lot more open-minded to trying new things than the one-track mind of an engineer.

“I’ll get off my soapbox now.  You have a great way of hitting all the right buttons.”

By the way, the author of the preceding comment loved Joe’s suggestion of creating a vision board “to get the daydreams flowing.”  For more information on that, click here.

I’d also like to note that I love comments.  Feel free to leave them here, post them on Facebook, or send them to me privately.  But especially feel free to leave them here.

*  I was told the name of the “very prestigious” university and the name of the “major” oil and gas company.  Indeed, it is a “very prestigious” university, and it is a “major” oil and gas company.

This is a post I promised months ago.  Since I never got around to finishing it, and I figured you had forgotten about it, I was going to forget it too.  But when an apparently disgruntled American purposely crashed his small plane into a seven-story office building in Austin, Texas, Fort Hood came to my mind.  And that made me decide to finish this blog post.  It’s about my tiny bit of work covering the Fort Hood massacre for ABC’s Nightline.

“Military police have suspect cornered in bldg at Ft. Hood.  Police say 2 shooters opened fire, killing 7 people, wounding 12.  details still coming.”

My friend and investigative reporter Nanci Wilson posted that on Facebook at 2:23 PM on Thursday, November 5, 2009.  Within seven minutes, at 2:30 PM, I hit send on an email to Teri Whitcraft, the national law and justice unit producer at ABC News: “Let me know if y’all need help.”  Four minutes later, Teri wanted to know how long it’d take me to get to Fort Hood. 

I grabbed a bag of Zapp’s potato chips and started cramming them into my mouth.  It’d take an hour and a half to get to Fort Hood.  And if I were called in to work, only God knew when I’d have a chance to eat again.  I’d need the energy of food to do my job.

At 2:46 PM, Teri emailed me that she thought they had everything covered.

I put away the potato chips, turned on my laptop and sat down to type up my notes on a meeting with one of my sex book sources, but what I was really doing was watching the Fort Hood updates on CNN … and Facebook.  At 3:52, Nanci posted a call for blood donors at Scott & White hospital in Temple, Texas.  At 4:01, she reported that the death count was up to 12.

I couldn’t think about sex research under these circumstances. 

* * *

That’s what I wrote on November 13, 2009.  It’s factual. 

Below is what I’m writing more than three months later.  It’s based on hand-scribbled notes, limited emails and cell phone records, and my now shockingly vague memory.  I never thought that night would become vague.  But it did.  I guess that’s what stress does.  Still, I do have snippets of memory.  Their lighting is as detailed as if I were watching them on a theatre screen.

* * *

I wanted to be at Fort Hood covering the story.  That’s how I know I am a journalist, not simply a writer.  When the big story breaks, I want to be there.  It makes me feel like I am doing something about “it.”  Maybe I can’t stop the tragedy, but at least I can inform the people and maybe we can learn something and make changes that prevent such from happening again.

Since I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing, I changed clothes and walked out the door for the gym. 

Ten minutes later, I turned the ringer on my cell phone to its highest decibels, placed the phone on top of my purse, told the owner of the gym to let me know if he heard my phone ring, and climbed on an elliptical trainer to warm up for my workout.  At 5 PM, Karl, the gym owner, started me on my actual workout.  For the next hour, I lifted weights inside, I ran laps outside, I checked my phone, I lifted weights inside, I ran laps outside, I checked my phone. 

With all the phone checking, I felt like I was a prima donna saying, “Hey, everybody, look at me,” when I really knew the truth – I wasn’t going to be getting a call.  But that didn’t stop me from continuing my routine, lift weights inside, run laps outside, check the phone.  By 6 PM, my clothes, my hair, and I were soaked with sweat, and I was spent.  Of course, that’s when it happened – my phone rang.  In seemingly three leaps, I crossed the length of the gym and grabbed the phone.

Jeanmarie Condon, senior producer for ABC’s Nightline, calmly asked if she was interrupting me.  “I’m at the gym.”  She apologized.  “No, I just finished my workout.”  She wanted to know if I could work and how fast I could get to Killeen or Temple, Texas, homes of the medical centers that were treating the gunshot victims.  Without thinking, without asking permission, I stepped into Karl’s office and took it over, searching for pen and paper.  Karl handed them to me as Jeanmarie gave me my instructions – get to one of the hospitals, find friends, family, victims, someone with solid knowledge of the event to go on Nightline that night and talk about the shooting.

I grabbed my scribbled three words of notes, my purse, and literally ran out the door.  Ten minutes later, I began booting up my computer, while shedding clothes for the shower.  I washed my hair, barely blew it dry, found some semi-clean jeans and a shirt, threw them on, as well as a speck of makeup, went back to the computer, printed out directions to both hospitals, grabbed notepads and pens, put on shoes that I could run in and stand in for hours, threw a jacket in the car, and 40 minutes after getting the call, I was backing out of the driveway on the road to Fort Hood.

As I drove, I thought about the class I was to teach on Saturday – the Art of Interviewing.  I thought about what I’d tell my students about this night, about these sorts of circumstances – high pressure, big stories, national tragedies, what to do, how to prepare oneself, chaos, competition.  Oh, gosh, the list was endless.  And I hadn’t conducted interviews in months.  I reminded myself of my job – find people to interview, not interview them.  Breathe deep.  Relax.  Remember you’re a professional.  You know what you’re doing.

As I write this, in my head, I see myself water skiing.  I think about skiing whenever I get stressed.  It calms me, though I’ve only gotten to ski twice over the past 30 years.  Despite that, I know that when I set my right foot into that boot of a slalom ski, slide my left foot into the rear binding, and hold that single-handle rope in my gloved hands that I am going to get up first try.  Why?  Because I’ve done it that many times.  I know the fundamentals. 

I can feel my arms stiff and straight, my back strong, my stomach tight, my knees bent, the rhythm in my body as the ski bumps over the water, how my knees absorb the shock, how my arms lift and move like a guy wire, how my body leans, my ankle muscles stretch, how I chew the cinnamon-flavored gum in my mouth in perfect rhythm to the water, and how I scream with ecstasy because no one in the boat can hear me over the roar of the engine.

And in my mind, now, that’s what I saw when I drove over the bridge of Lake Travis.  I knew I could do this job.

This is part one of My Road to Fort Hood.  Until I post part two, if you’d like additional information about my coverage of the tragedy, please click here to read Fort Hood Notebook, a piece I wrote for the Texas Observer.

My blog generates frequent comments, though they’ve never shown up here.  Most often they’re posted on Facebook.  Sometimes, they arrive in one of my private email boxes.  This one came in one of my private boxes, and I asked its author if I could post it here.  She said yes. 

By the way, feel free to leave comments here.  I’d love to have more reader interaction right here on the blog. 

And, now, here’s A Note from an Angel, my friend Angela:

Hi Suzy,

Right off the bat let me say I am not going to knock your blogs on Wasted.  I have thoroughly enjoyed exploring your site, reading your monthly musings and your confessions.  I especially liked the most recent one.  I appreciate your struggle to stay motivated, to stay sharp and energized.  I admire your high standards, your zest for investing your soul into your art and refusing to give up or compromise your goals.

I have a theory.  As men age they tend to allow life to diminish them and they sorrow over the changes that life and advancing time brings.  I will concede that some women will do the same thing but most of my age peers look at what we have accomplished, what we have built in terms of career, families, loves and we congratulate  ourselves on what we have done.  Then we turn our eyes and hearts toward the future and welcome the next adventure.

I shared my theory because I think you are, in a manner of speaking, reaching the “cronehood” of your writing career.  Now is the time to bring together all the skills you have honed, the tricks you know to keep yourself moving forward and take risks, accept challenges and know you can achieve them.  You know this because you know who you are as a writer in terms of having a solid foundation and marketable skills.  Now you are ready to plunge into the deep end and go for broke.  You could not do this earlier in your life or career.  You needed ripening.  You needed to learn to trust your instincts and learn your craft.  Be strong as only a woman can be strong.  Pooh on the men who try to discourage you because they can’t conquer you or claim you.  They view the sunset of life as a lessening.  I challenge you to view it as the strongest time of your life and career.

I hope I haven’t come off as having imbibed a beaker full of feminine power, lol.  I have only recently felt this resurgence in my personal power and I finally realized I was trying to reconcile myself to being less, which was making me miserable.  Then it dawned on me that I am not less.  I am poised to be the most actualized I have ever been and I would not have been ready for this uprising of personal power without some age and living under my belt.  My dreams are what make life worth living, my striving to challenge myself makes my blood sing and it is good to be a mature woman with goals.

So you keep kicking butt and doing the best damn writing of your life.  You are not feeling sorry for yourself.  You were taking stock and keeping yourself honest.  Writing requires honesty or it is worthless.  Your writing is good, it will be better so long as you never settle for giving up your dreams, your goals, your zest.

