Category: General

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well, this is a very different Thanksgiving, isn’t it. I know that my house is very quiet today, without the sounds of four kids, two in-laws, and one granddaughter. There are still the two of us and our Olivia. But everyone else is practicing smart COVID distancing. It’s sad, but at the same time, I feel cared for. And I care for them too.

Every Tuesday, on the AllWriters’ Facebook page, I post a writing prompt for, well, all writers. This week, I posted, “Write a list poem, please, of all the GOOD things that happened this year. Try.” A few hours later, a student posted, “You, for one.” Not a poem, Mary Ann, but it made me happy anyway. On Monday, I was interviewed by another student for her vlog on gratitude on YouTube. I’ve never been interviewed for such a thing before, and when she said she wanted to talk to me about my gratitude practice, I was really kind of floored. I don’t think of writing these Moments as a gratitude practice, but I suppose they really are. Noticing these sometimes small, sometimes big things that bring me joy does make me feel grateful, though I don’t know that I was conscious of that before. The interview was a very fun one to do, and you can see it here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jn3rrTm5v4o&fbclid=IwAR0JUDK9UgQo2gW1hUX1pbOcL3xs7n-QJ2xScMn8B3CH39WftI3jPR1sVwA

So I decided I would use this space to list what I am grateful for, in a sense writing my own prompt (though it won’t be a poem either!) and acknowledging my own practice. I think it’s pretty amazing that there can be gratitude in this awful year. In the interview, I said that one of the things I’ve learned is that happiness doesn’t just happen. You have to look for it. That’s especially true in 2020.

So here we go. The things I’m grateful for:

MY KIDS

Shortly after COVID started, my three oldest kids, all living outside of my home, set up a Facebook chat so that I can be in touch with them at a moment’s notice. I speak to them every day. I always thought that the easiest time of parenting would be when my kids were adults, but I’ve not found that to be true. I can no longer gather them together under my wings when there is trouble. Even Olivia, while still in college and not completely independent yet, is out of my reach for much of the time. But being able to talk to the kids every day, make sure they’re feeling okay, has helped a lot. And I have to think that they like to touch base with me too.

NINTENDO SWITCH’S ANIMAL CROSSING NEW HORIZONS

By extension from my family, yes, I am grateful for a video game. My son Andy has a close friend named Rayne, and I’ve considered her a part of my family since she and Andy were in high school. She lives in Portland, Oregon now. Soon after COVID started, when it was pretty obvious I was getting stressed out, she told me she was playing Animal Crossing and it was helping a lot. I played the GameCube version of this years ago and absolutely loved it. Rayne said the new game was very similar to the old one. I didn’t want to spend money on a game system right now, as I own and run a small business and, of course, COVID makes that business’ future uncertain. But my son Andy stepped up and bought me a system and the game and it’s been a lifesaver. I escape for hours onto my own island, building and decorating my house, talking with friendly animal neighbors, growing pumpkins, creating a coffee shop and an exercise center and a symphony and all sorts of places. Now, being a writer, you might think I can escape to other worlds pretty often. But the thing is, when you write fiction, it has to have a conflict, so no story or novel is completely peaceful. My Animal Crossing island, which I named Dreamhome, is peaceful.

MY WONDERFUL CLIENTS AND STUDENTS

AllWriters’ provides me with my extended family. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to completely move my business online. The majority of it was online already, but we had at least one workshop going every day, including Saturday, in the on-site classroom. It’s been dark since March, but my computer screen has been brightly lit. Seeing my students succeed is one of my biggest joys in life, and please bear in mind that success does not necessarily mean publication. For some of my students, success is their actually giving some time and thought to their own dreams. Putting a word down is a success. Writing a story, a poem, an essay, is a success. So is writing a book. And so is publishing. But the biggest success of all is acknowledging who you are and what you can do. I love what I do, and I love watching them learn that they love it too, and can actually say that out loud.

MY NEW PUBLISHER

My 12^th book, 6^th novel, is under contract with a new publisher. This publisher blew me away to the point where I had to call the acquisitions editor and ask her to sit down with me and go over the contract paragraph by paragraph because I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. The new book will have a hardcover edition, something I’ve never had before. There will be international distribution. And there was that magical word of all magical words – an advance. There is nothing that says a publisher believes in you more than their offering to pay you before your book is even released. Holy cow. This was massive validation.

I am grateful as well for my previous publishers, of course. They believed in me when no one else did and put me out there. Without them, I wouldn’t be here.

CONTINUED HEALTH

Three years out from breast cancer. Still taking the oral chemo pill every single night, but I only have two years left. Three years out feels good.

TECHNOLOGY

Lordy. Can you imagine going through this without Zoom, Skype, Facetime, and however else people are still getting together? I don’t understand the internet, I can’t see it or touch it, but I am ever so grateful for it.

So. Even in this awful, no-good, horrific year, there are things to be grateful for. While I’m not consciously aware of having a “gratitude practice”, I am aware of being thankful. We look ahead. We move forward.

