Tag: death

Counting the words

I am trying to extend a 1200 word story into a 7000 word story for a writing contest. I’ve written 300 words so far; so I only have to do this 22 more times. 

I tend to like short, concise writing, even in novels. I wonder if it’s because I’m relatively impatient, or whether I have a short attention span, or whether I really really can get everything I want done in fewer words. I’ve been told the latter by my dev editor, who doesn’t want me to lengthen things. On the other hand, I have a short story that an editor would like to see as a novel. He’s absolutely right, and it would make a great prequel to Prodigies, but I would have to immerse myself in Poland for a couple weeks to get the feel for it. 


So, back to the story. The story is Kami, and it’s about death and afterlife. It also features Jeanne and Josh Beaumont-Young, one of my favorite couples. Jeanne at this point is 80 and has just lost her 55-year-old husband of 27 years. I like the couple because they defyour common notions of love and attraction, and because they have a chemistry despite their bookishness.

I need to take a deep breath and set myself a writing goal, and just write, then edit. Luckily I have a vacation to do it.

Short Essay: Through the Years

“Through the years, we all will be together
if the Fates allow – “
I have spent Christmas surrounded by family, sitting in Santa’s lap as a young child. I have spent Christmas stirring gravy for the Friends of Christmas holiday meal for those alone or suffering. I have spent Christmas musing about some fellow I’d developed a crush on. I’ve spent Christmas estranged from family. I’ve spent Christmas sleeping on a friend’s couch. I’ve spent Christmas admitted to a private psychiatric treatment program. I have spent Christmas caroling with Mormons, sitting in silence with Quakers, performing at Lessons and Carols with Episcopalians, holding a Yule ritual on my own. I have spent Christmas trying to convince my mother she wasn’t dying and years later watching her on her deathbed. I’ve spent Christmas being snubbed by a boyfriend’s family. I have spent Christmas holding my breath on a perfectly still Christmas evening among the lights of a community park, realizing that every Christmas holds a mystery for the heart to solve.

Eulogy

Mother Magpie leads me
past sere cornfields and buried bones
to the place where people say their goodbyes. 
There we eulogize the man
whose fireplace we huddled by,
who shone light in our dark corners,
and we leave that place with light in our pockets
to bring to others.

Eulogy for a Good Man

I guess it’s okay to writer about this now — the obituary is now up; it has been posted on social media. 

My friend and mentor, Les Savage, died at 92 last Saturday. 

Les looked like a garden gnome — short, with wild white hair, chubby cheeks, and a beard. He had twinkling blue eyes, and yes, at least one person I know called him Santa Claus. Like Santa Claus, he gave the most wonderful hugs.


He’d led a fuller life than most; his reminiscences were peppered with phrases like “when I had my pilot’s licence”, “when I was in the navy,” and “when I worked in a lab in Glasgow”.  I didn’t learn until his obituary that he also could have included “when I consulted for the Apollo missions.” He was a combustion expert with a PhD in mechanical engineering who led a side business blowing up coal mines (in a controlled manner) to get rid of mine gases. He did carpentry in his basement and had wired up a house-wide stereo system long before Bluetooth made that easy. He appreciated good coffee, good wine, and good whiskey and taught me a little about each.

He also friended a motley crew of folks who needed a father figure and some emotional support. I was one of those folks, having a contentious relationship with my mother, undiagnosed bipolar disorder, and an unlucky love life that absolutely obsessed me. The group I hung out with Les called themselves Saturday Night Group because of their tendency to meet on that night to occasionally cook dinner, watch Star Trek: Next Generation, and talk. Membership rippled in an organic manner — new people showed up, some stayed, and we developed close bonds. I am still friends with many of those people, and I will see many of them at the wake.

He gave. This is what strikes me. He gave to his religious community as a communion bearer, he gave his support to the local LGBTQIA community, he gave to his “kidlings” as he called us. He did not judge us — we who were gay or pagan or atheist or struggling with mental illness or nonwhite or multiracial.  If ever there was a good example of a Christian man, it was my friend Les.

I loved the man. I still do.

Adrift

I’m feeling adrift lately. 

My developmental editor is taking a break from editing, so I have to find a new one or wait (I’m tempted to wait, because I like her). 