Angela

Once again I’m standing on the sidelines of the flag football game.  No, standing is incorrect.   If a little guy is going deep for a pass, I’m going deep with him.  That’s why I have tendency to skip my Sunday trips to the gym.  Between shivering in 30-degree weather and running up and down the sidelines for an hour, I figure I’ve gotten in enough of a workout for the day.  But this Sunday, the temperature was in the upper 50s and warming into the 60s.  I didn’t even have on a coat.  Maybe that’s why I wasn’t running as many plays as I normally do – I wasn’t trying to keep warm. 

So, this time, I actually was standing on the sidelines.  And by happenchance, my body was perfectly perpendicular to the little guy in front of me as he reached … then stretched … for a long pass.  The ball tipped into his fingers, and then he dropped it.

“Ooooooooh,” we all groaned. 

And with all of my hearing, that hearing that goes from the ears to the heart to the toes, and ricochets off toes, back up to the brain, and returns to the heart again, I heard that disappointed moan of the crowd.

I walked back down the sidelines to where my cousin was standing.

“Thank God, writers don’t have people watching them when they write.  It’d be devastating to hear ‘oooooh, noooo,’ whenever we write a bad sentence,” I said.  “These kids have guts.”

I wondered if that kid who dropped that perfect pass heard and felt that collective groan like I did.  I hope he didn’t.  I remember last Sunday, my little guy dropped a deep pass right in front of my cousin and me.  We both moaned, “Oooooooooh.”  My little guy looked at us, pain painting his face like he was soooooooo sorry that he’d let us down and hurt us.  My cousin immediately started clapping for him and said, “That’s okay.  Good try.  You’ll get it next time.”

I’ve been thinking about those kids, their dropped passes, and their parents’ response for at least an hour now.  And I’m thinking maybe I’d like to have a small crowd around me, watching me when I write, cheering me and groaning at me. 

“Yea, Suzy, great sentence!  Attaway to go!!”  Applause, applause. 

My fingers strut over the keyboard with more confidence.

My little crowd leans over my shoulder again to read my next words.  “Ooooooh, Suzy, bad sentence.”

I drop my head, dejected.  My fingers flop motionless. 

Applause, applause.  “But good try.  You’ll do better next time.  Attaway to go!!  Keep at it.”

I perk up.  I look at that bad sentence.  I think of a better way to do it.  And I figure out a way not to repeat that mistake. 

Maybe, just maybe, a little crowd wouldn’t be so bad.

Once a month, a group of Austin’s most successful writers, as well as movers and shakers in the publishing business, get together for drinks and conversation.  I rarely go to these events because, well, I live in the boondocks and it’s a long trek into town.  Besides, I’m not a big socializer.  After a day of work, I’d rather hide under the bedcovers.  But last Friday night, the group was supposed to meet at the Blanton Museum for its once a month B scene event.  I immediately RSVPed yes because one of my favorite singers was headlining the event — Suzanna Choffel.

You may have noticed that I said “was supposed to meet.”  That’s because hundreds of people attended the Blanton event, and among those hundreds it was nearly impossible to find the gathering of writers.  So, by myself, I perused the Blanton’s current art exhibit called Desire, which is fascinating.  Well, let me restate that, it’s fascinating to a sex writer.  I was watching a curious short film when Gianna LaMorte, a sales rep for Random House, and Colleen Devine Ellis, a publicist for the University of Texas Press, grabbed me and jokingly accused me of watching porn. 

Laughing, I left the film to join them.  After all, friends in the industry had finally found me.  They glanced at the art while I scootched closer to what appeared to be several yards of white thumbtacks, all in a nice straight line, pressed into a white wall.  On inspection, there was a tiny black and white photograph on each tack head, as though one were looking through a peephole.  Gianna and Colleen too quickly moved on.  Well, too quickly in my opinion, not quickly enough in theirs.  They weren’t enamored with thumbtacks.  In fact, the only exhibit they liked was a sculpture of black roses, which I barely noticed.  But it was near that sculpture that award-winning novelist John Pipkin spotted us.  Like me, John was relieved that he’d finally found someone he knew. 

John Pipkin

John and I began to talk.  I thought Gianna and Colleen were talking with us, too, until I realized they’d dumped me.  That meant John got stuck talking to me for the next three hours.  I love talking to John.  He’s boyishly handsome.  He dresses well.  He wears great glasses.  He has wonderful (complimentary) stories to tell about his editor, the famous Nan Talese, and Nan’s equally famous husband, Gay Talese.  I love hearing these stories because Gay has taught in the University of Southern California’s Master of Professional Writing Program, from which I graduated, and Gay wrote the book Thy Neighbor’s Wife, which was a bit of inspiration for my literary agent’s suggestion for my next book – yes, the forever-talked-about, yet-to-be-published sex book.

But most of all, I love to talk to John because I can get him to blush so easily, especially when sex is mentioned.  Since we were standing in a sex-oriented art exhibit and since I’m writing a book about sex, needless to say, John blushed often.  He is so cute when that rose blush warms his creamy cheeks.  Yes, John, I know I’m embarrassing you.  And if your wife is reading this, she has nothing to worry about.  I’m too old.  You’re too good.  And I only tease those with whom I know I’m completely sexually safe.  But, boy, you’re a charmer.

After maybe an hour, we moved away from the sex exhibit, closer to where Suzanna was going to perform, John stopped blushing, and we seriously talked about writing and the writing process. When John talks about the writing process, I listen.  His first novel, Woodsburner, was named one of the best books of 2009 by the Washington Post, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Christian Science Monitor, and the San Antonio Express-News.  And – and let me emphasize this and – it won the 2009 First Novel Prize from the Center for Fiction.  He received the prize at an awards banquet in New York where he was seated with Nan and Gay Talese.  (Yes, I’m jealous.)

Woodsburner revolves around a 300-acre fire that William David Thoreau accidentally set near Walden Woods and how that fire affects the lives of John’s four main characters – Thoreau; Caleb Dowdy, an opium-addicted, fire and brimstone preacher; Oddmund Hus, a man who lusts over his employer’s wife; and Eliott Calvert, an inept playwright, bookseller, and seller of porn.  (Yep, that’s a lot of sex by an author who blushes so easily at the mention of the topic, and I haven’t even listed all of the sexual references in his book.)

After spending three hours with John, I felt emboldened to ask him for one to three tips for working through the struggle of writing.  Here’s what John suggested:

1.  “The first tip is not terribly original or exciting, but it usually seems to work for me, and in fact I just followed this method earlier today.  When I’m at a loss for where to start writing, I’ll often begin by revising the previous day’s work.  This helps to bring me back into the story and remind me where the characters are.  Often revision produces new ideas to carry me into the next chapter or scene.

 2.  “I’m a big fan of maps and outlines, so whenever I get stuck, I usually return to my outline to see what I originally thought might come next.  Sometimes it’s easier to play with scenes and conflicts in outline form because it allows you to juggle ideas above the fray, rather than struggle with them in the trenches.  And, as horribly as un-sexy as it sounds, I tend to map out ideas in spreadsheets (yeah, I know).  Keeping ideas organized and compartmentalized in a spreadsheet buys me the freedom to wander around from idea to idea when I’m writing.  So when I get stuck, I’ll often just spend a day tinkering with the ideas in a spreadsheet to see where I am and where I’d like to go next.  I also like index cards*, and I currently have a big bulletin board in my home office covered with color-coded index cards.  Sometimes it helps to be able to physically move scenes and chapters around.  (Plus, there’s a certain satisfaction in stabbing frustrating chapters through the heart with a thumbtack.)  So, I usually have two or three different versions of the same story mapped out in different visual formats, and sometimes one format helps me to see the way out better than another.

 3.  “Let the characters do the work.  When I’m not sure where the story will go next, or how a particular conflict or struggle should be resolved, I try to turn to the characters involved to find out how they would react to the situation.  In this way the characters shoulder the burden of moving the plot forward.  This helps in two ways.  First, it ensures that the plot develops out of character’s motivations and actions/reactions.  Second, if I have no idea how a character would react in the scene that I am working on, this is a good sign that my character is under-developed and needs more refining.  Most of the time when I find that my plot is stuck, it isn’t because I don’t have enough ‘twists’ ready at hand, but because I haven’t thought through my characters carefully enough, and as a result, I have no idea what they should do next.  If the characters are full developed, they can help push the plot forward.  (Conversely, if the plot pushes under-developed characters forward, then the characters begin to seem like two-dimensional vehicles for external conflicts and ideas.)”

I want to point out that like Joe O’Connell, the award-winning novelist I quoted in Working Through the Struggle, John is a writer, husband, father, and teacher.  He teaches at both the University of Texas in Austin and Southwestern University in Georgetown, Texas.  I say that to emphasize that if one says one doesn’t have time to write, one doesn’t really want to write.  John crafted Woodsburner while he was executive director of the Writers’ League of Texas.  Being executive director of the WLT is a hellaciously stressful job requiring morning, noon and night commitment on weekdays and on weekends.  Because of that, John rose at four each morning to boot up his computer and write Woodsburner.  That’s commitment.  And that’s another reason I like John Pipkin.