We go have some pumpkin pie, fresh out of the oven.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

This may come across as an odd one at first. I’ve actually spent a huge amount of time today, trying to come up with another Moment instead of the one that keeps popping up in my head. I’m worried about this Moment coming across as I’m somehow happy that a friend has been diagnosed with breast cancer. I’m not. But the Moment is caught up in this.

So a friend told me on Monday that she’d failed her mammogram and was going for two biopsies on Tuesday. On Tuesday, she emailed me and said, “Radiologists can be wrong, right?” And on Wednesday, we spoke in the morning, while she was waiting for the result, and we spoke again in the evening, when she had the result. Positive. With the exact same breast cancer I had in 2017.

I’m three years out now, though I am still on oral chemotherapy, popping a little yellow pill each day that leaves me feeling achy and sweaty. Fun. I’ve never considered my breast cancer experience positive before. But now…well, this week, it showed me what that experience could do. For others.

When she told me she had to have the biopsies, I was able to tell her exactly what would happen and how it would feel. She walked in to the clinic with real knowledge.

When she emailed me, asking if a radiologist could be wrong, we were able to compare notes. My radiologist normally told women they had a 20% chance it was cancer, and an 80% chance it wasn’t, but with me, he was switching it. He was 80% sure I had cancer. In my friend’s case, her radiologist told her she was “pretty confident” it was cancer. My friend and I talked about this, talked about how we walked out, shattered, of the same cancer center, talked about our hopes…and then talked about reality.

When she called me with the result, she cried, and I knew where the tears were coming from. I told her not to try to stop them. We discussed the blank stares, the shock, the belief that it wasn’t real, that there would be a phone call saying that the wrong result, someone else’s, had been given. Her next step is an MRI, and we talked about that, and I told her things that the medical staff hadn’t told her to expect. How hot she would feel. How her lower back would ache because of the lay-on-your-stomach position, and how the required pose arches your back. The first time I had the MRI, I didn’t know about bolsters. They didn’t tell me about bolsters. But when I said at the second one that my back ached after the first MRI, they immediately pulled one out and eased the strain in my back by supporting my shins. Apparently, the bolsters are a secret.  “Ask for a bolster for your shins,” I said.

We talked about the well-intentioned, but inane things people say. “Oh, you’re so lucky! You have the good kind of cancer!”, because the cancer she has and I had was estrogen-based and more easily treated. But there is no good kind of cancer. “Keep a positive attitude! That helps in the healing!” Actually, stuffing your feelings of sadness, fear and anger makes you suffer more. I told her she would have negative days (like right now) and positive days. Accept them both. “Once you have the surgery, don’t say you have cancer anymore! That puts it out in the Universe and it will come back!” Oh, for god’s sake. I didn’t even have to explain that one. Our eyes rolled and our laughs were incredulous.

And I told her about the one thing that someone said to me that stuck. That resonated. I received the 80% news two days before I was to lead the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat for a four-day weekend. I am pretty sure I walked the halls of the retreat center for those four days with the cliché deer-in-the-headlights expression, that wasn’t a cliché because I never ever ever expected to have to face breast cancer. One of my students, a doctor, would stop me in my tracks whenever he saw me. He put his hands on my shoulders. And he said, “You’re going to be okay. No matter what. You might have a tough time for a while, but you’re going to be okay.” He didn’t tell me I wouldn’t have it, that it would be all right. He didn’t tell me it would be easy. He didn’t tell me to stay positive and to pull tricks on the Universe. He just said, “You’re going to be okay, no matter what,” letting me know that even if it was hard, there would be a time again when all would be well.

And he was right.

So throughout all of our conversations the last few days, I told my friend she would be okay. No matter what.

And I knew that I was giving her the one thing I really wished I had during all of my own experience – someone who would sit and listen and understand and say, “I know,” because the experience was shared. The “I know”, my “I know” comes from compassion, for sure, but it also comes out of knowledge. She can see, in me, someone who knows what she’s feeling, knows what she’s going to go through, and is still sitting, intact, right across from her. With a wonky-looking breast, for sure, but really, intact.

Before we hung up on Skype last night, she said, “Kathie, you are a really, really good friend.”

And for the first time ever, since the radiologist told me I had an 80% chance of having breast cancer, and it turned out he was 100% right, since going through the ultrasounds, biopsies, MRI’s, surgery, 20 rounds of radiation, what has been 3 years of oral chemotherapy, what will be a total of 5 years of oral chemotherapy, since tears and fears and anger and the world not only turning on its ear, but feeling like it became roadkill, for the first time ever, I am grateful that I had breast cancer.

Because I could be there. In the deepest way possible. For her.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Since the pandemic started, I haven’t been able to see much of my only grandchild, Grandbaby Maya Mae. She’s no longer a baby; 7 years old and in the second grade, she would be quick to assure you that she is not a baby at all. But to me, of course, she always will be, just as my kids are too. I can’t help, when I look at them, to see who they are now, but also to remember the little ones they used to be.

