One Little Elephant

Recently I began Tweeting. Against my will. Okay, not exactly against my will, but reluctantly.

So while up to this point maintaining three blogs has been fairly easy, I fear that adding Twitter and eventually Facebook to the mix may be pushing things. After all, I still need to write novels and my family expects cooking, cleaning and other maid services to continue uninterrupted.

So I've decided to experiment with maintaining just two blogs for a while. Ergo the essays you usually find here will now be over at  http://www.reginarichards.net/ for at least the next few weeks.

Why reginarichards.net rather than one-little-elephant.com for this experiment in media simplification? I love the design of One Little Elephant, but the things I post here are buried deep in the search engines. On the other hand, reginarichards.net is usually on page one.

Please, please, please follow me over to http://www.reginarichards.net/. I don't want to lose you!

Something that's helping me write today: the courage to take a chance on change.

But please check out my post this week at http://www.4badmommies.com/ and please leave a comment. I'd appreciate it!

Something that's helping me write today: a quiet house.

Once in there is no escape from the queue, short of vaulting over a barrier of display tables. My heart sinks as the fan line goes sluggish just as I come abreast Author One.

She's a lovely person: bright, vivacious, generous. But I'm on a budget. I've promised myself I'll only spend $20 at this signing. To ensure it I've only brought $20. That means two books tops. There are four authors signing.

Author One and I make awkward chit-chat while I politely eye her offerings and she arranges and rearranges her erotic romances. It quickly becomes embarrassingly clear I'm not going to buy. She glances past me to the next person in line - repeatedly. We are thinking in stereo: Please let the line move on. Now.

I wonder if she thinks I disapprove of erotic romance and that is my reason for not buying. It isn't. It's about only having come to the store with $20. But that said, I do share my home with voracious teenage readers.

I'd been scolded not long ago by a friend who noticed a handful of way hot romances mixed in with the year's other big-sellers on the bookshelf in my office. It didn't matter, she warned, if I was reading them as market research; having them in the house guaranteed my teens would read them. Did I allow my teens to go to sexually explicit movies?

Er, no.

Then why, my friend demanded, would I expose them to sexually explicit books?

Point taken. I'm against censoring adults' reading materials, but my personal tastes run more in the PG category. So protecting my teens was a real and handy excuse that let me off the 'market research' hook for reading the steamies. I'd driven away from the donation center without a backward glance and gone home - content - to my newly roomy bookshelf.

Finally the queue moved forward. I smiled at Author Two. Her new release , comfortably PG-13, was the reason I'd come to the bookstore today. I snagged a copy and she signed it for me. We chatted. The line moved forward again.

I had enough money remaining to buy one more book and though the signing table had been set up for four authors, I noted with relief that the last chair was empty. My money would take me to end of the table without any additional akwardness.

Author Three was offering both blazing hot and milder fare. I chose a mild one. As she signed it a chorus of scolding jubilation rippled through the crowd.  Young, beautiful, genuinely kind-hearted, and terrifically talented, Author Four was a crowd favorite. She slid into the last seat at the signing table while her entourage set up a snacks table at the end of the line and the crowd sweetly scolded her. She'd just had major surgery. She shouldn't be there. But the crowd was glad she was.

They flocked around the food, laughing and talking, blocking the queue from moving. I stood trapped in front of Author Four with no money left to spend.

We made awkward conversation about her health and her work. I felt a nightmare-ish sense of deja vu as she arranged and rearranged her display of ultra-steamy books, glancing past me repeatedly to the next person in line. People around me began to frown. I could almost hear them thinking: Who's the complete casserole who won't buy from this beloved author who has valiantly risen from her sick bed to be here?

Mercifully, the huddle at the refreshment table finally cleared enough for me to squeeze past the barrier of display tables. I shot out of the queue and past the refreshment table, paid for my books and slunk out of the store.

Note to self: never leave your credit card at home.

Something that's helping me write today: an unusual bout of insomnia.