 *  In December 2009, best-selling mystery and suspense novelist and friend Jeff Abbott blogged about Scrivener, which I gather is an Apple-only computer software program that, in essence, combines John’s spreadsheet concept with his index cards.  Jeff highly recommends Scrivener.  I can’t offer an opinion — I’m a PC.

I never intended for my blog to be solely about writing.  As such, I’ve tried to make sure each post has a universal message so that writers and non-writers alike can glean something from it.  But as I began this post, I knew it was for writers only … until today.  I added a few notes at the end that made me realize this post has something of import to non-writers too, specifically to those who are fed-up with the media.  Maybe the notes will help you understand why there is a decline in the quantity of quality journalism.  And, maybe there’s another little message that will be of benefit too.

I’m not a big fan of those “10 Tips to …” pieces.  To me, they’re simplistic articles that someone tosses out in a half hour in order to make $7 from a website that places no value on writing while desperately needing writers.*  Such sites equate word count with substance. 

On second thought, I think that may be exactly why I don’t like such articles — the so-called publishers are destroying the profession of writing.  When Helen Gurley Brown published a 10 tips to satisfying your man article in Cosmopolitan magazine, well, it may have been written by someone whose credentials we didn’t know, but we knew Ms. Brown was editing those pieces and she had credentials.  She wrote the groundbreaking book Sex and the Single Girl, based on her life as a sexually active single woman in the 1950s and ’60s and at the encouragement of her apparently sexually satisfied husband, the late David Brown.  And, Ms. Brown was paying her writers a decent wage for those ten tips.

Now days publishers say give me 750 (or 1000) words on such and such topic and I want 10 of those pieces in one day and I’ll pay you $7 a piece.**  Certainly that encourages the employment of writers with questionable credentials and expertise in the topic and practically forces them to make up all the information, rather than actually research, report, and verify the information.  It devalues the profession of writing, and it devalues writers, making it nearly impossible to be a full-time, professional writer.  Worse, it makes doubtful the validity of the information one reads.

All of that is a round about way for me to (1) rant about the state of publishing, journalism, and copywriting and (2) to say that I’m only writing this particular blog piece at the semi-request of one of my clients.  She’s the one I mentioned in Struggling.  Since she was struggling with her writing, I asked her if she wanted me to provide her with some tips to working through the struggle.  Hence, my use of semi-request — I offered, she said yes.

But as I started typing this and writing the part about writers just making up their tips and not doing their research, I had a brainstorm — why don’t I do some research on this topic.  I contacted four friends, all of whom have successful novels on the bookstore shelves right now.  I asked them to provide me with one to three tips on how they work through the writing struggle.  Four said they would.  Two actually came through.  (Interestingly, it was the men who came through for me, not the women.)

This spring, Joe is teaching a novella-in-a-semester class at St. Edward’s University.  It’s based on the NaNo writing concept — whipping out a novel in a month, while not worrying about editing and rewriting.  That way one silences the self-editing demon that can hamper productivity and creativity.  In fact, Joe’s writing with his class.

Joe’s Tips

1.  “One thing we are doing may sound a bit goofy,” Joe emailed me, “but I have them construct a vision board — photos that remind them of characters, places, etc.  We get out the Mod Podge and act like 13-year-old girls in creating something.  The idea is to get the daydreams flowing.  This is very useful at the start of a project and is also something to meditate on while writing.”

I’m going to interrupt here and interject that this works equally well in nonfiction.  For my true crime books, I paste on a poster board photographs of the “characters” from the book, pictures from their childhoods, their homes, their families, and their friends.  I also paste on photographs of the crime scenes and evidence.  I’ll stare at these poster boards for hours, noticing the tiniest details and looking into my characters eyes, begging them to tell me something, and usually they do. 

2.  “If (and when) I get caught in the middle,” Joe says, “I try to spend some time plotting out the rest of the book.  I write a 4- to 8-page loose synopsis of the story.  I usually don’t write this until I get stuck, but this semester I’m having students do it early so they can speed through that sloppy first draft.”

 Of course, Suzy’s got to throw in her two-cents too.  Since we’re in the midst of contest season — in fact, the Writers’ League of Texas manuscript contest deadline is February 24, 2010 — and often a one-page synopsis is required with a contest entry, I suggest to my clients that they graph five major plot points in their book and then write the synopsis based on those points. 

By plot points, I mean the inciting incident that kicks off the book, i.e. the event that throws the lead character’s life into chaos; at least two other events that spin the character’s life out of control, again, just when he/she thinks life is about to get on track; and the resolution, which will show how the problem created in the beginning of the book (or subsequent problems) is solved and how the character has changed over the course of the book.  Plop those incidents down on a graph, write a few sentences describing each, as well as giving a bit of character description, and you’ve got yourself a rockin’ one-page synopsis.

 3.  For Joe’s last tip, he says, “Artificial deadlines work.  That’s why I’m writing along with my class!  That’s also the ‘gift’ of the course for them.”

I partially agree with Joe.  For me, that artificial deadline has to be outside myself.  If I tell myself I have to write five pages a day, I won’t do that unless I know my book deadline is three months away and the only way I’m going to meet that deadline is if I write five pages a day. 

Knowing I’m that way, I knew I never would finish a book on my own.  And that’s exactly why I got my Master in Professional Writing degree.  To graduate, I had to complete a book.  So, in reality (and that’s an intended oxymoron to artificial), I completely agree with Joe’s tip that artificial deadlines work because my MPW forced me to finish a novel, just like his class is forcing Joe and his students to finish a novella. 

Similarly, my client has her “artificial deadline” of the Writers’ League contest.  And I’ve got to tell you, she’s making that deadline.  After reading Struggling, she sent me a bare-your-soul piece of writing that got her past the struggle and a few days later she sent me some new pages.  Those pages are filled with passion and they rock!  I’ve also got to tell you that she had to go through a time-consuming, gut-wrenching process in order to write such passionate, quality words.  What I’m back to saying is that you’re not going to get great writing at 50, 400-word articles written in one day. 

That almost sounds like I’m contradicting Joe and his novella-in-a-semester.  No, I’m not.  Absolutely not … because you have to get something on the page to begin the writing process.  The difference between publishers that pay $7 an article and Joe and my client is those publishers will publish anything – whether it’s factual or not, whether it’s good or not – and Joe and my client will go through a long, slow, tedious process of rewrite and more rewrite and often painful soul-searching until they know that their truth is written in their words and those words are crafted and polished as beautifully as possible.

And maybe that’s the universal message in this post – beauty comes in slow, tedious process and often, painful soul-searching.

My next blog post will offer three tips on coping with the struggle from award-winning novelist John Pipkin.

 *  In 2007, I read an article in the Los Angeles Times stating that the publisher of Pasadena Now, a Pasadena, California publication, was outsourcing reportage of the Pasadena City Council meetings to writers in India.  Yes, that’s India that’s on the continent of Asia, not India, Texas.

These writers in India watched a video feed of the Pasadena, California, meetings and wrote their news stories based on the video feed.  They missed any and all important happenings that took place off-camera and any opportunity to ask follow-up questions or questions of clarification.  Admittedly, they made mistakes in their reporting but dismissed such concerns because, also admittedly, they are not journalists.  The pay for their work was $7.50 for each 1000-word piece … or, as the publisher said to Maureen Dowd for the New York Times, “I pay per piece, just the way it is in the garment business.”

 **  I just read a CraigsList writing gig ad seeking someone to write 50 articles, at a minimum of 400 words per article, for a total pay of $100.  That’s $2 per article or .005-cents per word.  In 1966, the year after Helen Gurley Brown became editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan, she paid freelance writers a minimum of 60-cents a word.  Cosmo articles generally run from 1000 to 1800 words.  So let’s look at this again – 2010, .005-cents a word v. 1966, 60-cents a word.  2010, $2/article v. 1966 $600/article.  Is there any doubt why the quality of journalism has declined?

Over the past few days, I’ve heard from a friend struggling with juggling work, motherhood, marriage, and graduate school and a client struggling with her writing.  I understand.  I struggle too. 

Right now I’m struggling to write this because I’m sitting in Whataburger.  Let me back up.  For years, I had a set writing routine.  I’d wake up, check my email, shower, check email again, get dressed, check email again, and walk out the door to Whataburger — hence, the Whataburger cup on the home page of my website. 

I’d order a number one meal (Whataburger, fries, and soda), fill up my cup with ice and Diet Coke, sit down at one of my three favorite tables (next to the door or windows), pull out a hard copy of my previous day’s writing, and start editing.  By doing that, by the time I left the WB, I knew exactly where I needed to began writing, what I wanted to write, and how I wanted to start it.  And, and this and is important, I thought about that opening all the way home so that all I had do to when I got home was flip on the computer and start writing. 

