The First Blog of a New Year

Every year, on New Year’s Day, I make it a point to do the things I want to carry through the next year. One of the things I’m doing today is writing my blog, because I have let it go for too long.

I had burned myself out writing daily for a year, so I let it go for a couple of weeks, which turned out to be two or three weeks, then several weeks more. Then I lost the habit of writing and the initiative.

Now I’m thinking of writing today. Not a resolution, but a goal. Which means I need to set it up as a SMART goal — specific, measurable, attainable, relevant, time-bound. Here goes: I will write my blog at least twice a week, on Mondays and Fridays, in the morning before I work.

Now that I got that out of the way, here’s my first blog of the year:

How was 2025? It was a year of shock and horror looking at what came out of our government. We became a harsher, more bitter nation, obsessed with ‘sticking it’ to someone else. Personally, it was a year of little excitement, of doing my day to day routine and getting by. I don’t mind that; I’m older, and I’ve wearied of big surprises. My bipolar is under control, and my weight is down by almost 70 pounds. I pulled triumph out of failure for my research this year and made two presentations, which will keep my boss happy. I am one year closer to retirement — I’m looking at 5 years now.

What are my big plans for the New Year? I have two books I want to publish at the end of the year: a Kringle book and a Hidden in Plain Sight book. I have completed both (except for a cover for Avatar of the Maker). Finishing the editing and the formatting was a 2025 goal that I discovered at the last minute. Other than that, it will be another year without big surprises. I hope. Especially from the government.

I Wish I Could Talk to You

Daily writing prompt

Who would you like to talk to soon?

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I’m a pretty self-contained person. I really don’t feel the need to talk to anyone, except my friend and mentor Les, who died some years ago at age 95.

I talked to him the other day in a dream. I ran into him on a stair landing and gave him a hug. He told me he was in a hurry because he needed to meet his other family, and we parted ways. That was the most real dream I’ve ever had; maybe I really did talk to him.

If I were to talk to him again, I would tell him how my life has changed since my bipolar diagnosis, how I didn’t feel like crying for hours anymore, how my crushes didn’t control me. I would tell him I had more trouble feeling in touch with the spiritual world and how that worried me. I would tell him how my ordinary day reflected quiet joy, and how a lot of that had to do with my husband. He would know I was in a good place.

I would thank him again for all the times he listened to me, above and beyond the line of duty. How I don’t think I would have gotten through life without that. And I would apologize for all those times, because if I had been in my right mind I wouldn’t have needed so much support.

We talked about all this before, a few years before he died, so it’s not unfinished business between us. But I would talk to him again about it, because I am so bewildered about what it means to be become sane after fifty years of crying jags. Who was I and who am I now? He might have known better than I did.

Speaking about Freedom

Daily writing prompt

What does freedom mean to you?

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I competed in the Voice of Democracy contest held by the Veterans of Foreign Wars Auxiliary, which was held in the high schools. I had to write an essay about the topic “What Does Freedom Mean to Me”. I was born in a rather conservative town to rather liberal parents, and I turned out more liberal than they did.

When I got the assignment to write the essay, I included a popular topic of the day, Selective Service Registration. Or more to the point, protesting Selective Service Registration. At about this time, all males turning 18 were required to sign up for Selective Service, from which they would be drafted for military service if the country ever had a draft. Some males were not signing up, and of course the country was enraged. I, as a child during the Vietnam War era, thought I would stand up for their right to protest. In an essay to the VFW. I finally settled on “Freedom is the right to stand up for what one believes in, even if it’s not popular, and accept the consequences.”

When I read the essay to my mother in the kitchen, she said, “Good luck with the ladies at the VFW.”

And then I won the local contest. “They must not have read it,” my mother deadpanned.

I had to compete at the district level, which consisted of reading the essay on radio. I got to read my protest piece over the airwaves by invitation of the women of the VFW. My mother was still laughing. We figured at that level, I would lose to the unctuous young man who compared the country to a family and didn’t even mention freedom, and we were right. But that was okay with me; I made my point on the air and that was enough.

My Broken Leg

Daily writing prompt

Have you ever broken a bone?

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When I was in graduate school, I got hit by a car. I was a pedestrian crossing a street with a friend, and the car merged into traffic — or, rather, merged into me. I had stepped forward when I saw her coming toward me, and I stepped back, but not in time. I rolled over the hood of the car and ended up in a sitting position on the pavement.

“Is your hip okay?” my friend screeched.

“My hip is fine. My leg is broken.” I exuded an eerie sense of calm.

“How do you know?”

“Because when I lift my leg, my foot feels like it’s not going anywhere.”

The woman who hit me had a cell phone (an amazing thing in 1991) and called the ambulance. When they arrived, they bundled me onto a stretcher. “Which hospital do you want to go to?”