Elana Johnson, author of POSSESSION, has done an interview at http://www.authorsadvisory.blogspot.com/  that is really worth listening to.

Something that's helping me write today:  Recharged energy from a relaxing weekend spent at my cousin's lakehouse with people who, by their example, remind me of what an adventure life can be when we use our gifts and talents to the fullest.

I'm having tea with a girlfriend in a public place. A man we both know stops to talk. Though I've known him for years he is a nodding acquaintance only. Someone you know without really knowing, probably met at a long ago PTA meeting or soccer game.

Today he seems agitated. He sits, then stands, then sits again. He begins to ask pointed questions about my religious upbringing. It reminds me of the street preachers that used to hang about campus when I was in college, the ones who often confused my relaxed disposition for a malleable mind.

He stands again and begins to pace. There is a quality of controlled franticness to his movements. He launches into a monologue about his responsibility to correct his brothers and sisters. He describes the methods he has for doing this. Most depend upon inducing guilt and feelings of worthlessness in his target, in his mind a necessary condition before they can realize the error of their ways.

He stops pacing abruptly and looks first at my girlfriend and then at me, as if choosing. We sip our tea. We are sisters at some deep level, but with personalities as different as Kung Fu and Tai Chi. He decides on Tai Chi.

He pulls a chair over, sits too close, and stares into my eyes with an intensity designed to intimidate. Then in a chastising tone he lists what he sees as my failings. These are surprisingly minor - but then he barely knows me. His face is hard, authoritarian, as if demanding I break down and weep my repentance. I smile politely into his eyes as if I am pleasantly deaf.

Nearly half a minute passes. Our eyes are locked, his demanding my submission, mine happily clueless. Across the table Kung Fu is silent with interest. His neck muscles bunch beneath the strength of his emotion as he wills me, wills me, to respond. What does he want, I wonder. Shame, humiliation, subjugation? Does he expect me to defend myself against his accusations of trifling sins like too much soda, too much mother-pride, too spoiled an existence, serenity he claims is rooted in arrogance rather than humility. I continue to smile into his eyes, wordless. His face reddens. Veins bulge. I begin to think he will have a stroke. I take pity.

"How is your family?" I ask sweetly. Like a lion tamer who's swaggered into a cage whip in hand only to find that his adversary is a kitten, he seizes the opportunity to exit with some dignity.

"You're too kind, playing dumb," Kung Fu says. "I would have punched him in the gut, verbally of course."

Part of me wanted to. But not long after that I hear through the grapevine that that day was one of the worst of his life. Things had happened to him, big things, before he crossed my path, that had left him angry and humiliated and heartbroken. In pain, he wanted to inflict pain on another, and for whatever reason he chose me.

God bless him.

Something that's helping me write today: the reminder that it's easier to write about life if you get out there and live it.

I write on a timer - 15 minutes at my desk, 15 doing housework - and currently my most productive hours are 7am to noon. That adds up to 2.5 precious writing hours. I'm not useless in the afternoons, but I'm not as productive. So why do I regularly allow my morning writing time to evaporate while doing tasks that could be done at other times?

Today I spent 4 hours of prime writing time getting Number One Son's scholarship paperwork trundling through three different institutional offices. Mission accomplished. He'll have the money to continue school in the fall. That's wonderful. But I didn't get any writing done today. And that's not. I could have done the same scholarship research, sent the same emails, made the same phone calls, sat on endless hold multiple times, and done paperwork just as effectively in the afternoon. But I didn't.

So why didn't I? Am I really serious about writing? Do I feel that I must earn my writing time by making sure everyone else is taken care of first before I "indulge"? What is it that keeps me from maintaining a protected time and space for writing?

I need to do some hard thinking on this. Perhaps by answering those questions, I can overcome this odd writing sabotage I commit against myself on too regular a basis.

Something that's helping me write today: the truth that the sun doesn't need to be rising in the east to start a day, or at least to start a day over.

Wise men and women have warned against it for centuries. Yet most of us at one time or another are guilty of trying to take the speck out of another's eye while ignoring the plank in our own.