Other times, I’d take my laptop to Whataburger and start writing there, sometimes getting so lost in my work that I’d stay for hours.  I’d “wake up” to realize I’d written through an entire Whataburger shift change.  I loved that.  I loved that the Whataburger employees found my work and me intriguing enough that they’d let me sit for hours and leave me alone.

But as some of you know, I moved, which meant a switch in Whataburger’s.  While my new WB is filled with great employees, I’ve never felt comfortable working here.  Only one employee seems curious about my work, and that’s because he wants me to edit his school papers for him, which I would do if he’d ever remember to bring them to me.  Plus, this store is too small to let me take up a table for hours.  And the clientele is different.  Musicians and homeless men frequented my old Whataburger.  Retired corporate executives and blue-collar workers fill this Whataburger.  Some people would consider that an improvement.  I don’t.  They don’t feed my creative juices.

I remember sitting in my old Whataburger when Jennifer Gale walked in, her brown hair flowing over the shoulders of her apple red Christmas sweatshirt.  For those of you who don’t know Austin, Jennifer was a transgendered homeless woman who frequently ran for mayor.  She was a sweetheart.  I can say that from personal experience because as she walked out the door one day, she stopped, turned around, came over to me, and with a big, beautiful smile on her face told me how much she loved my eyeglasses and that she hoped I had a wonderful day.

Jennifer Gale

Such kindnesses don’t happen at my current Whataburger.

And, indeed, Jennifer made my day wonderful.

I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t feel the emotional support at my current Whataburger that I did at my old one.  And I’m sure I’m projecting myself on my friend and my client when I say that often we find ourselves struggling when we feel like we’re not getting the emotional support we need. 

I know that’s happened to me over the past few years as I’ve struggled with my sex book.  People who once supported it turned against it.  One person even told me that the book is going to destroy my career and … well, I don’t want to say what else she said.  But perhaps worst of all, the person I depended on to be my biggest, loudest-cheering champion gave me such harsh critique that I lost my self-confidence.  Initially, the harsh critique was done in the name of making me a better writer.  At first, that’s what it felt like – hard critique to make me better.  But over the years it seemed to turn into cruel, unnecessary digs intended to make me doubt myself.  And that’s what it did.  Like the cliché acid, it ate away at my self-confidence.  The scars run deep and red. 

I’ve thought about that a lot over the past hours … ever since I got the email from my client … saying her writing wasn’t going well … that her work (in essence, since I’ve been coaching her) is missing its former elegance, that it seems forced and clunky. 

She’s right.  And I know the reason why.  In the name of making her a better writer, I froze her with my harsh critique. 

“Stand up and shake,” I wrote her back.  “Literally.  Just stand up and shake me off.  Then go read my blog about writer’s terror.  Don’t think or worry about me.  Just write.  Just write for yourself … for your soul … like nobody’s listening.”

That’s what I said last night.  Today, all I’ve been thinking about is my mentor Ben Masselink.  Ben was my favorite instructor in the University of Southern California Master of Professional Writing Program.  All Ben ever told me was go, go, go, go, go, you can do this.  You’re almost there.  Go, go, go, go, go, go … though Ben usually said it with a ton of typos as he pecked out the words on one of his black Underwood typewriters. 

So, to my client, I want to say I’m very sorry that I’ve made you doubt your talent. Truly, I have been hard on you because I do believe in you and do believe that you are talented.  In fact, you might be the most innately talented writer I coach.  I’ve been harsh on you because I thought you were strong enough to handle the critique and because I wanted to prepare you for the harshness of this industry.  I still believe you are strong enough to handle the critique, but I failed to remember that we all need a Ben Masselink in our lives.  So, girl, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go.  You’re almost there.  You can do it.  I believe in you.  Go, go, go, go, go, go.

And to my friend, I believe in you too.  I know it’s hard.  I wish I were there to help you juggle.  But I know you can do this.  Go, go, go, go, go.  Or, as Ben told me, “YOURE GOING TO DO IT!!!!”

No, you ARE doing it.

USC classmate, friend, and novelist, Mitchell Sam Rossi, me, and our beloved mentor, Ben Masselink

In my previous post, I mentioned that I have a tendency to start writing something, get halfway through it, take a break, and then never get back to finishing it.  Today, I went to my blog folder and discovered a piece titled “Writer’s Terror.”  I looked at it’s date — September 22, 2009.  As per my modus operandi, I’d gotten halfway through it and then lost my way.  

Just an hour or two before I made that discovery, Karl Duvall, the kind gentleman who owns the gym I go to, posted on Facebook that today he struggled to run his nine miles.  It was 33 degrees and for the first four miles he ran against a hard mental wall.  Then he started thinking about a question I’d asked him:  “How does one push oneself when training alone?” 

For the next two plus miles, he said, he thought about how to answer me.  And answer me, he did, comparing his runner’s wall to writer’s block.  Karl said to think about how I’d gotten through other struggles in my life because “somewhere deep inside we all have something that keeps us fighting through our struggles” — the huge ones like death and divorce, as well as what Karl called “the little huge ones like finishing a book, finishing a workout/run, losing weight and so many more things.”

“We have to step back,” he said, “reevaluate our goals, why we’re doing something and how to accomplish it.  Remember your Why? and it helps to reach it.  Also most importantly, remember those that can help you do it.  Think of the cheers and the pat on the back.  The size smaller jeans you want to fit in or the paycheck you’ll get.  When it’s gym related then ask for the kick in the butt* that we can/will give you.”

So,  four months after I started it, I try to finish my “Writer’s Terror” blog post.  I hope it — along with Karl’s words — encourages you.

Some people suffer writer’s block.  I suffer writer’s terror.  That’s when I’m so terrified of being judged or so terrified of repeating past mistakes, so terrified that I can’t live up to that talent that I know I have but fear I’ve lost, that I squander the day checking email and Facebook and researching other possible book and story ideas.  In other words, I never get around to writing.  Then I waste the night praying for God’s help and mercy in finding my talent again and praying for the discipline to sit down at the keyboard and actually type and write and expose my soul … because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past year is that I find my writing voice when I expose my soul. 

That’s probably the dilemma right there – I don’t want to expose my soul.  I want to write about other people, not me, seemingly forgetting that when I write about others that I’m really writing about myself.

For example, though I joke that my book Wasted is crap, and though I always add that like a Jackie Collins novel it’s riveting crap, I know there’s at least one paragraph I’m proud of.  It closes Chapter 13:

Folks just didn’t understand what it was like to feel you had another person’s blood flowing through your veins, making your heart beat, you skin tingle, your mind want to work, your arms want to reach out and touch and hug and love and breathe and feel loved and fulfilled for the very first time in your life, like you’re not alone in the world, like there’s a mother to care for you, a family who won’t abandon you, someone who accepts you even when you feel all ugly inside.  But Regina understood.  And it was worth life.

Regina was the murder victim in Wasted.  On the surface, we were nothing alike.  She was a young, wild, directionless lesbian.  Well, perhaps she did have a direction that she wasn’t even aware of – self-destruction.  Still, I could relate to Regina in at least one area of our lives and that area was a desperate need to be loved and accepted.  So when I wrote that paragraph, I tapped into my own (and, man, I don’t want to admit this) desperate need to be loved and accepted.  For those three sentences, I felt like I was channeling Regina and she was channeling me.

As many times as I’ve read those words aloud at book signings, I have never admitted that they’re really my thoughts and feelings, not Regina’s.  I didn’t want to expose myself.  After all, I want my writing to be about others, not about me.   But — and I know I’m repeating myself here – I know I find my writing voice when I expose my soul.  And when I find my writing voice, my writer’s terror … well, it is no more. 

*In 2008, through the Writers’ League of Texas, I taught a class called “The True Kick in the Pants:  Starting and Completing the First Three Chapters of Your Narrative Non-fiction Book.”  I’m tentatively scheduled to teach a similar class — for nonfiction and fiction — this coming May, again through the WLT.  This class won’t be limited to just the first three chapters.  Instead, it’s intended to help struggling authors prepare their manuscripts for the Writers’ League annual agents conference, a conference where writers can pitch their books to editors and literary agents and learn about the inside workings of the publishing industry.  I highly recommend this conference. 

I don’t need no stinkin’ pity. 

I guess that’s a rather harsh reaction, but the other day someone responded to my New Year’s Eve Confession saying he had no sympathy for me, that instead of seeking sympathy I should look at what all I’d accomplished in my career, and, and – this is the part that got to me — that I should lower my dreams.  That’s the very kind of thinking I don’t want in my life. 