I was in the room when Maya was born. I saw her come into this world. It was an event I will never ever forget. When you’re a mother, you’ve had the experience of birthing, but you’ve never witnessed it from the outside. In the case of my kids, I’m pretty sure they were all born when my eyes were squeezed tightly shut and I was shrieking. When Olivia was born, my obstetrician had this obsession with having the mom reach down and catch the baby as it emerged. I clearly remember him yelling, “Reach down! Reach down!” and while I don’t think I said it out loud, I absolutely thought, Are you out of your freaking mind? My body was caught up in getting that child out, and reaching for her with my hands at that moment would have meant I unfisted my fingers from whatever it was I had my death grip on. Olivia was safely caught by my doctor and then placed on me as I collapsed back into the birthing bed. And that was wonder enough.

But Maya…I saw her pop into the world. I saw her daddy, my son, holding on to her and saying over and over, “I’m your daddy! I’m your daddy!” And I held her too, before she was ten minutes old.

Maya lives in the same town I do, so this new isolation because of the pandemic is hard. Soon after the initial shutdown, I set up Zoom calls with Maya, where I read to her every night and she tells me about her day. I’ve seen her in person less than a handful of times since March. I don’t know what we’re going to do for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Everything is still up in the air. But thank goodness for Zoom. For letting me see her face and hear her voice.

This week, that little face and voice told me about a diary that she got from her Scholastic order at school. The diary is fuzzy and has cat ears, and Maya is the Cat Queen, just parading through Halloween dressed as the Crazy Cat Lady. This diary, true to diaries throughout the years, comes with a little lock and key, and Maya told me she writes her thoughts down in there, and then she locks them away.

I was delighted, and asked if she still has the journal I gave her last summer, to write stories in. In first grade, Maya began to write stories. I wanted to give her a special place to do so. The journal was purple and had purple feathers on it.

“Yes!” she said, and despite the gift of the journal being over a year before, she knew exactly where it was. She retrieved it, and then we spent a few minutes going over what she wrote way back then. “Wow,” she said. “I wrote sloppy when I was young.”

When she was young.

“I’m going to write another story!” she said, and sank right down on the floor with her pencil to do so.

“That’s excellent!” I said. “Read it to me tomorrow when I call you again.”

There’s something about your child, or your grandchild, connecting with something that you do. My oldest child, Christopher, wrote phenomenal poetry when he was in the first grade. I remember marveling over his instinctual knowledge of when to use repetition, and when to quit. As an adult, he doesn’t write, but he loves music and song lyrics. My middle child, Andy, was writing a novel for a while, and even took part in one of my classes. I will always remember when he came home in third grade, running in the door and shouting, “Mom! Mom! I started a story about a wizard!” And then he slouched for a minute and said, “But I think I spelled wizard wrong.” We spoke over an after-school snack of milk and cookies about how writers don’t worry about such things in first drafts. We worry about that later. He brightened, and he finished that story. My third child, Katie, she of the amazing math mind, also has an amazing mind for haiku. Every now and then, she sends me one, and each and every time, I marvel. And then there’s Olivia, the child of two writers. She writes poetry. She’s working on a novel. She’s had a poem published in a literary magazine already, and two articles in her college’s magazine.

And now, Grandbaby Maya Mae.

When I called her on Zoom the next day, she charged the screen with her purple feather journal. “Grandma Kaffee,” she said, the toddler “Gamma” gone, but the “th” still difficult, so Kaffee remains and I love it, “I’m going to write a chapter book!” And then she sat down and read to me. It’s all about a girl named Maya.

A chapter book.

That “something” about a child connecting with you with what you do…it somehow shows a respect, I think, an acknowledgement of who you are, beyond their mother, or their grandmother.

I treasure them. I treasure their words. Each and every one.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well. It’s been a week, hasn’t it. I was thinking for a while there that I might have to beg off another week, because the mess that is the US since Tuesday (well, for the last four years, really) just stole the week away. But then I thought, Let’s take a moment here and go over it piece by piece.

On Election Day, I was planning on spending the day hunkered inside. There were threats and predictions of violence and emotions were running high. But then I received a notification from my library that books I put on hold to read to my granddaughter, Maya Mae, were in. Because of COVID, I can’t see Maya much, even though she lives only a couple miles from me. But I’ve been reading to her, via Zoom, almost every evening. We’re working our way through the Junie B. Jones books. Michael, aka Grampa Mike, somehow always manages to be in earshot when I read and so we enjoy the books together. I also had a couple errands I needed to run. So despite the threats and predictions, I ventured out.

It was a beautiful day, stunning temps in the sixties, bright sunshine, blue skies. Weather that just makes the world feel positive. I wore my VOTE t-shirt and my Ruth Bader Ginsberg Dissent Collar earrings. I pulled out in Semi, my convertible, who I thought was tucked in for the winter, but not so! It was November Spring! Top down, music up (Heart And Soul by T’Pau), I buzzed around, picked up the books, ran my errands. Everywhere, everyone smiled. A woman and her kids in the library complimented my purse and we spoke for a while, six feet apart, masks on. In the car, I sang and I basked and genuinely enjoyed myself. I treated myself to lunch and then went home. I opened the windows of the condo so the sun could follow me inside.