Not long ago I attended a formal banquet where the guest speaker was a trim, fit man. A dynamic speaker, he held the room of middle-aged women spellbound from appetizers through entrees.  But as smartly uniformed waiters moved amongst the tables offering trays loaded with luscious desserts something happened. The speaker changed course and suddenly went off into a shocking rant about the girth of the attendees.

Yep. He called the audience of carefully primped and polished middle-aged ladies FAT.

Dessert forks froze just short of rouged lips. Brows knit. Cheeks reddened. The click of forks to plates and the clink of cups to saucers ceased abruptly. And in that sudden silence you could almost hear the roar of female brains.

Me? Is he referring to me? Oh, what made me think wearing this torturous girdle would matter? But my husband assured me this color was slimming - or at least he grunted in what I thought was a positive manner when I asked. Oh why have I let myself go like...?

Hey! Wait a minute. Wait just a darn tootin' minute! Who does he think he is? We paid him to be here. We didn't pay him to insult us. He's throwing stones? Sure, his waist is trim, but he's gray and wrinkled and his shirt and tie don't match. Isn't he on his fifth marriage? Isn't he the one who practically gets tennis elbow from lifting so many cocktails? Who the heck does he think he...

The mistress of ceremonies, who'd handed the guest speaker the mic with an adoring smile at the beginning of the meal, plucked that same mic from his hand with tight lips and a terse, "thanks." He smiled and trotted off to retake his seat oblivious to the distress he'd caused, while she stumbled through a feather-smoothing speech of her own about member accomplishments and upcoming events. Cups began to clink against saucers again. Though fewer forks clicked dessert plates.

I drove home thoughtful. He'd been out of line - speaking the truth like that - hurting people. But despite whatever planks he might have in his own eye, there was no denying he'd clearly seen the chubby specks in ours.

I mulled it over in my mind, coming to a decision as I pulled into my driveway. I could remember that banquet as The Night of the Hurtful Hypocrit, or I could allow it to become The Night of the Helpful Hypocrit.

So...

Darn It!...

fewer burgers, more salad.

Something that's helping me write today: a stationary bike and a wireless keyboard.

My buddy Aimee Carson, author of Secret History of a Good Girl (Mills and Boon September 2011) and How to Win the Dating War (December 2011), has kindly nominated me for a Sweet Award. Thanks, Aimee!

Sweet Awardees are asked to do two things. So here goes...

The first: list 7 random facts about yourself on your blog

1. I love Masterpiece and Mystery Theater
2. I recently joined an in-person critique group
3. I'm addicted to Sonic cokes
4. A horny toad lives in my front flower bed.
5. In high school I set several school basketball records that it took 20+ years to break
6. I own multiple name-tag brooches because I like them and because paper ones get caught in my hair
7. I enjoy Sudoku, crossword puzzles, jigsaw puzzles, solitaire, and brain teasers

The second: nominate 10 bloggers for the Sweet Award (in random order)

1. Wendy Marcus who inspires me with her work ethic and sense of humor
2. Jen Probst who reminds me that one mom raising a family with love and laughter changes the world
3. Aimee Carson who makes being a fulltime mom and a dedicated doctor look easy and makes me want to be the best version of myself
4. Jen Fitzgerald who reminds me of the little treasures buried in each day
5. Karen Whiddon who shows me that goals plus hard work are the keys to success
6. Clover Autrey who astounds me with her positive attitude, energy and courage
7. Adele Countryman who clears the path before me constantly by sharing her wisdom and experience
8. Dave Farland who generously shares market trends, writing tips, and business smarts with aspiring authors
9. Marty Tidwell who makes being an empty-nester look like a BALL rather than a bawl
10. My husband and kids who relentlessly support and encourage my writing

Okay, I confess numbers 7 and 10 aren't bloggers, but they are Sweet! so I put them in anyway.

Something that's helping me write today: remembering to visit http://www.4badmommies.com/ for a chuckle.

