I'm Still Here

I'm sitting in my living room, printing mailing labels and putzing around on Twitter. I finished a painting. Well, actually, I did two paintings: One for a writing friend, and the other will be my contribution to a local fundraiser for Indigenous youth in Canada.

Have I been writing? I've been thinking about it. I open my WIP and stare at it for a while, and then close it. Then I open it again. I write words. I close it.

The writing life is an enigma. People say it's a solitary craft, yet these days I am surrounded by writers in the cyber world. Successful writers, aspiring writers, encouraging writers and distant writers. They all have something to say about this crazy occupation, and I alternately toggle between hope and despair.

When I first left the workforce after 23 years as a graphic artist, I had visions of being a domestic goddess, creating art with my words and my paintbrush while surrounded by pastoral sunshine in my back yard. Sure, I had moments where I was satisfied with my accomplishments, whether they be refinished folding chairs or a rearranged living room.

I experimented in the kitchen, and honed my photography skills. I volunteered. I wrote. I chased around the local wildlife. I got mauled by my cat (that's a whole story in itself).

Now I sit here, waiting again for Spring, and doing my best to find my place in the world. Sure, hubby loves my culinary creations, and my sister loves the fact that I've embraced the art of Silent Auction Coordinating. My paintings are admired, but I have yet to pay for more than groceries with the proceeds. Agents love my writing, but don't know where to sell it.

As I jab at the ground lamb in my frying pan and contemplate my predicament, I realize that my problems are nothing compared to the millions of individuals who wake up every day, wondering if it's worth seeing the end of that day. Today is #BellLetsTalk day, when we talk about mental illness, and do our best to erase the stigma that is attached.

Generations before ours suffered in silence, and used (even today) suicide as a final escape from their pain. People with social anxiety were bullied. Angry men were simply told to stop being jerks. Maybe they suffered from depression and as a result, alienated their families and died lonely.

Mothers self-medicated with wine because they dreaded the next PTA meeting, fearing that they would be singled out. Some were afraid to leave their own homes because crowds made them feel as if they were about to drown.

Now we have a chance to understand why that friend constantly backs out of social engagements, or why a co-worker cries in the bathroom stall or takes a lot of sick days. They aren't selfish, or wimpy, or weaklings. They're not just seeking attention. They might be truly suffering, and our understanding and support can help them get through the mire that's holding them back.

Listen to them.

The Family That Slays Together Stays Together

Don't worry, we weren't going to slay anything except paper. That's what the Range Officer quipped when the four of us showed up at the shooting range last weekend. My son, a licensed gun owner, wanted his family to experience what it was like to shoot a rifle. He owns three guns: A Norinco JW25A 22, an SKS semi automatic, and a Mosin Nagant Model 1891.

As a writer, I figured it was important to learn how to shoot a gun, so that if I ever wrote about it, I'd know how it feels.

Off we went, on a two-hour drive to a facility in the Niagara region, on the coldest, wettest day of late summer. As we moved south, the skies lowered and the rain increased. By the time we got there, it was a regular Winnie The Pooh Blustery Day.

I was dressed for the weather, but the rest of the family wasn't. Still, they wanted to power through and get on with it after such a long trip.

Eye and ear protection was mandatory. After we provided ID and paid up, we were given identification tags, ear plugs and protective eye wear. Good thing, because when we approached our area, other patrons were already at work, shooting at their targets. I nearly jumped out of my skin every time I heard an explosion.

Don't I look badass?

I wore rubber paddock boots, so I slogged through the mud and helped my son affix our paper targets with a staple gun to the corrugated plastic backings 50 yards away. Large earth hills loomed behind the targets to absorb any bullets that went through the cardboard or missed the targets.

The shooting area was covered, so the rain was kept off us, if not the wind. The Range Officer offered my daughter one of his camo jackets, and she huddled into it between turns.

We took turns, learning how to load the guns as the Range Officer looked on and gave advice as needed. My son was a good teacher, showing us how to handle the equipment safely. We started with the easiest model, the Norinco JW25A .22, a copy of a WWII training rifle. Since the cartridge tended to bend the bullets, we fed them into the chamber one at a time and ejected the casing after each shot.

The trigger of the .22 was feather light. I remembered to squeeze, not pull. The sound it gave was a loud pop. I could see the target, but unfortunately my 56 year old eyes couldn't clearly line up the sights on the gun. I did the best I could, under the circumstances. My daughter watched the targets through a spotting scope to tell me if I at least hit my paper, and I adjusted accordingly. I managed to get the outer part of the center circle a couple of times.

The picture below is my daughter trying the .22.

The SKS semi automatic could technically hold ten bullets about 2.5 inches long, but according to Canadian law, it was equipped to take only five. I held the butt of the stock firmly into the meat of my shoulder while pushing my cheek into the side of the gun. It was a good thing, otherwise it could have jumped out of my hands. 

The explosion was much louder than the .22, making me glad I was wearing good ear plugs. The casings popped out the side with every shot. We were told to keep a second or three between shots and not to go "Pop pop pop pop pop," like they do in the movies. With each shot, a curl of smoke rose from the chamber, along with the smell of sulfur.

While my daughter tried the SKS, I looked through the scope to tell her if she'd hit the target. The holes the rounds made were three times the size of the .22 holes. Whenever a round passed through the target, a spray of mud exploded against the dirt hill behind.

Once, while my daughter was shooting and I was spotting through the scope, a casing popped upward and landed on the top of my head. Good thing I was wearing a hat, because they come out hot. (The shooting range safety rules suggest that women cover their cleavage for that very reason.)

