November Gratitudes - Part I

Since getting so caught up in "should I, shouldn't I" angst over maybe moving to Florida, my Attitude of Gratitude had a few dings in it. To polish it up a bit, for the rest of November my blog posts will be gratitude focused, beginning with this one.

Getting ready to type the story I wrote long hand on Friday.

Friday night my mom and I attended a writing group called "The Community Story." I think they started out with the intention of writing a story collaboratively, but it seems to have morphed over time into the group all writing from the same prompt. This was our second visit.

I was grateful, first and foremost, for being able to enjoy this activity with my mom. Writing is something we both love. I was grateful we could share something writing-related together.

The group meets at Factory Fuel, a coffee shop built on the site of a former commercial pottery. Our group actually meets inside one of the old cone-shaped kilns. Although the skills represented in the group are far from equal (members range from college professors to published writers down to amateurs, like myself), we sit in a circle around the tiny room, which creates the feeling of everyone being equal. I was grateful we could meet in an atmosphere that was both beautiful and conducive to creating. 

Although I suppose I could wrangle my laptop into the car and take it with  me, it is too large for somebody of my stature, whose feet are always dangling when seated, to manage using on my lap. I think I would be too afraid to drop it. What I didn't expect was how empowering writing long-hand would be, after so many years of rarely picking up a pencil. In some ways, I think the words flowed easier because I knew, before I put them down on the page, that they would not be easy to change. I was grateful for the sense of connection with my words that putting pen to paper creates.

Last, but not least, both times I've attended the group I wrote a complete flash fiction that only required minor tweaking after the fact. It is an important reminder that a little pressure and accountability is a good thing for the creative process. I was grateful that the writing group was not only fun, but productive. 

Civil War: Head vs. Heart

Did you ever have one of those moments when you are about ready to give up on something you'd be hoping for, when something surprising happens?

Have you ever had one of those moments, the ones where your heart and your head are telling you different things?

I've bumped up against a couple of those moments recently myself.

A relative in Florida has a condo he isn't living in at present. He wanted to rent it out, and asked me if I might be interested? My bank account having just been drained by the bed bug debacle and Big Brother's automotive issues, I didn't even think about it. I told him thanks, but no thanks.

That should have been the end of it, but after I hung up the phone I couldn't stop thinking about my decision, wondering if maybe I shouldn't dismiss the offer too quickly. No, moving now was never part of the plan, but plans can change, can't they?

The more I thought about it, the less crazy moving to Florida seemed. Long story short, I called him back and we talked through the details. For once in my life, the dollars and cents actually added up in my favor. At first I thought wow, this is a no brainer! But the more I thought it through, the more I realized, this isn't going to be an easy choice.

Big Brother is my heart. Do I stay here, with him?

While my head says this is a good idea, a great idea, even, my heart is saying it doesn't want to leave my son. My baby might be twenty-one years old, but he's still my baby. Being far away from him indefinitely isn't just upsetting, it actually feels wrong on the molecular level. And then there are Baby Brother and the Princesses to consider, too. How would my moving so far away affect them, after all the loss they've already been through?

Or should I choose palm trees, sunshine and financial stability?

All the things I love about Florida--the warm weather, the endless beaches, the more relaxed pace of life--all seem hollow and meaningless when I think about being there without Big Brother; Spending time with him is, truly, my definition of happiness. Yet when I try to envision my future if I stay, the picture isn't a pretty one. I can never afford to buy a home here, and rents will only continue to rise. Retiring isn't likely if I continue to be a New Jersey resident, not unless something big changes.

To only complicate the matter more, my spiritual beliefs have been nagging at me, too. How does moving so far away fit in with my desire to more deliberately live with an Attitude of Gratitude? Giving up everything and everyone I know in search of something more fiscally advantageous doesn't seem much like an act of gratitude, does it? But then again, is wasting an opportunity like this really any better?

The negative voices of my insecurities have made a point to weigh in, too, telling me that no matter what I choose, I'll probably just screw it all up anyway.

I know a decision needs to be made. I owe it to my job, to the relative who is holding his condo for me, and to my son and myself.

I'd love to hear what YOU think about this whole dilemma, so please take a moment to leave a comment with your opinion, or vote anonymously below.

What 'Doing it Right' Looks Like

This weekend one of my writerly friends held her first-ever book signing. It is an important milestone for any writer, but especially for an indie author who is doing it without the support of a publisher with deep pockets.

Seeing my friend achieving her goals is inspiring to someone like me, still firmly lodged in the 'aspiring' category. It got me thinking about which other writers make me feel the same way, which lead to the question, are there any common factors in their success that I (and you, dear reader) might learn from?

The answer is yes, and I would like to share what I think those factors are. But first, let me introduce you to the writers in question. They are the friend I just mentioned, Lacey Dearie, as well as Mysti Parker, and Shirley E. Watson (Clicking on their names will take you to their Amazon author pages).

"A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom."—Roald Dahl

These writers are a diverse bunch. All write in different genres, have different writing styles, and, I would imagine, different career goals. One is retired, the other two are raising young families. One of these authors resides in Europe. Of the two Americans, one is native-born, the other a naturalized citizen. What ties them together is I consider all three to fit my definition of what life as a successful indie author looks like. Namely, they all publish regularly, take their craft seriously, and all earn an income from their writing.