I'm doing well again following my bump on the noggin. Unfortunately, while I was recovering all those everyday details of living fell way behind. So I'm busy today doing a mountain of laundry, paying a molehill of bills, helping kids over bumps, and filling in holes all around.

Back next week.

I avoid doctors. And medications. I won't even take aspirin for a headache unless my head is about to explode. But lately I've been way past exhausted. So when I could no longer write, I made an appointment.

After blood tests, sonograms, EKGs, x-rays, and exams all they could find of significance was that I was anemic. They gave me B-12 and other hero-maker vitamins and I felt better. I could write again!

So last night I went into my office to write. I sat down on the exercise ball I've used as a chair for several years and...Boom!

Like a popped balloon my seat disinegrated beneath me in one explosive instant. And in that split second before I fell an incredible number of thoughts raced through my mind: gas explosion? gun? are the kid's okay? oh, it's the exercise ball. falling. going to hit head on bookcase. how bad will this--?

My head whacked against the bookcase. It's a sturdy one, one I can't normally move by myself. Yet base and all it moved two inches into a wall. The whole house shook and the kids came flying down the stairs. And between that instant when my skull struck wood and my body traveled the final distance to the floor my mind raced again: what now? death? paralysis? brain damage? death is better. for me. for my family. but what about the kids? please God, if the kids still need me...and God, I haven't finished writing--.

I hit the floor and the air rushed out of me and almost before I could fill my lungs again my lifeguard son and my ROTC son and my compassionate daughter were there beside me, three angels, helping me.

Maybe God took pity or maybe I have a very hard head, but I got off easy: a gash, some blood, a goose-egg, adreniline shakes, and a terrible headache. So despite anemia and exploding seats, today I'm writing. And life is good.

What's that you ask? Did I take an aspirin for the headache? No, of course not. After all, my head didn't actually explode.

Something that's helping me write today: Gratitude that I can! And an experience that proves all those thoughts writers describe going through characters' heads in an instant of crisis really can fit into that tiny space of time.

Back in college I took a writing workshop class. Each time we met the instructor would pick two writers to read their work.

Stories I found entertaining and well-written the instructor would viciously rip apart. Work I found practically indecipherable he would praise to the sky.

If a student expressed an opinion different from his, he would humiliate the person until the entire room was silent. Then he would treat that silence as proof he'd been assigned a classroom of orangutans (you know what orangutans like to throw around...). In short, the workshop instructor was a bully - a lucky one who'd found a room full of fragile, young, paying artists to abuse.

I never read my work for that bully, or even spoke in his class. But I watched and listened and allowed myself to be convinced I had no talent worth sharing. What a naive young fool I was! Too emotionally bruised from my home-life to realize the man was nothing but a literary bully. I wasn't the first student to quit the class, but eventually I did quit.

I didn’t try writing again for decades. When I did, I was met with immediate encouragement and started winning small prizes with ease. Oh, how I regret the years I wasted!

If you are young and out there trying to write, be careful who you associate with in the beginning. Grow your craft and your confidence from a delicate seedling to a tree with real roots before you invite the monkeys in for a swing.

That said, sooner or later you must face the monkeys

Something that's helping me write today: being old enough to know the difference between opinionated people who are sincerely trying to help me make my work better and sad people who are simply trying to make themselves feel important.

If you've read this blog much you're already aware I'm in a constant state of personal remodeling. I make resolutions as often as other people take showers. And so, true to form, I recently made two new resolutions.

The first: I will no longer eat food that tastes bad.

As a lifelong member of the Clean Plate Club this is not an easy one for me. My 'usual think' is: if I pay for it and don't eat it, I've wasted my money. My 'new think' is: let bad food go to waste, instead of to waist.

The first test of this new resolution came within hours. I'd had a productive morning writing and was feeling pleased with myself. I needed to run some errands and, since it was such a beautiful day, I decided to pick up lunch and take it to the park. And that's when the second resolution kicked in.

The second: I will try new things.

My 'usual think' is: it's better to get what I know I like than try something new and take the chance of being disappointed. My 'new think' is: try something new and if I'm disappointed, try something else new.