As the night went on, it got uglier, of course. I didn’t go to bed until six o’clock Wednesday morning, and by then, my eyes were so bugged out from stress and staring at the numbers and the pink/light blue/pink/light blue/pink/light blue/blue/red of the states that I wasn’t sure if my eyelids would close.

Not a good time. And it’s been a jumpy time since, flying from joy and confidence to despair and distress in a single bound.

But through it all, I’ve been talking to my kids. I have four. Christopher is 36 years old. Andy is 34. Katie is 33. And Olivia is 20. This was Olivia’s first presidential election. And as I talked to my kids and listened to their thoughts and their worries and, well, their lives, really, I realized a few things.

First, I have four kids who never once questioned if they would vote. Of course they would. They consider it their responsibility and their right and their privilege. They know that voting is what makes this country a democracy.

None of my kids voted just willy-nilly. All gave it great thought and consideration, weighed and measured the issues, their own wants and needs, their beliefs and morals. Olivia researched every person running for any office. “I want to get it right, Mama,” she said.

Christopher participated in early in-person voting in October. Andy voted absentee, dropping his ballot off at our city hall. Katie, in a different state that didn’t allow absentee voting, but did allow early in-person voting, did just that. Her state only allowed 3 minutes for voting time, so she made sure she knew what was going to be on the ballot, researched her choices, and went in knowing exactly what she wanted to say. Olivia voted absentee, dropping her ballot off at the city hall, as Michael and I did.

All this adds up to one big moment of happiness. My kids (and I only call them kids because saying “my adults” just sounds wrong) have grown up to be responsible, knowledgeable, active members of our society and the world. They don’t look at voting as a chore or as something that can be blown off. They see it as the chance to raise their voices and speak out for what they believe.

And coming right on their heels…Grandbaby Maya Mae.

I don’t know how this election is going to turn out. I do know how I want it to. And I know that these threats to stop the counting of votes has sickened me, even more than so much of the previous four years has. We have the right to speak our minds through our votes. And our votes deserve to be counted.

All of them. Michael’s. Mine. Christopher’s. Andy’s. Katie’s. Olivia’s, voice lifted and strong in her first chance to select who she wants as president of the United States.

I am proud of my kids. I look at them and I can’t help but feel it’s all going to be okay.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

On Monday, at 1:00 in the morning, I was officially on my first day of my weeklong break. I was comfortably tucked into my recliner, fireplace on, blanket over me, watching several episodes in a row of The Gilmore Girls, when my daughter Olivia sent me a message on Facebook.

“Mama, can I ask you a question?”

One o’clock in the morning questions are usually a red flag. They’re usually something like, “I want to go backpacking this summer in Europe with a guy named Bubba McGee and he’s forty-two and he’s been unemployed for twelve years, it’s a thing with him, and we figured we’d just make money along the way by doing odd jobs and we’ll sleep under the stars and we’re going to leave our cell phones behind to fully appreciate the natural world and that’s okay with you, isn’t it, Mama?” So I immediately paused The Gilmore Girls and answered, “Sure.”

I couldn’t have been more surprised.

“So this week is spirit week for Halloween and it’s kinda like spirit week back in high school. Tomorrow is pink day so you wear something pink. I am assuming it’s for breast cancer awareness. Do you find stuff like people wearing pink annoying? Maybe romanticizing the disease? I don’t know, I am just debating whether or not I should wear pink.”

I am three years out from breast cancer. I still have a daily reminder, in the oral chemotherapy I have to take every night in the form of a little yellow pill. That will continue for at least another two years.

I knew where this question was coming from. I wrote a Today’s Moment about it, on 9/9/17, when I was right smack in the middle of daily radiation treatments and really not feeling well at all. We were in Home Depot, getting a key made, and Olivia found a keychain with a pink ribbon on it.

From that blog:

She asked if I was looking forward to Pinktober, the month of October, which is Breast Cancer Awareness month and many businesses turn their lights and signs pink. She said she would wear pink for me in October. She said she would show me support.

I told her that I wasn’t looking forward to Pinktober. That maybe I would next year, when this is all behind me. But that right now, everywhere I look, there’s cancer.  Turn on the TV, there’s commercials about cancer. Go on the computer, there’s articles about cancer. Go get a key made, there’s a keychain about cancer.

“I’m just so tired of it, Livvy,” I said. “I can’t get out from under it. Radiation every day. Cancer Center every day. Look here, look there, see pink ribbons and cancer. Cancer, cancer everywhere.”

Olivia said that she loves Autism Awareness Month and everything is lit up blue. I told her that this might be because she has such a good handle on her own autism, that she deals with it with grace and intelligence and compassion.

“I might feel better about Pinktober when I get to that point too,” I said. But right now, I’m not there. I wish I was. But I’m not.