Let me back up a bit.  And forgive me if I’ve already told you this story before, but years ago I mentioned to a yearning-to-be-published author that I’d received literally 200 to 300 rejection letters from literary agents and editors.  She looked at me like I was crazy and responded, “Give it up.”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t her exact quote, and as a journalist I believe in giving exact quotes.  But that was the gist of her brief response — after two or three hundred rejections it’s obvious that you’re not going to make it as a published author, so just give it up.

I looked at her like she was crazy.  I was not going to give up my dream.  If I did, that’d guarantee I wouldn’t fulfill it.  And I’m so glad I didn’t take her advice because it wasn’t long after that that I sold Wasted.  We know what happened to Wasted — New York Times bestseller, Violet Crown Award finalist in the nonfiction category, three printings, and finally, finally, 11 years after publication, Wasted made it into profit territory. 

I began writing this blog post almost two weeks ago.  I have a tendency to do that a lot lately – start writing something, get what I think is halfway through it, then take a break and never finish the piece. 

With this post, I came back to it a week later and thought, hmm, the first 300 words stand on their own as is, though there was one really bad transition, which I’ve deleted.

But despite the fact that the first 300 words stood on their own, I wanted to add more.  I wanted to write about what that no-pity “someone” said to me.  (That’s something I tend to do – write too long.*)  So now, nearly two weeks after I started this, I’m going to diverge from my usual blog post formula and go a bit more into reporter mode.  In doing so, I’m going to talk a very little about my sex book, something I’ve been refraining from doing until it gets closer to actual publication.  I’m going to do that because that “someone” was one of my sex book sources.

I’ve known him for four and a half years.  And from now on I’m going to call him Howlin’ Wolf.  I won’t tell you how Howlin’ Wolf and I met.  That will have to wait for the book.  But in those four and half years, we’ve become friends, though distant friends, meaning we rarely see each other but we keep in touch through email.  And, obviously, he reads my blog posts.  After reading “New Year’s Eve Confession,” he emailed, “Interesting.”

A comment like that says to me that the person didn’t really like what I wrote, but wants me to draw out their not-so-positive feelings.  It’s a bit passive-aggressive, but it’s games playing that I’m used to simply because I’m frequently passive-aggressive. 

“Your (lack of) comment is interesting.  ” I passive-aggressively wrote back.

Howlin’ Wolf replied that he was concerned that I was feeling low.  “I just care about you and want you to be in a better frame of mind.”

I read lines like that and find that it’s no wonder that he’s one of my editor’s, my test readers’, and my favorite “characters” in the book.  Apparently, though, I didn’t answer his sweet email.  At least I can’t find a reply. 

The following day, he emailed me again with some sex news.  Perhaps I didn’t react the way he wanted because the next day he wrote me again about my New Year’s Eve blog.  I don’t know if Howlin’ Wolf realizes this, but often, when I don’t respond the way he wants, he’ll send me another email commanding a response:

 “You know more about me than anybody in this world EXCEPT me, and as a result of that I feel like you should accept and understand me as a TRUE friend when I say I had rather tell you my honest feelings, than tell you what I think will pacify you.  I’m almost sure this will piss you off initially, but if you are still mad at me after a few days of thinking about it, then I guess our friendship wasn’t that solid after all.  I’m not sure I feel as much sympathy for you as I did in the first reading.”

Sympathy?!  I don’t want no stickin’ sympathy.  Sympathy wasn’t what I was striving for.  Oh, yeah, I reacted.  And if I’m truthful, the word in my brain wasn’t sympathy; it was pity.

I forced myself back to his email.

“I think some of your worries and problems were self-inflicted—”

Duh.  Of course, they’re self-inflicted.

“—and maybe your ‘career expectations’ bar was set too high from the get go.”

What?!!!  That’s exactly the kind of thinking I’m trying to get away from. 

“If you want to know why I feel this way, I’ll continue.  Otherwise … oh, well.”

“Sure.  Why not tell me?”  I greeted his passive-aggressive words with more of my own.  “I assure you, I can handle whatever you have to tell me.  Odds are, I’ve heard much, much, much worse.”

As I typed, a comment from an Amazon reader flitted through my mind.  That reader wrote that I, Suzy Spencer, am “THE WORST WRITER IN THE HISTORY OF WRITING.”  Man, that’s saying something – worst writer in the history of writing.  (By the way, the all caps were the reader’s idea, not mine.)

Anyway, back to the subject.  I believe my response to Howlin’ Wolf caused him to soften his comments back to me, rather than say what he really intended.  He wrote that I should focus on the successes I’ve had and not compare myself to the likes of Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling – that that sort of success is rare. 

Duh.

He then talked about his days as a pilot:

“I was a far cry from the Tom Cruise ‘Top Gun’ type of guy.  But you know what, Suzy?  I had fun, lived where I wanted to live, enjoyed what I did and made a decent living doing it.  And that’s all the majority of us can ask for expect.”

Quietly, I went ballistic.  How does one go quietly ballistic?  I fumed like a cartoon character blowing air out of her ears, but I didn’t say a word.  To me, that very thinking – that settling for what that majority expects – is what sabotages a writer.  We have to believe that we’re that special one that’s going to make it big.  If we don’t, we’ll give up when so-called friends hear we’ve had 200 to 300 rejections and tell us to give up.  We’ll give up when we read that we’re “THE WORST WRITER IN THE HISTORY OF WRITING.”

And I don’t know about you, but I don’t intend to give up.  I see that “giving up” a lot in writers these days, especially writers of a certain success and of a certain age, i.e. writers like me.

They’re beaten down by the lack of recent success, by the never-ending financial instability, by the diminishing ability to be paid for our words, by the confusion in the present state of publishing, by the very long-term viability of our industry, and even by the near zero availability of health insurance (at least in Texas).

Just this week, a writer who would be considered a success by Howlin’ Wolf sighed that we’re “dinosaurs,” then whispered the fear that we all have:  “Will I ever be published again?”

That’s the state of writers right now.  That’s the very thinking I cannot be sucked into.  If I allow myself to slide down that depressed hole, the odds bury me barely alive.  And I won’t be published. 

I told Howlin’ Wolf that I don’t want to be content, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have fun along the way.  I do. 

Now this next sentence might sound absolutely awful, and that’s not what I intend.  I wrote Howlin’ Wolf that “I had a blast covering the Andrea Yates trial and stretching and learning, and that’s exactly why I don’t want to be content.  I want to stretch and learn and strive to be Top Gun.  I realize that’s not for everyone.  But it is for me.  And if that wasn’t the way I am, you and I would have never met, because I never would have taken on the challenge of writing a book about sex.  … I would have contented myself with making a comfortable living writing tabloid trash, mass-market paperback, Texas-based true crime books.  But, hey, where’s the fun, the challenge, the daring, the growth in that?

“And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about – you do that in your sex life.  I just prefer to do it in my career.”

That probably sounds like I’m cutting down my true crime career and true crime writers.  I don’t want to do that.  I am most grateful for what true crime has given me – challenges I never dreamed.  And I admire what true crime writers accomplish on miniscule budgets with often ridiculously tight deadlines and with little respect from others.

But, for me, I also feel like “been there, done that, time to try something new.”

I could go on and on about what Howlin’ Wolf said next, about how he asked me if I equated contentment “with a certain level of success” with having “no incentive to improve.”  And, again, if I’m being honest, I do want to go on and on with that.  But I can tell that at this point, this blog post is getting boring.  So let me just get to the point.  And that point is that I find irony in the fact that the very people who have encouraged me to be content with less have not fulfilled their dreams.

The writer, who told me to give it up after 200 to 300 rejections, as far as I know, has never published a book.  And Howlin’ Wolf, well, since he’s one of my sex sources, I’m going to digress a moment and say that for the past four years he has admitted that he wants to get me in bed.  That ain’t gonna happen.  In fact, when I think about the men who have encouraged me to be less than I dream, they have all been men who have said they wanted me sexually.  And, they are all men who didn’t have a chance with me.

Man, that sounds vain, and it’s an embarrassing and maybe inappropriate thing to confess.  But all I’m saying is, writers … women … or anyone for that matter, when someone is encouraging you to give up your dreams … or lessen your dreams … or wants you to lower your standards … just maybe, just maybe they have a not so hidden motive.  Maybe their motive is for you to give up like they did.  And, more important, maybe their motive is not in your best interests. 

I’m here to say you don’t need their stinkin’ input.  Dream big.  Work hard.  Stretch.  Grow.  Challenge yourself.  Enjoy.  And most of all, don’t give up.  Shout it from the sky, “I don’t need no stinkin’ pity.”  Then get back to writing. 

*  I point out my short-fallings and mistakes so that my coaching clients can see how harshly I critique my own work.  As such, I should note that I’m using sympathy and pity as if they are interchangeable.  Though Webster’s Ninth Collegiate Dictionary defines sympathy as “the act or capacity of entering into or sharing the feelings or interests of another” and pity as “a sympathetic sorrow for one suffering, distressed or unhappy,” and though Word says the two words are synonyms, in my opinion, they’re not interchangeable.  My reason for saying that is connotation.  To me, sympathy has a kind connotation.  Pity has a negative connotation.  As proof, I offer you the phrase “pity party.”