“Well, let’s see. Which one does my insurance take?”

“She’s paying for your hospital bills.”

“Ok. Which one has the better cafeteria food?”

“You’re going to Carle. It’s the trauma hospital.”

“Ok.”

I didn’t feel much pain as they loaded me into the ambulance. I felt the bumps. I was pretty sure the only place I was hurt was the leg.

By the time I got out of head-to-toe x-rays, five of my friends were there to see me. They warned me that my parents were on their way from about two hours’ north. I was hurting, and finally a nurse gave me morphine. (I’ve been told that I’m pretty funny on morphine.)

All I had was a broken leg, but about an inch of bone was shattered. I understood they were going to take me to my room and then wait for surgery. As I was being pushed through the ward by a burly red-headed nurse, he grabbed the phone, held it out for me, and said, “You know who this is.” I got an earful from my mother, who was absolutely sure I got hit by the car to stress her out. Then he wheeled me past my room (“there’s your room”) and then to the operating room.

Over the next couple of days, I had many visitors. My friends took it upon themselves to run interference with my mom, who thought they were all very nice people. I was on a morphine drip and utterly hilarious.

I spent the next 8 weeks on mostly bedrest, and I didn’t know why they wouldn’t let me go back to my regular activities until I fell a couple times the first week. Then I spent 6 months on crutches, another surgery to put a bone graft and metal bar in, and three months using a cane. I limped for a good few years; now, I have bad arthritis in my knee from the long-ago injury.

It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse. It was probably worse than I thought it was, to be honest. But I survived and made my way through grad school on crutches. And now, other than having to be pat down every time I’m in an airport, I’m doing fine.

My Friend Les

Daily writing prompt

List the people you admire and look to for advice…

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The person I most admired has been dead for a number of years. He was my friend, surrogate father, and confessor. He got me through some of the most difficult years of my life. He was also the most interesting person I’ve ever met.

Les had a series of experiences that I could only dream of, and he would let them slip in conversation. “When I was in the Navy,” or “When I was in graduate school in Scotland,” or “When I was a pilot” … there were quite a few of these over the years. He was a combustion expert, and one of his sidelines was building controlled explosions in coal mines to burn off dangerous gases. He also studied religion on the side, and held a concert of his original compositions at age 80.

Les gave me a lot of advice over the years. Everything from grad school advice to life advice. I was going through considerable trauma and bad breakups in the time I knew him, so I know I did a certain amount of crying over the phone. Never did Les judge me.

He always held that, if I found the right person to have a relationship with, I would heal. It was scary, but he was correct. He knew I would marry Richard when I had barely met him, and he was (as always) right. I never got him that bottle of Talisker (Scotch) I owed him for that bet.

He died at 95, which is fitting for someone whose life was that full. His memorial service was filled with all the people whose lives he’d touched over the years. We had lost touch with each other, but we reunited for him. It was a fitting send-off.

Daily writing prompt

Describe a phase in life that was difficult to say goodbye to.

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Living in my home town was a particular sort of hell. I had only one friend, and we didn’t have much in common. I was no longer being bullied (much) in high school, but it was still a lonely, aggravating time.

I attended the University of Illinois for 11 years — four years of undergraduate and seven of graduate school. It took me a couple more years to get out of graduate school because of a pesky car accident in the middle of the process, but I didn’t mind. My college years were some of the best of my life.

My undergraduate years were the years of discovering myself, of finding out there were others like me out there. I was a quirky person with lots of enthusiasm and nerd credentials. I did not do well in a small town high school where I was the only one like me, but in my undergrad I discovered a D&D group I fit in with. I found other friends on the PLATO computer system. I started having actual escapades with my newfound friends.

Graduate school was when I came into my own. I discovered a peer group of people, an eclectic bunch, who spent every Saturday night together watching Star Trek: The Next Generation and hanging out. We celebrated holidays like May Day in medieval costume with probably the only portable May pole in the world. We were quirky as heck and I loved it. We were close enough that sometimes we got into arguments with each other, but that was good. It felt good to have a bunch of people I felt close to.

When I left to go to my first faculty job in upstate New York, I knew I would miss these people terribly. We had a packing and pizza party to commemorate our leaving (I was married at the time) and a couple of us drove toward New York the next day.

In New York, I was 900 miles away from my people. I survived, though, with the help of some new friends I made. I spent five years out there, making a new world for myself. Without those years in Champaign-Urbana, however, I would never have known how to.

If I Got Great, Fantastic News …

Daily writing prompt

You get some great, amazingly fantastic news. What’s the first thing you do?

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I haven’t had great, amazingly fantastic news in so long, I have to use my imagination to think about what I would do if I got it. Luckily I have a great imagination. Maybe this is a factor in getting older, but I’ve gotten more bad news (like people dying) than good news these last several years.