Later, my daughter and I decided to pass on the Mosin (which was manufactured in 1939). We sat in the warm, dry car and took out our earplugs while my son and husband finished up with the bigger gun. It was just as well that I didn't try the Mosin, because my husband said it bruised his shoulder.

After a couple of hours, we were ready to return home. The paper targets were shredded by bullets, rain and wind, but I swear I hit mine at least a dozen times! I wish we'd taken pictures of the targets to prove it, but we didn't think of it until we were on our way. You'll have to trust me.

I won't promise I'll do it again, but I'm glad I had the experience.

I Promised Something Last Week, Didn't I?

Hi Gang,

Last week the floodgates opened. No... bad choice of words. What I'm trying to say is that after long gaps between posts, I'm ready to start blogging again on a semi-regular basis. Being a virgin empty nester has its perks if you set aside the "missing your kids" part.

I've been working on a murder mystery for a while, and I'm ready to dive back into it. If you're a member of Book Country, you might have seen a pretty big chunk of Mallet as it was being developed.

I'm a Certified Pantster, so whatever you read today might not be the same tomorrow. I decided to post a sample of the book, just to whet appetites - yours and mine.

Now, where to start? The Beginning, according to all agent rules? Or a little piece in the middle, just to keep everyone guessing? I'll let you guess, since I'm still guessing anyway.

Saturday dawned hot and hazy. I blew the dust bunnies off my navy blue pumps, cinched myself into a steeply discounted designer sundress, and headed for the polo grounds on the Montgomery farm in Gormley. A few signs with red arrows pointed the way to the venue, and I scanned for the entrance.

A long line of cedar fencing bordered the farm to my left, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed a rail had snapped in two, leaving a gap. Someone should fix that, I thought.

I returned my attention to the winding road. In the same moment, a huge reddish-brown object filled my view in front of my car.

"Shit!" I slammed on my brakes and struggled to keep the Toyota from spinning out of control. Gravel spit in every direction. I managed to bring the car to a halt on the soft shoulder, facing the way I had come.

I gulped and gasped, gripping the steering wheel. When my heart and the dust settled, I searched the roadside, wondering if I'd hit the deer.

It wasn't a deer. It was a horse.

It shuffled back and forth in the ditch on the west side of the road, doing a little pirouette on its hind feet before trotting in the opposite direction.

With a deep breath, I undid my seatbelt and opened the door. I stood on the gravel shoulder for a moment, wondering about my next move.

The horse stopped for a moment and pricked its ears before flattening them and resuming its dance in the ditch. There was no sign of a limp, and a quick glance at my bumper reassured me I hadn't made contact. Thank God.

I had no idea how I was going to catch it. I looked around for help, but for the moment the lane was empty. No freaked-out farmhand came running from any nearby property, so it looked like I was on my own.

"Come on… girl?" Or was it a male? I didn't have time to peek at its undercarriage. I just kept my eyes fixed on a pair of flared nostrils while I slithered into the dry ditch.

The horse gave me a look that said, "Oh, no you're not," and flattened its ears again.

It wore a leather halter, but I knew from experience it wasn't a good idea to try to lead a nervous horse without a rope of some kind. One toss of the head and I could end up under its hooves. I crept closer, speaking softly while unbuckling my navy blue cotton belt. I slid it from the loops on my dress and held it to my side.

The horse snorted and nosed the sky, eyes rolling, but briefly stood still.

I stepped forward, and it stepped backward. I tried again, and it retreated.

I remembered a move I'd learned back in college when I took care of the school horses. I turned my shoulder and walked along the ditch, ahead the horse. I extended my closed fist as if I were holding a lead.

The trick worked. It followed me and I slowed my pace until it strode alongside. I looped my belt around its halter and hoped it wouldn't rear up, as I didn't have quite enough slack to keep the horse from hauling me into the air.

We scrambled out of the ditch, my genuine imitation patent vinyl pumps slipping on the flattened grass, and my arm almost yanked out of its socket as the horse unceremoniously assisted me to higher ground.

A car approached and slowed, its tires crunching the gravel. I raised my free hand and the driver rolled to a stop.

"Need any help?" The guy asked from his open window.

"No – I got it." I struggled to keep the bay still as it danced about, trying to jerk the belt out of my grip.

The driver set his hazard lights and got out of his car, halting the increasing lineup of vehicles that had built up behind him. He waited until we passed through the gates of the nearest driveway, and then returned to his car with a friendly wave.

By now the horse had finally decided to cooperate, and clopped calmly beside me. I hoped this was the right farm. This property was either on the polo grounds or adjacent, since the line of cars had turned into the next driveway.

A voice drifted through the trees from a loudspeaker, calling out the itinerary for the day's festivities. The first game was due to start just after lunch. I pictured Dionne sitting with the chairpersons and polo players' wives, sipping mimosas and making excuses for my absence.

 At this end of the grounds, silence surrounded me except for the occasional sleepy tweet from birds high in the pines that lined the driveway. A whinny drifted from a gargantuan century barn, and as I got closer, I heard angry male voices.

Make Him Stop Stopping

For everyone who knows Stephen Parrish, get thee over to his blog and give him a smack upside the head. He thinks he's gonna stop blogging? Hah!

Although he is unpublished at the moment, he is a brilliant writer and has often inspired me to improve my craft. I'll never be as talented, and I think it sucks that he's so frustrated he wants to give up blogging in order to concentrate on writing.

In this day and age, blogging and writing go hand in hand. It's like cutting off your hand!

ETA: I guess he needs to do what he needs to do. It's selfish of me to try to change his mind. Sometimes blogging can seem like more of a chore than writing.