My postman's C-class Mercedes Benz.

I know 2009 has been a rotten year for many.  In fact, I have a tendency to want to join everyone in saying that it was a horrible year.  To be honest, 2009 wasn’t great.  To be even more honest, it was great.  I feel a bit guilty in saying that since I have so many friends and family who are seriously suffering from 2009.  So let me explain, and in explaining I’ll be confessing a few things I don’t want to admit to the general public. 

So why am I confessing?  Because I keep telling the writers I coach that they’ve got to “go deeper” in their writing, that they’re just scratching the surface of their characters and stories.  Sometimes going deeper requires embarrassing honesty.  I just wish I could hide my honesty in saying it’s fiction.  But what I’m about to write is the truth as I know it.

The year that was rotten for me was 2008.  I gave up my beloved townhouse that I’d lived in since 1990.  I’d planned on dying there.  But I put my home on the market because some new neighbors moved next-door and they were so noisy that I couldn’t work or sleep.  At first, I tried to cope.  I moved my office into my living room and started sleeping in the guest room.  But I realized that’s no way to live and began searching for a new home.  Instead, I found a lot with Hill Country views so deep and stunning that I can watch lightning shows that are scores of miles away. 

I grabbed my mother to show her the lot.  She started referring to it as “Suzy’s lot,” even though we both knew it was a bit over my budget.  Still, it called to me.  I grabbed my friend Vanessa and showed her the lot.  “It’s so peaceful up here,” we said.  And we dreamed that it was perfect for writing – on top of a hill so high that the birds soar at shoulder height and the song they whisper is the sound of the wind.  We all knew this was my home, even though – and I know I’m repeating myself – it was a bit over my budget. 

But, hey, I’ve always been lucky and blessed.  I bought the place.  A few months later, the “for sale” sign went up on my beloved townhome.  And here’s the catch.  I bought my future home just as the Texas real estate market was near its peak.  And I put the townhouse on the market just as the economy and stock market were crumbling, then crashing.  It took approximately 16 months for my townhouse to sell.  And for 12 months, I was covering the expenses of two homes.

We all know that everyone loves a “winner.”  Hell, I’ve had people admit that they wanted to be friends with me because I have that New York Times best-seller title in front of my name.  And we all know that success breeds success.  So here comes the embarrassing part, the part that can damage my image and career since New York and Hollywood, which is where I make my career and money, only want to deal with winners – I struggle financially as a writer. 

Yeah, I know some of you are saying “big whoop.”  After all, that’s not a surprise to many, if not most of you, especially my writer friends.  But for me, the MBA who believed she’d be a millionaire novelist by the time she was 30 years old, to admit that at 55 years old she’s still struggling like a career beginner is embarrassing.  In fact, just a few months ago a friend from high school emailed me that she thought I was successful enough that I could easily make a half-million dollar charitable donation.  Obviously, (1) I’m very good at faking things, thanks to my MBA in marketing.  And (2), by this age I planned on being wealthy enough that I could donate half my income to charity.  That was my game plan.

So my long overdue point here is that 2008 was a horrible year because I had to give up my home and that that move – along with the crashing economy and the fact that my career success sucks when compared to my dreams and the image I intentionally have cultivated – wreaked havoc on my finances, my emotions, and my self-esteem.  And perhaps worse of all, I haven’t found the writing peace in my new home’s office that I had in my old townhouse.  I’ve struggled, I mean struggled, to write here.

My old office, the place where I completed one novel and all four of my true crime books.

And perhaps that finally brings me to 2009.  It’s been a rough year because I’ve spent it trying to recover from my rotten 2008, both financially and emotionally.  But it’s been a good year because my house finally sold and I turned in my sex book, though I’m still waiting to get it back for rewrite.  It’s been a good year because I’ve gotten my coaching business off the ground, thanks to Cyndi Hughes, executive director of the Writers’ League of Texas.  And I have some really cool clients whom I adore. 

Thanks to Cyndi, I’ve also gotten to teach, and I love teaching. 

It’s been a good year because I’ve gotten to freelance for ABC News, a job that challenges me because it requires new skills, which is one of the very reasons I love it.  And because of ABC, I had the honor of working one of the biggest stories of the year – Fort Hood.  Thank you, dear friend Teri Whitcraft, National Producer, Law & Justice Unit, ABC News.

It’s been a good year because I’ve sold articles to the Texas Observer.  To be accepted and published by such a nationally respected magazine is a privilege.  Thank you, Texas Observer editor Bob Moser … and thank you Ruth Pennebaker and Jesse Sublett for helping me break into this fabulous publication.

It’s been a good year because of even small things like Diane Dimond quoting me in the Huffington Post.  I cannot tell you how much Diane’s respect means to me. 

Turning from the professional to the more personal – moving outside of Austin in 2008 was shockingly rough because it took me away from easy lunches, dinners, and drinks with my friends.  But in 2009, I’ve been blessed with something that will sound so stupid – Facebook.  Through Facebook, I’ve reconnected with friends from New York to California and back to Texas.  They remind me of what I was, what I’ve become, and what I can become.  I’ve “met” people whose paths I’ve never crossed except through Facebook.  These new acquaintances have brought me smiles.  Specifically, thank you, Tonya Montgomery. 

While I’m thinking of friends, I want to thank my friends Candie and Jay.  On my 55^th birthday, they gave me a vacation during which they reminded me of the joy of dreaming big.  So often rejections, cruel reviews, unresponsive agents, inattentive editors, the confusing and lost state of publishing, the lack of money and respect, beat down writers.  We focus on the negative and forget to imagine success.  Thank you, Candie and Jay, for reminding me to dream positive and to believe in myself like I did when I first began.

From beginning to now ending, I can’t close out 2009 without thinking of the blessing of Karl Duvall.  Karl and his staff, Jim Murillo and Susan Dunton Burton, are my trainers, my friends and my lifesavers.  They are whipping me into shape so that when the sex book comes out I will look like a person who can actually find a sex partner if she wants one, rather than look like Dr. Ruth or Sue Johanson (who may have very active sex lives, for all I know, and, believe me, even this sex interviewer and writer doesn’t want to know that).  But equally important, Karl, Jim, and Susan listen to me, encourage me, make me laugh, and make me laugh at myself.  They also push me past what I perceive are my limits and make me succeed anyway, which is what I hope to do with my coaching clients.

If writers aren’t getting my drift here, my point is that this business is very tough.  It’s tough on you financially, emotionally, mentally, and physically.  Become a writer only if you have to do it.  And I’m about to digress for a moment, or at least appear to digress.  I briefly had a literary agent who yelled at me that there was more to life than writing and my career.  I fired her immediately because she was right, but she was also very, very wrong.  Writing isn’t simply a career; it’s who we are.  So again, if you can do anything else, do any other career, do it.  But if writing is the only thing you can do, no matter the financial cost, the emotional cost, the mental cost, and the physical cost, then you are a writer and you must write.

So how am I now going to weave this back to that postman in the Mercedes Benz?  Well, that postman used to deliver the mail in a beat-up, dark green station wagon.  In 2009, he moved up to a Mercedes Benz.  Whenever I get down and disgruntled, I’m going to think about that postman in the Benz.  If he can move up, so can I.  And believe me, I want a Porsche Cayman so badly that I can see it and see me in it. 

Now I’m going to go jump in my seven-year-old Mercedes Benz and go buy a bottle of champagne.  Then I’m going to come home and dress for the evening.  And when I say dress, I may actually put on a dress to remind myself of the days when I actually wore dresses … when I lived in Los Angeles, had big dreams, believed that I would attain them, and nothing or no one could dissuade me from that belief.  Then I’m going to grab that bottle of champagne, take it over to my friend Carol’s, and spend some time with her, her husband, and our writer friends.  And I’m going to talk about what a great 2010 we writers are going to have.  This writer is going to have a book ready to be published, a fit body, and a Porsche Cayman.  If the postman can do it, ….

BTW, if one of my student’s had written this, I’d tell her she didn’t go deep enough. 

"My" Porsche Cayman

To say it’s blustery here in the ATX on this Christmas Eve is an understatement.  The wind wails outside my office.  The outhouse down the street is blown over on its side.  And inside my house, something clanks in the vents over the stove.  It does that every time the wind is strong.  My builder says it’s normal.  I don’t believe him, but I’ve learned to live with the noise.  In fact, I think of it as the one thing that makes my house unique.  Then again, maybe it’s the fact that a writer lives inside this house that makes it unique.  As far as I know, I’m the only writer residing in this little neighborhood.  I do know that when I first moved in, people referred to me as “Oh, you’re the writer.”  I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

I’ve only dared to give two neighbors copies of my true crime books.  I used to play with the child of one of those neighbors.  Come to think of it, I haven’t gotten to play with that child since then.  And the other neighbor, well, eventually she sent me a wonderful thank you email saying how much she enjoyed the book, that it made her realize how much she loved and missed reading, so she went out and bought a copy of another one of my books.  Emails like that mean so much to a writer.