And then Olivia said, “Oh, Mama,” and she flung her arms around my neck. This almost-seventeen year old young woman, who typically walks ten feet in front of me in public, who won’t hug me outside of our house and who rolls her eyes if I hug her, well, she threw her arms around me in the middle of Home Depot and hugged the stuffing out of me. She planted a solid kiss on my cheek.

And that was just what I needed.

It was just what I needed. And now we were three years later, and she was asking me about wearing pink. If it bothered me when people wore pink.

So I answered her, “Not so much anymore. When I was in treatment, it was too much of a reminder.”

She said, “So it doesn’t bother you anymore?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, cool,” she said. “Then I am gonna wear pink.”

It’s not the first time I felt grateful to have such a kind daughter. Such a NICE daughter. In this case, someone whose life has been touched by breast cancer and who wants to show support for her mother and for others who deal with this, but only wants to do it if her mother is comfortable with it. She could have been part of a pink-wearing pack and I would never have known. But she wasn’t going to do it without making sure that I felt okay about it.

She’s twenty years old. And she’s amazing. This won’t be the last time I feel grateful.

“I have a pink sweater, so that will work,” she said.

At 1:30 in the morning, I answered, “I have a pink sweater!”

“Oooo,” she said. “Wanna wear it tomorrow?”

“Sure!”

“Cool beans!”

So on Monday, I didn’t see my daughter. But I knew she was wearing pink. She knew I was wearing pink too.

And I felt her hug, just like I felt it that day in Home Depot, all day long.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Generally, I like to choose moments that have a sort of blanket connection – something that pretty much everyone can relate to. But this week – well, I can’t ignore what happened this week. Writers will understand my joy and excitement, but I hope others will too.

I’ve really been a writer for my whole life. Before I could physically write, I told stories. As soon as I could hold a pencil, I was off and running, or, more accurately, writing. I traced the stories out of my picture books and rewrote the stories the way I felt they should be written. When I ordered books from those wonderful Scholastic orders given to kids in elementary school, I often chose the books more for the pictures than the storyline because of the story that erupted in my own head when I saw the sample illustrations. My fifth grade teacher told me I was a writer after the first story I wrote for her, and I agreed, and that was all she wrote (I crack myself up sometimes).

Except it wasn’t all she wrote. I wrote and I wrote and I still do. Everything is a story.

While I published for the first time when I was fifteen (I rewrote the story of Christ in 70’s slang and it was published as a serial in the Catholic Herald Citizen – really!) and I was well-known as a short story writer by the time I was in my early thirties, my first book, a novel, wasn’t published until the year I turned fifty. Since then, I’ve published four more novels, two short story collections, an essay collection, two poetry chapbooks, a full-length poetry collection – and the book I’ll talk about in just a minute. My work has always been traditionally published, meaning that I go through the process of submitting to publishing companies and the publisher chooses me and then creates and markets the book. I’ve never considered self-publishing because – and be prepared for ego here – anyone can self-publish. I’ve never wanted to be just anyone. In the exact opposite of ego, I always wanted someone else to tell me that my work was worthy of publication, that they believed in me enough that they would put their weight behind my words. It was never enough for just me to say, “This is good enough.” I went through four agents and finally sold my first book by myself.

I’ve been with small presses and I love them. Their work is personal, they get to know who you are and I get to know who they are. While there might not be an advance with the contract, while the distribution might be smaller, while there might not be much in the way of promotion, small presses still back you with everything they’ve got. My books are out there because of small presses.

And now there’s the newest book. A novel called All Told. It is very different, very experimental in terms of its format. I was nervous when I turned it in to the publisher who published my last three books. I became more nervous when he didn’t respond as quickly as he did in the past. Worried that he was going to say no, and not receiving any reassurance when I asked for an update, I decided to submit the book elsewhere, as a fallback.

And then there was more quiet.

Honestly, that opposite of ego I talked about up above began to hit me in full force. No one will like this book. You’re done. It’s over. This book was a stupid idea. You should have stayed with something more traditional. Your previous eleven books? All a fluke. Now the truth will come out. You’re a failure.

Man, my inner voice is a naysayer.

And then…and then…

Last week Thursday, a contract from a publisher floated into my email box. By Friday, there were two more. And when I told my previous publisher, the one who hadn’t answered me yet, he told me he’d had a contract made ready for me two weeks before, and he just hadn’t sent it out yet. So suddenly…four possible contracts.

I was floored. And overwhelmed. And out of my head delighted.

I spent the weekend poring over the contracts, comparing, contrasting…and really, there was one that stood out. It was fully traditional, not hybrid (in hybrid, the author pays a portion of the publishing and promotion costs). It offered the opportunity for my book to be in hardcover, softcover, and ebook. I’ve never had a hardcover before! There would be international distribution. And there was that word, that word so rarely seen now – an advance.

An advance means something beyond the monetary. It means the publisher has enough faith in you that they’re going to give you an advance on your royalties – a payment before your book is even published.