Wow paper background with colorful geometric confetti. Vector illustration.

What would be great, amazingly fantastic news? Winning the lottery or snagging an agent, winning an award at work or selling a lot of books. Maybe I expect more from great news than I did when I was younger; I’m not sure.

The first thing I would do if I got great, amazingly fantastic news is let my husband know. Probably by text, because I’m not a big one for phone calls. It’s not a terribly exciting answer, but there it is. His response would be “Yay!” because he’s not an excitable person.

We’d probably celebrate later at a local restaurant, and we would discuss what to do with this great, amazingly fantastic (I love that phrase) thing that befell us, because even great, amazingly fantastic things have consequences.

I’m going to sit here and think of great, amazingly fantastic news. I’ll let you know if anything comes my way. After I tell my husband.

My Mission Statement(s)

Daily writing prompt

What is your mission?

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I learned about mission statements as a professor, when an assignment I inherited was to make students write professional mission statements. The source I found said that mission statements should be short and explain what one wants to accomplish but not how. I use that definition still.

I believe in mission statements. I think it’s motivating to have a statement to look at that gives direction and inspiration. Unlike a motivational statement, a mission is tailored to the individual.

I don’t have a personal mission. I think this is a bad thing, because it means I drift from day to day, doing what I need to do. And in a way, I think that is true. Perhaps it’s because I’m over sixty, or because I don’t feel driven to do things the way I used to. Perhaps it’s because I’m being treated for bipolar. At any rate, I have no personal mission.

I do have a teaching mission and a writing mission, however. Maybe it’s because those are things I do rather than who I am. My teaching mission is to give people the ‘Aha!’ reaction. Notice it’s short and sweet and does not talk about how. It’s my responsibility to make the ‘aha’ part of how I teach. My writing mission is to make fantasies romantic and romances fantastic. As I write fantasy romance and romantic fantasy, this is an accurate mission, even with the wordplay.

I still think I need that personal mission. I don’t want anything trite or false. I want a catchy mission because I like words, or as a friend once said, “words like me”. Maybe something like to make my life an ‘aha’ experience. That’s close. Let me think about it.

Missing Out on My Big Audacious Goal

I have given up on my Big Audacious Goal for this year, which was having a booth at an author’s conference. I believe it the goal was too big and audacious for me, which is a hard thing to admit.

I have promoted my books at small appearances — a book fair in Maryville, MO, another in St. Joseph. I handle those fine because they’re small and local. A conference feels threatening to my somewhat introverted self. I see myself as an indie author, and I don’t enjoy comparing myself to people who get publishing contracts. This is my little hobby, as long as I’m still employed full-time in my day job.

Is the amount of sales and exposure worth a table fee and a conference visit? If Gateway Con in St. Louis was still operational, I’d say yes. That was a small and valuable conference that gave me a lot in return. I could sit a table there. A bigger conference, maybe not. I’ll be honest — I’m intimidated by ‘real authors’. I feel like an impostor in those settings.

I’m thinking of another Big Audacious Goal. In the middle of an indolent summer, none are coming to me. Little goals: Have my Loomly calendar (promotion) set up through January 1. (Done). Set up Kringle Through the Snow for October 1 publication. (Done). Prepare Reclaiming the Balance for January 1 publication (in process; still a bit chicken). Blog daily (so far, so good). Finish Carrying Light (almost done).

No Big Audacious Goals yet. Can anyone suggest one for a sleepy indie author?

What gives me direction in life?

Daily writing prompt

What gives you direction in life?

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Motivation needs direction, or else people waste their energy. There are several things that give me direction in life, honestly. Some are lofty; some mundane. I need to talk about both.

One thing that gives me direction is love. Love of people becomes an evident focus in my relationships, and it’s the answer people expect when I say “love”. But what loving what I do? That’s at least as strong a guide for direction in my life. I think about two activities I term as “flow” activities in my life, moulage (casualty simulation, otherwise known as making victims for emergency training) and writing. The love of the activity and the stimulation they give me gives me direction.

Another thing is striving to be better. This points me toward improvement activities, such as reading about my writing craft and practice, practice, practice. Related to this is the desire for recognition. Although I don’t like to talk about my need for external validation, it’s there. It’s definitely there.

Sometimes, it’s duty that gives me direction. That I get up in the morning on days when I’m depressed, and go to work even when I am hypomanic, is the power of duty. Duty to myself and to my husband and cats. The need to provide food, clothing, and shelter; safety and security, and emotional support. I also do these things because I love all of them, but the daily things fall under the category of duty.

This list is pretty prosaic, more of an essay answer for my positive psychology class than a creative piece. But these are the places and the reasons I focus my energy.