That's how I ended up at a burrito shop near campus. I got a small burrito to go, paid a ridiculous price, and took a bite in the car before heading to the park. Yuck! I set it aside and decided this called for the invocation of both resolutions. I would not eat bad food. I would try new things - again.

I drove through a chinese fast food restaruant. Paid a ridiculous price and didn't open the box until I got to the park. The park was crowded. All the shady spots were taken. So I sat in the car, turned on the radio and opened the Chinese food box. Yuck!

I drove home and fed the dogs the Chinese Burrito lunch. I know, I shouldn't feed the dogs junk, but they loved it. I made myself a sandwich, went back to writing and had an amazingly productive afternoon.

All this made me think that maybe these resolutions should  be applied to writing as well as to the rest of life. It's okay to try new things when writing. And it's okay to feed the ones that don't work to the dogs - figuratively speaking, of course.

Something that's helping me write today: a delicious homemade sandwich, and two happy dogs.

Three years ago I made a resolution to get completely out of debt before my oldest started college. Between several cars, a mortgage, plenty of medical bills, too much credit card debt, and The Great Recession which was increasing the cost of living while significantly reducing our income, that was no small resolution. But I figured why not dream big?

The medical bills are paid. The cars are ours. And the rest will be put to rest before the end of the year. Barring anything unforeseen we should be totally debt-free soon.

But my eldest is completing his freshman year at A&M Galveston in two weeks, so by the time I'm debt-free I'll have missed the original deadline by 16 months. Which means technically I didn't succeed.

Yet I failed in a positive way.

I try to keep that in mind when I set big goals in writing. Even when I don't hit the target as planned, I often fail in a positive way and find myself better off than when I started.

Something that's helping me write today: Crushed ice. I know you were expecting something more profound, but I love crushed ice.

p.s. Jen Probst has a wonderful post up at Four Bad Mommies. Check it out.

In the April issue of Romance Writers Report an article by Kris Kennedy and Courtney Milan titled The Treadmill Desk details how to set up your computer so that you can write while walking on a treadmill. Probably works well for some, but for me this would be DANGEROUS.

When I write, I'm not in the here and now. I'm Otherwhere. Deep, deep in Otherwhere.

I have good balance and coordination. But I'm a person with the ability to concentrate intensely. So intensely that in the past I've tumbled off a treadmill simply because I was watching tv or listening to music and got so mentally engaged I forgot where I was and what I was doing. Ouch!

No, a treadmill desk is not a safe option for me. But it started me thinking about multi-tasking writing with exercise.

I already do this to some extent. Agatha Christie once said she did her best plotting while handwashing her dishes. I do some of my best plotting while taking a bath, folding laundry, running errands, and preparing dinner. But exercise and type at the same time? Could I make that work?

Maybe. I have an exercise bike. I have a wireless keyboard. I'm used to sitting while writing and even during my most intense visits to Otherwhere I don't fall out of my seat. It's worth a try.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Something that's helping me write today: having my April posting for my Four Bad Mommies blog complete. Visit me there if you have a minute.

Last week I volunteered two scenes of my work to my RWA chapter to dissect publicly for problems with tags and pacing. At the time I offered to be a sacrificial lamb, I was thinking "growing experience". Now I'm thinking, "Oooops!".

One scene has been thoroughly critiqued by a writing buddy. It was later much-praised for its pacing by a best-selling writer during a workshop.

The other scene is from the first draft of a new novel. It's never been critiqued. The folks doing the public examination of these two scenes have no knowledge about them. As far as they're concerned they could both be first drafts or both be polished products. I'm curious to see what the verdict will be for each and how those verdicts will compare. That's the "growing experience" portion.

The "Oooops!" portion is simply my inborn reluctance to be naked in public.

Wish me well or wish me courage.

Something that's helping me write today: this quote from Will Rogers - Don't be afraid to go out on a limb. That's where all the fruit is.