And THAT was all she wrote. After talking with the acquisitions editor on Monday, I signed the contract. All Told will be published in late 2021.

There will be champagne this weekend.

But I want to stress that this would never have been possible without:

all of the editors from the literary magazines that have showcased my stories and poems

the publishers who published the first eleven books.

And that fifth grade teacher who told me I was a writer. And all the other teachers.

The year 2020. What a strange time.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I’m afraid this one might make some people angry. But I figure the majority of us are angry these days anyway, no matter which side of the divide, so I might as well plow ahead and be truthful about what made me laugh this week and feel hope.

Since March, I’ve sat relatively quietly and watched or listened as:

*people without masks stood shoulder to shoulder on the side of a busy road and held a protest against mandated mask-wearing;

*potential shoppers were escorted out of a variety of stores for not wearing masks, even though there was prominent signage saying it was required;

*videos of maskless people shrieking, yelling, wailing, knocking over store displays and people, deliberately coughing in strangers’ faces, including children;

*anti-maskers ranting about loss of civil rights, and the belief that the government is trying to control them;

*people without masks claiming masks are ineffective anyway, even as the CDC, the medical industry, and scientists showed study after study that shows they not only protect people, they can flatten the curve and we can start getting out of this mess;

*Wisconsin’s legislature, which has only met once since March over COVID concerns, only gets off its collective ass and does something when trying to block every proactive move that our governor makes;

*Our president, after having COVID himself, returns to the White House, pants up a flight of stairs, rips off his mask and says, “See? It’s not so bad.” Despite 216,000 plus deaths in the US alone.

This week, in the middle of Wisconsin being the hot spot, making the news, and being the subject of several news articles on how one state could get it so very wrong, simply because of politics, I watched a news break that showed our vice-president holding a rally in my hometown. In hot spot Wisconsin, he didn’t wear a mask, and the participants stood in a crowd, shoulder to shoulder, and they didn’t wear masks either. Afterwards, looking at comments on a post on social media about this visit, someone rhapsodized, “Oh, I wish I’d been there! I love him! He cares about us so much!”

I stopped reading.

Since March, I’ve stayed at home. I’ve given up going to the mall, to flea markets, to Goodwill, to the movie theater, to restaurants, to the gym, and put the kibosh on any travel whatsoever. The launch of my newest book this week was done virtually, not face to face. The infrequent times I have gone out, I wear a mask. I have masks in both of my cars and a spare hanging from my purse strap. One awful time, when I had to run into Target, I realized right as I parked that all my masks were in the wash. Pressing both hands over my mouth and nose, I slunk inside, stood six feet away from a Target worker and asked if they had masks. She ran, fetched me one, and then said, “Thank you for being so conscientious.”

I’m doing this for me, of course. I’m in my third year of recovery from breast cancer, and I would like to continue on with my recovery, thank you very much. But there’s another reason I do it too.

For others. Just in case.

For the life of me, and possibly literally the life of me, I don’t understand the fuss over this. After seeing the Pence rally and reading the “He cares about us so much!” comment, I was pretty much ready to give up on any hope that humanity is still, well, human.

But then I had to run a few errands, which necessitated my leaving home. I made sure I had a mask and I left. The first thing that hit me was simply the brilliance of autumn. Trees that were green just last week are now the most vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows. It is just so pretty right now.

And then I saw a sign posted in front of a house. I expected it to be a political sign, but it was purple. So I looked closer as I drove by. On the sign, bold against the purple, a pink heart. And the words BE KIND.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

And then I approached Waukesha’s giant fiberglass cow. On October 26, 2017, I wrote about this cow in my Today’s Moments, when I was doing this every single day. I’ve known this cow since I was sixteen years old. Some facts about her: the cow is made of fiberglass and she stands twelve feet tall and weighs around five-hundred pounds. She cost $3000 when she was originally purchased around 1970. According to an article, her name is Gertrude Basse The Cow. But to me, she’s always been Bessie. Another thing about Bessie is she is dressed up in costume for Halloween, and she is dressed up for Christmas. The rest of the year, she is simply a large brown and white cow.

But on this day, when I saw her, I hit the brakes. I pulled over and stared and then I laughed out loud.

Bessie the giant cow was wearing a purple mask. It was tugged just right over her nose and mouth. Loops over her ears held the mask correctly in place.

Be kind, I thought. Then I added, A twelve-foot tall fiberglass cow in the middle of hot spot Wisconsin understands. Someone understood it for her. Someone took the time to make a mask for this cow, and put it on her, because it’s important. Because it’s essential. And oh so necessary.

There is hope for us all.

Be kind. Moo.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

 

.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

And yes, this week, I have one.

It’s hard not to have one in a week of some really nice pats on the back. Tomorrow night, I will walk onto the football field at the high school where I graduated way back in the dinosaur days of 1978. I’m being inducted into the school’s “Wall of Stars”. I grin goofily every time I say that. I didn’t feel like a star in high school. I don’t feel like a star now. But I am so honored to be a part of this.