So, today, this writer stepped into the blustery winds to go buy some last minute Christmas presents.  My sister had told me I should make presents this year to save money and show everyone just how much I loved them.  Her suggestion always was to bake cookies.  I wondered for whom I was supposed to bake those cookies.  My sister is overweight.  My mother is too skinny, but isn’t into cookies.  My aunt is overweight.  One cousin doesn’t eat sugar, another cousin doesn’t like chocolate, and to me chocolate chip cookies are the only kind to bake.  On top of that, cooking isn’t my “thing.”  I’m doing well to plop a piece of tilapia into a pan and toss some greens from a box of salad onto a plate

Still, based on my sister’s constant goading, I had this “genius” of an idea to take my cousin’s photographs and home videos and make CDs of his son growing up.  Alas, I don’t like Windows Movie Maker, which is installed on my PC.  I do like Dazzle Video Creator, which isn’t installed.  So, simple solution, right – install my old Dazzle software?  I quickly discovered that was easier said than done.  My Dazzle is for Windows XP.  My PC has Vista, and apparently there’s no downloadable patch.

So, I decided to go buy an I-link cord so that I could download the video straight from the camera to the PC and I’d suffer through with Movie Maker.  Guess what?  Easier said than done.  The freakin’ cord is over $25.  You can tell by my use of freakin’ that I’m really getting into the Christmas spirit now.  But then I found a closeout cord for 97-cents.  Baby, I’m there. 

Happy, I drove home, unwrapped the cord, went to plug it in, and, yep, right, it was the wrong cord.  It’d cost me more in gasoline to return it, and I didn’t want to spend $25+ on a freakin’ cord that I’d use all of once on a camera that’s not even mine.

But then I had another genius idea – my laptop has XP on it.  I’d install Dazzle on it and edit video there …   Okay, I’m sure by now you’re getting bored with this tale of Christmas woe.  Let’s just say that didn’t work either, so I gave up and found myself walking down blustery streets this morning to buy Christmas presents.  I mean, we’re talking so blustery that leaves are swirling in the air like snow.  Dads are hiding their chilled children in their arms, and poor Santa is sitting outside City Hall posing for pictures with the kids.  And that’s when my heart softened a bit. 

I don’t know what it is about Santa, but I always want to crawl in his lap and tell him what I want for Christmas, even though I know I’m way too old … and though I know I shouldn’t take the place of the kids who really deserve to be talking to him.  Those kids looked so happy, despite the fact that the wind was whipping off Santa’s hat and he was having to trip down the street, chasing it.

That’s when I stretched my legs into the only bookstore in my neighborhood – a Barnes & Noble.  I can’t remember the last time I walked into a bookstore just to look around.  I started out in the calendar section, worked my way over to the stationery, eased over to the bestsellers, read a few pages of Mackenzie Phillips’ High on Arrival, decided that wasn’t appropriate Christmas reading, walked over to the true crime section, gave a copy of Wasted a face-out, meandered over to the fiction section, checked out manga and graphic novels to see what they’re like, and finally maneuvered over to traditional novels to cruise down the aisles.  I was looking for friends’ books, but also looking for any cover that just caught my eye and said, “You’ve got to read me!”  And that’s when it happened.

I remembered how when I was young and living in New York, I’d walk into a bookstore, but I couldn’t stay long because my excitement at seeing and touching all the books, books I’d never see in a Barnes & Noble, caused me to have a colon attack and have to find a restroom – fast. 

Yes, I know that’s too much information.  But it’s pertinent to the story. 

Those bookstore colon attacks continued for decades as they were also due to me imagining my books on the bookstore shelves.     

Now days, I never have colon attacks when I go into bookstores.  And I realized today that I sort of miss them because they represented the excitement, the yearning, the thrill, the dreaming of writing. 

Today, though, two good things happened while I was in that bookstore.  One, I realized how lucky and blessed I am to walk into bookstores and see a copy of one of my books on the shelf.  Yes, it’s a bit disappointing in that in the past I’d walk in and see numerous copies of several of my books.  And now I’m lucky to see one copy of Wasted.  But that’s okay.  I understand why.  I’ve taken too much time between books.  I’m still blessed that I have at least one book in the stores.  I have friends who are much more talented and respected than I, and they have zero copies of their books in the stores.

But the other thing that happened that was even better was that as I stood there in front of all those novels, wondering how in the world one draws attention to their work so that a beginning novelist gets noticed, I didn’t want to leave those stacks of books.  I wanted to sit there and lick them up, eat them like homemade chocolate chip cookies, and I wanted to write.  I wanted to write like I yearned to write when I was in my 20s, standing in those New York City bookstores dying for a restroom. 

So while I went out into the blustery winter winds on Christmas Eve to buy a present for my cousin, I came home with one of the greatest gifts from God – the desire to write again.  That’s a gift I haven’t had in Lord knows how long.  And I am grateful for it.

Merry Christmas to you all.

And now I’m going to go wrap my store-bought gifts.

By the way, the wind has nearly ripped one of my trees out of the ground.  It’s now tilted at a 45-degree angle.  But, hey, I like it.  It makes it unique.

This isn't the Santa who had to chase his hat down the street. This Santa is a whole 'nother story that I'll have to tell another time.

Brooke Warner

I’m digressing ridiculously.  Back to the point.  Brooke and I seemed to “get” each other.  I loved her ability to get into a writer’s soul and bring out the best in them.  I don’t know what she liked about me.  Maybe she liked to laugh over the escapades of a ridiculously uptight, white Southern Baptist writing about Americans’ alternative sex practices.  Anyway, the second year we ran into each other at the Writers’ League agents conference, I was moderating a panel and Brooke was one of the panelists.  I blatantly announced to our audience that I wanted Brooke to edit me someday.  She sweetly reciprocated and announced that she wanted to edit me someday.

Then, as my sex book morphed from an overview to a memoir, and as I struggled to reveal myself in the book, I wanted to hire Brooke as my writing coach.  What I’m about to write next might cause me to lose some coaching clients, but it’s the truth — part of me still wishes I’d hired Brooke.  I think she’s that good.  I especially think that today after discovering her blog and an old post of hers on writing memoir.  Every bit of her advice is smart.  I especially appreciate what she wrote about transparency:

Transparency.  This includes honesty, truth-telling, and being vulnerable.  For some people this comes so naturally that it’s a nonissue.  For others it’s like pulling teeth.  Many writers don’t realize how much you have to put yourself out there until they’ve delved into some memoir writing.  Most memoirists, other than those who don’t even know the meaning of the word shame, will freak out at various junctures.  This probably means you’re writing a good memoir.

It’s those last two sentences I love, because, man, I’ve certainly freaked out at various junctures of writing my sex book … and will continue to freak out as I go into rewrite.  So maybe that means the book will be good.  And maybe that means Brooke will be proud.  I hope so, because she’s one fine woman, editor and coach.

Click here to read Brooke’s memoir entry in its entirety.

I’m so honored that ABC’s Nightline allowed me the privilege of being part of their team covering the November 5, 2009, tragedy at Fort Hood.  I’m equally honored and grateful that the Texas Observer allowed me to write about my experience covering the event.  As soon as possible, I will be posting here more of my Fort Hood experiences and thoughts.  But please, in the meantime, click on this link and read my Texas Observer piece.  And, please, feel free to post it elsewhere.

When I was writing Wasted, I took a 30-inch by 40-inch piece of white foam board and rubber cemented on it photographs from the case.  I took another 30-inch by 40-inch piece of foam board and Scotch taped to it a 23-inch by 30-inch copy of State’s Exhibit 38 – a scaled diagram of the crime scene.  That diagram was pockmarked with circles showing exactly where blood splatter was found at the scene, which was the victim’s apartment, and whose DNA was in the splatter – the victim’s or the killer’s. 

State's Exhibit 38 -- Crime Scene Diagram

Let me back up and explain that Wasted was about “A rich lesbian.  Her beautiful young girlfriend.  And the killer who came between them.”  At least that’s the description placed on the original edition’s cover.  And despite it being a rather sensationalistic description, it is pretty darned accurate.  Regina Hartwell was the rich lesbian who was murdered.  Kim LeBlanc was her beautiful young girlfriend.  And Justin Thomas was the killer who came between them.

The original cover for WASTED.

But back to the poster boards.  I placed them next to my computer so that I could stare at them every day that I was writing.  Every day I was reminded that Regina’s DQ-Alpha DNA number was 2,3, Kim’s was 1.1, 4, and Justin’s was 1.1, 1.3.  Every day I looked at the blood splatter in Regina’s living room, hallway, and bathroom.