This past week I attended the Dreamin' in Dallas conference where Allison Brennan was one of the headliners. What a wonderful speaker - funny, energetic, interesting. Her workshops No Plotters Allowed and Breaking the Rules to Break In or Break Out, were wonderful and during lunch she gave the keynote on her general writing journey and some things she learned along the way.

None of her talks were directly about how to write three novels a year while raising a family. But I admit, I was listening specifically for that information (the woman is raising 5 kids and writing 3 novels a year!) and found tidbits woven within her talks. So, the information below was gleaned from Allison Brennan's three speeches. My advance apologies to the marvelous Allison Brennan if I misheard, misinterpreted, or got anything wrong, but here is what I learned:

1) All five of Allison Brennan's kids are in school and she works the entire time they're gone.

2)She writes new material at least 6 hours during the day. Then she works again for a while in the late evening when the kids go to bed and the husband is catnapping in front of the tv.

3) She has her kids trained to be independent/self-sufficient and to respect her work time.

4) She doesn't cook. She does healthy, but easy meals.

5) She doesn't clean. She has a maid in once a week.

6) She doesn't watch tv - she'd rather write.

7) She limits her volunteering. She does volunteer but she considers herself a full-time working mom and doesn't try to volunteer like she's a stay-at-home mom.

8)She attends her kids events, but isn't above working when her kid isn't "up at bat" so to speak.

9) And, like Candy Havens, she works the bits and pieces of time she finds - traveling, waiting in the car to pick up kids, etc.

Something that's helping me write today: taking time to learn a few tricks of the trade by attending a conference.

P.S. Over at www.4badmommies.com today, Amy Carson is talking about Guilty Pleasures. Come on over and join the discussion. I confessed to one. How about you?

I'm off to the Dreamin' In Dallas Conference and I'm on a mission. I'm really looking forward to hearing Allison Brennan speak. I'm dying to know how a woman with five (5!) kids writes three best-selling novels a year, promotes, promotes, promotes, and still manages to look great all the time. How? How? How?

I feel like the orangutan in The Jungle Book who was demanding Mogli give him the secret of man's red fire. I want the secret! Of course I don't plan to hold Allison Brennan upside down and feed her bananas like the orangutan did to Mogli. It's unlikely I'll even speak to her, but I do plan to listen with orangutan-sized ears.

Anyway, I'd better go stock the cupboards around here before I leave so the family doesn't starve while I'm gone.

Something that's helping me write today: optimism and the song The Bare Necessities from the Jungle Book that seems to be stuck in my head.

Image this. You've worked for months: writing script, designing sets, making costumes, positioning lights, and rehearsing, rehearsing, rehearsing.

The big night arrives. You step out onto the stage trembling with fear and excitement. Will the crowd love it? Hate it?

Either way, there'll be a crowd because you invited them all personally - face to face, via email or text - twice. Your friends and family will all be here tonight to witness your triumph. Or tragedy. They'll be here for you just as you've been there for them all these long years, supporting their dreams, cheering them on, meeting their needs. It'll be a full house and you are way past nervous.

You smile as the curtain goes up. You perform your heart out. The show ends. The stage lights, which blinded you throughout the performance, dim. You look out into the audience hoping to see approval.

The theater is empty.

That is a metaphor for what happened to me this week.

What did I do? I cried. And then I started writing again.

Something that's helping me write today: these lyrics sung by the group Chumbawumba - "I get knocked down but I get up again. You're never going to keep me down."

What follows is a page from my personal journal, written a few years ago...

I am distracted - trying to get all my crying done before I go north. She doesn’t want crying. That’s what she says, anyway. But I think, secretly, it comforts her that I cry. I hear the softness in her voice when she says I’m just like my father - feel too much, too deeply. She asks me not to come before the surgery. She wants to be alone until that morning, wants a chance to be this version of herself a little longer before they slip a knife into her flesh and life changes.