Then, out of the blue, I saw myself featured in a tweet by the Authors Guild. I was their “member spotlight”. They quoted me as saying, “There is no better way to know what was going on with the human condition at any point in time than to read a book.” I do truly believe that. I can’t help but wonder what books will say about our 2020.

But that isn’t what I thought of when I began to consider what my Moment would be, particularly after not having a Moment at all last week. And really, it’s no surprise where this new Moment comes from.

As parents, when we raise kids, we want a lot for them and we hope and dream of what they will be. We want them to be smart, to excel in whatever they choose to do with their lives (and please let them choose something great!), we want them to be talented and to be liked and to just have the best that life can offer. We want them to have an easy time of it.

With the induction into the Wall of Stars, I was asked o record a two-minute video, where I had to offer, among other things, my advice for high schoolers today. I told them (I think – I haven’t viewed my own video) that like everyone else, I will tell them to follow their passion, whatever their passion might be, and to look for that right path. But then I told them to never ever equate “right path” with “easy path”. Because right does not equal easy. Right can be, and likely will be, very, very hard.

And yet we want our kids to have it easy. I know I do.

But you know, more than anything, I wanted my children to grow up to be good people. Caring. Compassionate. Empathetic. Thoughtful.

This week, my daughter Olivia had to do an assignment for her 3-D art class in college. She had to “deconstruct” two different items and form them together into an art piece. She sent me a photo of what she’d done. She plucked leaves from her bonsai tree and scattered them in a loose circle. And then she snipped apart pieces of green aluminum wire. I looked at the photo and thought, Well, okay…

And then she told me the name of the piece.

Mama’s Empty Nest.

And I burst into tears. Because she caught it. The swirl of the nest, green and rich with life. Clearly a place that had been active and involved and connected. Now…empty.

Olivia is my fourth and final child. She is the last one to leave the nest. And while joining the world at large, moving ahead to greater things, following her passion, but bracing for a curvy up and down path, just as I said to do in the video, she took the time to look over her shoulder and see me. And create exactly how I feel.

I’ve raised a good person.

Actually, I’ve raised four good people, because they have all, at different times of their lives, done something or said something that let me know that they actually see ME.

I’ve had 11 books published, and I hope to announce the 12^th soon. I’ve built a strong, compassionate business from nothing and made it a success. I’m about to be inducted into a “Wall of Stars”.

But my biggest accomplishment is putting four nice, compassionate, kind, empathetic people out into our world. And watching them move through 2020.

Oh, these kids.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Well, a confession.

I don’t have a Moment this week.

I have to be honest. I really struggled, trying to work my way through all of my memories of this week, and trying to come up with a single Moment that I could describe as happy. Memorably happy. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking and digging.

And I just couldn’t.

It seems like the whole world has dwindled down to a couple things that wrap themselves around our minds and souls and psyches and throats and infiltrates every aspect of our lives. COVID. The election. I am so sick of people who won’t wear masks and who complain about wearing masks. I am sick of people who still think this is a grand hoax, despite the month after month after month of numbers. 200,000 dead in our country alone. Think of the town you live in. Think of the population. And then compare it to the 200,000. I am sick of the hatred. The racism that I knew was a problem, but didn’t know was a PROBLEM and a way of life for so many people. I am sick of a young boy who was raised to hate people of color, who was raised warped and twisted, being lauded as a hero for killing an innocent person, and then killing more innocent people who were trying to take away his gun so he wouldn’t kill anyone else. I am sick of his mother getting a standing ovation when she attended an event a stone’s throw from my home when I think she should be imprisoned for child abuse. I am sick of the election. The debate about turned me, and so many others, inside out. And yet there were those who praised the president for acting like a bratty two-year old. And for those who instantly chime in with presidential two-year oldness, “Well, what about Biden?”, he held it together admirably well until his sons were attacked. And then he caved to the bullying, and he shouldn’t have. But when he said, “Just shut up, man,” I think he was speaking for me for every single day of this past almost four years.

The lies and the hate, the lies and the hate.

I am sick of not being able to see my granddaughter, except on Zoom. Some people refer to those who wear masks as “sheep”. Well, I’m tired of my granddaughter being treated as the lamb taken to slaughter as her school district sends little students, not the older ones, just the little ones, to face-to-face five-days-a-week school. My granddaughter’s life is worth more than that. And I miss her.

I’m tired of watching my daughter trying so hard to have a great college experience when the fear of COVID has her in classes with masks and plexiglass, or classes on a screen, and her down time is spent alone in her dorm room. She should be learning amazing things, taking part in passionate discussions that spill out of the classroom and go on into the middle of the night. She should be piling into her car to go to the movies with friends, go shopping at the mall, or just hang out on the quad and talk. Her college experience is being stolen from her, by a virus, yes, but also by people who refuse to do the simple things necessary to beat this thing. Her college experience is being stolen from her by sheer negligent ignorance.

So this week, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to bow out from writing a Moment Of Happiness. I am too sad and I am too angry and just too tired.