My old mentor/surrogate family from my grad school years has died, and my brain circles around about who I was back then (bipolar but not medicated — think “getting obsessed about guys and crying a lot”). Yet, it was the richest part of my life, and I wonder how to find that again.

Days like this I feel detached from my writing. Should I continue to write? (Probably). Do I need to find a new dev editor? (Yes). What should I do about getting published? (Wait to see if I’m accepted by Pitch Wars before I take on another possibility). 

I don’t sound so adrift, but my mind keeps wandering to reanalyze the past in terms of who I was and who I’ve become.


melancholy

Things haven’t been going well lately.

I think I’m feeling the emotional toll of losing two cats (the long-time cat Snowy and baby kitten Belvedere) in a week. Strangely enough, Belvedere is the hardest to get over, even though he was only five days old; he had a purity about him with his little milk mustache and his snuffling my hand. 

There’s not much good to balance that unless you count the fact that I’m still writing. I don’t want to go to work today; I just want to sleep.

Of course I’m going to go to work. That’s top priority; in Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs (a psychological construct), physiological needs (food, clothing, and shelter) are the foundation that needs to be satisfied before we fulfill any other needs:

And physiological needs cost money, which one gets by working. 

In a deep depression (which I am not in), I have to remind myself of this basic fact because the inertia and hopelessness weigh me down into immobility. In a hypomanic state (which I am also not in), I have trouble concentrating on the need to go into work. In either case, the larger than life emotions of bipolar overwhelm the logic of everyday life. So constructs like Maslow’s Hierarchy keep me focused on the facts of life.

So right now I’m sleepy and sad. It’s an easy day at work today, as I get to watch other people run a poverty simulation. Then there’s the weekend, and time to recharge.


requiem for Belvedere, a five-day-old kitten

Belvedere (aka Belly Cat) died this morning after declining for the past day. We don’t know why he died; as he had been rejected by his mother, he might have had a defect incompatible with life. I don’t know.

In his five days on this earth, he traveled to work and back with me and resided by my bed at night so I could feed him every two hours (my husband took the evening shift so I could pre-nap). He squeaked and rumbled and squirmed, a delightful little creature.

As the days passed, though, he squirmed less. Last night he quit urinating, and I knew he wouldn’t make it to go to the vet the next day. 

I was right. When I awoke this morning, he was limp and not moving. No heartbeat. 

We did the best we could, buddy. I’m so sorry.

Looking for the Good in Today

It turns out we had to put Snowy to sleep yesterday; she had had a stroke as suspected. It’s always a little hard to witness, the anesthesia and then the needle to the heart. 

I’m a bit subdued today — a little tired, a little down. It’s about Snowy and it’s about a lot of rejections lately, with no glimmers of hope on the publishing front. I don’t despair as much as I used to with rejections; I’ve become inured to them. I am wondering once more if my writing is unmarketable, and if so, why.

Looking for the good in today — my classes are going well and I’m getting enough sleep. I’ve been productive both in writing and in submitting (short stories and the like). I stirred myself up enough to write this.

For a dying cat

My cat Snowy is dying.

My husband and I think she had a stroke because we discovered her laying in front of the dresser and occasionally meowing strangely last night. We don’t have an emergency vet here, so we have to wait till the vet opens at 8.

The next morning, she hasn’t moved, and she meows piteously when moved. She’s limp, except for her two front paws, which seem curled into themselves. Eventually, she doesn’t even meow, only breathes. Barely breathes.

I doubt there’s anything the vet can do. If she’s indeed had a stroke, the chances of her having another are high, and she may not recover from this one. As I’ve said, it’s highly likely we’ll say our goodbyes at the vet’s office.

I will remember Snowy as a peculiar cat. Black and long-haired with a white locket (we didn’t name her), she carried herself like a diva and sat with her front feet crossed daintily. She had a fascination with doors, and would paw at them trying to get to the other side. 

Soon, she will be on the other side of the door, where I am told she will climb a grassy hill to the Rainbow Bridge and wait for us. All pets go to the Rainbow Bridge, it is told, which makes it more charitable than the Christian view of Heaven. We, the humans, stay behind, taking care of our other cats, missing the presence of our Snowy.