I spend these last few days of “before” getting ready - buying her fancy pajamas, manicure and pedicure stuff, a hose and nozzle to do her hair over the sink until she can shower again. I brush up on recipes designed to keep her blood sugar level and her nutrition good so that her body can heal. And I gather the stuff I'll need to scour her house from top to bottom so that when she comes home from the hospital and the hordes of well wishers begin to arrive, both she and her home will look marvelous. And I cry.

The men don’t understand. To them it seems silly, petty even, to worry about clothes and nails and hair in the face of possible death. They don’t understand that it’s armor, weaponry - important in the healing process, important to winning.

Or to losing with dignity.

My sister and I talk strategy. Who will arrive when. Who will take responsibility for what. The telephone line buzzes with plans and echoes with things unsaid. We do not speak our pain and fear. Not now. That will come later. We are serious, unemotional.

I am the workhorse. I'll help ensure everything runs smoothly, silently cleaning and cooking and refilling glasses. My sister will stay close to my mother, chatting and comforting, dealing with doctors. My brothers will run errands, take care of business. When my mother is feeling strong and positive, she will want my sister. When she is feeling spiritual, she’ll want her sons. And when she is feeling weak and vulnerable, she will want me.

My sister will be the front woman. Like my mother, she's beautiful and a master at socializing. My sister’s job: greet and schmooze. Visitors will leave feeling appreciated, important, positive, and never realizing how skillfully she ensured they didn’t overstay and tire mother. At the end of each day my sister and I will sit together and write lively thank you notes for the food the visitors leave. Most of that food our men will take and donate somewhere. My mother’s friends don’t understand diabetes or the temptation and danger they bring into the house out of kindness and love. We do not try to explain. We accept their love and later quietly pass those gifts of love on to strangers.

The routine is familiar, honed over many years and many celebrations and crises. Big families, my mother likes to say, don’t require family reunions - weddings and funerals are frequent enough.

Just two weeks ago my mother danced at a wedding, her curly blond hair bouncing to the music. She’s a smart woman, a deep thinker, and yet she has an innocence and joyfulness about her that is almost childlike. People are drawn to her happiness like moths to a flame. How many gentlemen have come calling in the long years since my father’s death, drawn by the glow of that happiness? She is always kind when she tells them she’s still married to my father and always will be.

My mother's doctor says she has the heart and lungs of a woman twenty years younger . No one ever believes mother's true age. It only shows when she stops smiling and she rarely does. She works out at the gym five days a week. She says she feels wonderful. She looks wonderful.

Yet they will amputate her breast in a few days.

It’s cancer. She has refused all other treatment. Chemo she says is for the young, not for people her age. She has seen the results on too many friends. Life without life.

“We will do what we can,” my mother says. “But in the end…well, when I pray Thy will be done, I mean it.”

I cry when she says that because I have stood beside her at the edge of enough graves to know it’s true. I cry. And strangely my tears seem to comfort her, make her stronger. “You are so like your father,” she says softly.

Soon we go to battle. She is calm. I am terrified. But I will stop crying soon. I will do what must be done, able to do it because I know with my mother leading the charge, win or lose, we will not be defeated.

postscript February 2011

Lois Margaret Higdon Rice lived Faith, Hope and Love. She led the charge with laughter and courage and dignity to her last breath. And we were not defeated.

Sorry I've been missing from this blog for a while. A family member was sick for a very long time and I was consumed with that. I suspect I'll be writing about that experience a bit in this blog in the weeks to come - therapy of sorts.

Anyway, while I take a little time to try to get my regular life back on track please, please, PLEASE stop by my newest endeavor (with a little help from my friends - okay, Jen, Aimee, and Wendy did it ALL, but I do plan to be more helpful in the future - really) at www.4badmommies.com. Anyway, it's a terrific website. Please visit it. I would truly appreciate the support.

Something that's helping me write today: sheer determination.

I know I haven't posted in a while but I have an excuse. I got a Kindle for Christmas. Soooo dangerous. I got rid of the tv, but now I'm trapped in the Kindle. Though I must say this is a rather pleasant (if expensive) addiction.

Something that's helping me write today: putting down the Kindle for a few minutes.