I am soothing myself by remembering that in 2017, when I did this every single day, creating the Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News blog in what I thought was the worst year of my life, I missed one day that I simply couldn’t do it. And I’ve found myself here again now. I am midway through my third year of writing This Week’s Moment every week and until now, I’ve not missed a single week. So one week out of so many maybe isn’t so bad. But it makes me sadder to know that I can’t do it this week. I would feel like I was lying. And unlike certain people in politics, certain people throughout our country, certain people we stand next to in the grocery store, the gas station, certain people we pass on the street, I don’t think dishonesty is the right thing to do.

One little thing. Last night, before she went to sleep, my daughter Olivia typed to me in a message on Facebook, “I’ll be okay, Mama.”

May we all be.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

“Kathie, you are such an inspiration to all of us who write!” 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Those words up there appeared on my Facebook page this week. And I can’t even begin to tell you what they mean to me. I hold writers in the highest regard of anyone on the planet, and to think that I am succeeding in lifting them up just makes me happy.

Happy. A word we don’t hear much these days.

But honestly, I consider advocating for writers to be a huge part of my job, both as a writer and a teacher. So hearing something like this does me a world of good.

So does finding a box nestled against my door after the sound of my doorbell rang throughout the condo. Was I expecting someone? Oh, yes, I was.

Book #11. A full-length poetry collection called No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See, released by Finishing Line Press this week. It’s my eleventh book, but my third book of poetry, and my first full-length collection. And there’s so much that’s special about it.

First, it’s book #11. That alone stuns me. My first book, a novel called The Home For Wayward Clocks, came out in 2011, the year I turned 51. I’d begun to wonder – and doubt – if I’d ever have a book published. After Clocks, I’ve had the incredible good fortune to have 10 other books come tumbling out. Enlarged Hearts, a short story collection, 2012. Learning To Tell (A Life)Time, a novel and the sequel to Clocks, 2013. Rise From The River, a novel, 2015. Oddities & Endings, a short story collection, 2016, along with True Light Falls In Many Forms, a poetry chapbook that same year. In Grace’s Time, a novel, 2017. Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, the first year of this blog, 2018. If You Tame Me, a novel, 2019, along with When You Finally Said No, a poetry chapbook, in that same year. And now, 2020, the full-length collection of poetry, No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See, which is how I truly feel. Book #12 is sitting at my publisher’s, awaiting its fate. Which is making me nervous.

Second, the cover. It was created from my photograph of 7-year old Olivia, from the first time she traveled to Oregon with me. She was meeting the Pacific Ocean, and she was exhilarated and entranced. “I’m dancing with the ocean, Mama! I’m dancing with the ocean!” And she was. It remains one of my favorite memories and one of my favorite photographs. Olivia’s never-to-be-repressed joy is on full display. That’s my girl.

And third, well, the story behind the poetry. Anyone who has known me for a fairly long time knows that if I was asked if I wrote poetry, I would say, “No!” Emphatically. Firmly.

I lied. I’ve always written poetry. I have a notebook from the fifth grade class where my amazing teacher, Mrs. Faticci, called me, publicly, in front of the entire class, a writer. In that notebook, along with the stories, are poems.

When I was a junior in high school, I met Duane Stein, my creative writing teacher. I’ve written about him often; he is still in my life. At a time when I most needed a confidence boost, when I most needed to know that my life was worth something, that I was worth something, there he was. He praised my writing over and over. And he told me that writing wasn’t only my gift, but my responsibility. He caused me to look at writing in a whole different way – it was something that I had to give.

Until we got to the poetry unit. I handed in poetry. He read it. And he said, “Well, you should stick with your fiction.”

I was crushed. These were the words coming from the man who believed in me. Who raved about my work, but gave me sold feedback and criticism and who I listened to so intensely, I swear I heard his thoughts before he spoke them.

Never ever underestimate the influence of a teacher.

So I shoved my poetry underground. I continued to write it, to read it, to love it, but I never showed it to anyone. I never admitted to writing it. As far as I was concerned, it didn’t exist.

And then the books started coming out. As they did, I saw a call for manuscripts wanting poetry on a certain theme. I knew I had a poem on that theme. So I cautiously got it out, dusted it off, and submitted it. It was accepted. Slowly, slowly, I submitted others. They were accepted.

Then the first chapbook.

And the second.

And now the full-length collection. No Matter Which Way You Look, There Is More To See. Indeed.

Now please know, I absolutely love my creative writing teacher from high school. It is because of him, because of his instilling this sense of responsibility in me, that it’s not enough to have a gift, you have to be committed to using the gift, that I’m out there with 11 books (hopefully 12 soon) and I’m the head of an international creative writing studio. Getting my words out. Lifting writers up.

It’s because of him that I never ever gave up. Not even when he said, “Well, you should stick with your fiction.” I hid for a while. But I didn’t give up. I kept writing. Even poetry.

He was, and is, my inspiration.

And now, I’m told I’m an inspiration too.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.