Each and every day – and often in the middle of the night – I studied the photographs of the blood-stained carpet in her living room, the cigarette butts and remote controls on her coffee table, the colognes and perfume on her bathroom counter, the shed where her dead body lay in her Jeep until she and her vehicle could be burned, and her charred license plates on the ground – RHV … and then … the rest of the numbers … they’re hard to read in the burned blackness … 33H, I believe.

The license plate to Regina's burned Jeep.

I stared at her smiling face in high school.  She appeared so happy and innocent.  Appeared.  In those photos, she used to remind me of a young Reba McIntire.  For some reason, she doesn’t any more.  Daily, nightly, my gaze moved to the pictures of Regina as a young adult.  In some, she grins goofily for the camera.  In others, her back is turned.  In one, she looks forlornly at her feet as she smokes a cigarette.  In another, she stares out her Plaza Hotel window in New York City.  I always think of her as being lonely in that picture.  Maybe that’s because Kim left her on that trip, and right above that picture, I glued a photo of Regina and Kim kissing in their New York limousine.

I have photos of Kim as a smiling tot, a happy cheerleader, a proud graduate, a grinning teen playing on a jet ski, and a contented young girl as her best boy friend colors her hair.  Then there’s the picture of Kim the day she was picked up for Regina’s murder.  Her face is gaunt.  Her eyes are blank.  She’s a dying drug addict. 

I used to display this poster board of pictures when I’d go into high schools on the pretense of talking about writing.  I was really talking about drug, alcohol, sexual, physical and emotional abuse.  Literally, students would crawl on their hands and knees to get closer to the poster board and stare at the pictures.  They couldn’t believe that the beautiful young cheerleader was the same person as the dark-haired, sad-eyed, emaciated addict Kim LeBlanc. 

Equally, they couldn’t believe that the handsome, preppy-looking, young man walking into the courtroom was the same Justin Thomas pictured in his mugshot – hollow-eyed, dark-eyed, angry, threatening, terrifying, and with a bad Mohawk haircut.

I’m digressing from my point as I now stare at those poster boards and get carried away with my memories.  My point, as I write this on Halloween Eve, is the ghost of Regina Hartwell.  Because of Regina, I couldn’t let this book go.  Regina wanted to be famous.  And I felt like that as long as I pushed and promoted this book I was helping her reach her goal, even if it was after death.  But, I had a shrink who kept telling me that I had to let the book go, that I had to put it away, and that I had to move on to the next project.  So, a year or more (and it was probably more) after its publication, I packed up all of my Regina Hartwell files, all of my Regina Hartwell court documents and transcripts (and I used to go to sleep surrounded by those transcripts), all of my interview notes and tapes, and all of my poster boards, and stuck them in the back of my guest room closet, facing the back wall. 

That night, after I went to bed, the temperture in my house suddenly rose.  I heard the heater running.  I couldn’t figure out why.  It wasn’t cold outside, nor in my house.  I got up to check the thermostat, which was right by the guest room door.  When I did, I noticed that the faucet in my guest bathroom sink was on.  Again, I couldn’t understand why.  After all, I was home by myself and I rarely used that bathroom.  I turned off the water.  I then walked the few steps from the bathroom to the thermostat and I tried to turn off the heat.  It wouldn’t turn off. 

Is this Regina’s ghost?  Is she doing this?  I tried to laugh at my thoughts.

Immediately, though, I walked into the guest room, threw open the closet doors, pulled out Regina’s posters, leaned them against the bed, and right as I did, the heat finally turned off, all on its own.  I figured Regina Hartwell just wasn’t ready to be put in the closet. 

Oh, my gosh! Do you see it? I was going to tell you that when I first tried to store my Regina files that I tried to remove the photos from the poster board, but most of them refused to come off. A few did, though, so there are some photos missing. But, now, do you see it? Look at the black and white photo, top row, to the right of the color photograph. It's supposed to be a picture of Kim LeBlanc. But there's something on top of Kim. I promise, I didn't do anything hinky to this photo.

Here's a close-up of it. Is that a ghost? Really, I didn't do anything to the picture.

I’m walking up and down the sidelines of a flag football game, awaiting the big play.   The morning had started out cool and pleasant, but now the sun is beaming and I’m getting hot.  I look at my 10-year-old cousin.  He’s on the sidelines, down on one knee, and sucking on one small slice of orange handed to him by his coach.  I want my cousin to be holding a hamburger.  He’s too skinny.  He’s like a piece of salt water taffy that’s pulled so thin that it looks like it’s about to break.  This is my guy.  My kiddo.  My heart.  And he’s supposed to make the big play.  It’s a lot of pressure for a little guy, and so far he doesn’t seem to be handling it well.  He’s dropped long pass after long pass, and he’s been proclaimed the team’s long pass superstar. 

Sweat mats his blond hair into finger curls.  He gets up, makes sure his flags are snapped to his belt, pulls on his gloves that his dad insists he wear so that the football sticks in the palms of his hands, and runs out on the field.  In my hand I hold his grandmother’s Canon camera.  I’ve been trying to get a picture of the big play.  But so far, all I have is a picture of my skinny boy with his gloved hands up in the air, just before he misses the easy catch, falls to the ground, and his dad yells something to the effect of dad-gum it, catch it, son! 

I know this isn’t like my boy.  I’ve been throwing him passes since he was a little tyke and he’s always had good hands.  I wonder if he’s falling under the pressure of the first game … or the family demands … or the pronouncement that he’s the team’s long pass superstar.  Maybe, it’s all three.

I pull his dad aside and remind him that when he played Little League baseball – or more accurately, when he wasn’t playing well – that his dad used to yell at him through the fence until he made him so angry that he went out and played great the rest of the game.  I remind him that I tried that tactic on him when I was teaching him how to water ski, and all it got me was my friends angry at me for being so rough on him.  Today, he walks away without saying a word.  And I’m not really sure why I told him that story.  I don’t want him yelling at our little guy.  I don’t think it’s good for the kid.  But I don’t know what is good.

That’s when I find myself thinking about a TV news show I’d watched just a few days before.  It was about kids and how to motivate them to take chances, to try harder, to do better.  They showed a little girl who’d done well on a test.  Afterwards, she was praised for being smart.  From then on, she took the easy route, fearful that if she didn’t she would fail and not look smart.  In contrast, a little boy who’d done poorly on the test was praised for working hard and trying hard.  The next time, he did better than the little girl.

I contemplate that as I walk the sideline and watch my little guy drop another easy pass.  He walks off the field.  I can tell he’s mentally pounding his fists against his head for being so stupid as to drop an easy pass.

“Hey,” I say.

He comes over to me.

“Remember when you were taking gymnastics and you’d almost make something but not quite?”  I’m thinking about his handstands that didn’t quite stand and his landings that didn’t quite stick.  “Remember how when you’d do that and you’d just say, ‘Almost.’  And you’d say that every time until you got it right?”

He nods.

“Well, just tell yourself, ‘Almost.’”

He doesn’t smile or nod or act encouraged in the least.  But soon he’s back on the field and he’s going for another long pass and, dang, he catches it and scores a touchdown.  I scream until my throat hurts.

And that’s when it happens – I realize I need to tell myself almost.

Almost all my life, I’ve been told I’m smart, and I succeeded – not on the level I planned.  But in the eyes of struggling writers, I’m a success.   My first book briefly hit the New York Times bestseller list.  My second book outsold the first.  Both books went into two printings.  Then, my third book went into six, seven, or eight printings – enough that I lost count.  So, of course, I expected my fourth book to do even better.  And, at first, it did.  It was getting good reviews, a second printing was set, then moved up because sales were that swift, and then WHAM, the book was slammed with horrible Amazon reader reviews and sales nose-dived.  The second printing was cancelled.  And like my little guy, I began mentally slapping my head and telling myself how stupid I am, how untalented I am, what a failure I am. 

I’m embarrassed to admit that it affected my writing – so much so that it took me four and a half years to finish just the first draft of my fifth book.  I finally turned in the manuscript last May, an astounding two years past deadline.  In my eyes, that’s an entire two seasons of dropped, easy passes.  “Almost, almost,” I find myself whispering right now.  After all, I’m a journalist and meeting deadlines is part of my job description.  Missing them can destroy my career, especially in this day and age.  “Almost.”  I remind myself that I tried hard and I worked hard and I did turn in that manuscript, the most difficult one I’ve ever written because in this book I tried something new.  I’m not going to say what that is right now, but let me just tell you if I hadn’t written that book, I wouldn’t be able to write this post.  And my hope is that this post gives you some encouragement. 

Still, my fifth book remains an almost situation.  I have yet to get notes back from my editor, to do the rewrite, to have the book accepted and published.  Until then, I walk up and down the sidelines of my office and tell myself, “Almost.  Almost.”  Eventually, though, I’ll get it right.  And when I do, I’ll scream until my throat hurts.

Suzy Spencer is available for speaking engagements.