I should pause here to note, I have no knowledge or information as to the particulars of how much these writers earn from their work, nor is knowing how much they earn necessary for me to label them successful. Rather, for the purposes of this article I'm assuming success for an indie author is the same as for any other artist, where there is an upwards career arc over time as the artist's body of work grows, matures, and develops a following.

So is there any other commonality between these writers? Is there a pattern in their career paths that might point us to the root of their success? I believe there is.

"The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair" - Mary Heaton Vorse.

There is one important characteristic that these ladies share that seems very simple, but actually eludes quite a few people. It is why, in fact, so many writers never transition from 'aspiring' to 'published.' What is this mystery quality? It is simply this: discipline. These ladies write, if not daily, then close to it. For all of them, writing is as much of a priority as paying the mortgage, and as routine as doing laundry.

"A great deal of talent is lost to the world for want of a little courage." —Sidney Smith

In order to be a writer, one must write. Similarly, if one wishes to be an author, one must publish, which can't happen if one hasn't written. Sounds like it should be obvious, yes? Well, you might be surprised to find how many people spend copious amounts of time studying writing, or talking about about writing, but never actually write. It is an easy trap to fall into, and a convenient way to avoid the fear of failure that haunts so many writers.

This brings us to the next important quality these three ladies share, the courage to put their work out in the world. Believe me, this isn't easy. The reading public can be very critical, and very nasty. I know at least one of these authors, an excellent writer, has been attacked by trolls who consider it sport to bash indie authors just because they can. Did she give up? No. In fact, she made mincemeat out of them, and encouraged others to stand up to them as well. And then she kept right on writing, and publishing. That, my friends, is what courage looks like.

“If you have knowledge, let others light their candles with it.” –Winston Churchill

Last, but not least, the writers I've mentioned all do one other thing that I believe is a hallmark of success in the indie arena. All three give back to other writers. They don't view another author's success as a threat to their own, in fact, they welcome it. This is important, because the world of independent publishing can only measure its worth by the quality of the work being published, so it behooves all indie authors to help each other be the best they can be.

To this end, both Lacey and Mysti blog about writing and showcase other writers on their blogs. Mysti also mentors developing writers at Writers Village University.  Shirley focuses her mentoring efforts on immediate family, (yours truly included. Disclaimer: Shirley is my mom). She regularly bases characters in her stories on her grandchildren, much to their delight.  She has co-published a book of adventure stories with grandson, Zachary Watson Hall, while Granddaughters Allison and Stephanie are about to embark on their second NaNoWriMo in the Young Writers division, thanks to Grandma's influence.

“I can’t write without a reader. It’s precisely like a kiss—you can’t do it alone.”― John Cheever

There is one final, critical element in the success of any independent author, and it is you, dear reader. Yes, you. You have the power--a super-power some might even call it--to help advance the careers of the independent authors you enjoy reading. Whenever you write a review, share which indie authors you're reading on social media, or sign-up to follow an indie authors blog, you help them expand their circle of influence just a bit wider. So don't just think of yourself as a reader, consider yourself a patron of the arts, and make it your duty to help bring the best and the brightest in independent publishing to the attention of others.

You can start right now with a visit to these writers' Amazon pages, as well as their blogs and websites. I've included links throughout the text, but here they are again for your convenience.

Visit Lacey's blog, or buy her books on Amazon.*

Visit Mytsi's website, or buy her books on Amazon.*

Visit Shirley's blog, or buy her books on Amazon.*

*To learn what other e-book formats are available, please contact the authors directly through their websites.

Want to know how my writer's journey began? Read my inner narrator tells the tale.

The Dark Night of the Writer's Soul

In 2011 I decided to stop dreaming about being a writer, and start writing. It took about a year of blogging and a couple of NaNoWriMos under my belt before I felt comfortable thinking of myself as a writer, but I got there.

A big step forward was joining Writers Village University, where I took classes and joined critique groups. I was finally learning the mechanics of my chosen craft. Best of all, I was interacting with people who understood the journey I was on, because it was their journey, too.

Writing is full of ups and downs. There are days when the words flow through my fingers, onto the page, as if by magic. Other days, dynamite and a jackhammer aren't enough to get the job done. The solution to that problem is simple: keep going.

What isn't so simple is how to handle putting heart and soul into something that just won't come together, or even just fearing that it won't. I'm in that place with my current WIP right now. I'm at the end of draft number two, and it is already clear that a third draft will be needed.

The problem is I changed the plot substantially in draft two, deleting scenes that no longer fit and adding quite a few new ones. While the plot seems to work better (plotting is my downfall, always), now there are inconsistencies that need to be weeded out. I've got foreshadowing for things that are no longer slated to happen, sub plots that go nowhere, that sort of thing.

I've already spent a year on this one story, ripping it apart and re-writing it. The idea that I might spend another six months, still just trying to pull it together, is daunting. Beneath the fretting about technical challenges and how long it is all taking lies a deeper insecurity, the worry that, even after round three of edits, it still won't come together.

That is the worry that plagues us all, I think, that what we write won't be good enough. That we aren't good enough.

There is a very strong temptation at these moments to just quit, to give up, start over, write something new and leave this story behind. Sometimes that truly is the answer, I believe. But not this time. This time I need to keep going, to keep writing. I might need to put my manuscript away for a few weeks before I start draft number three, so I can come back to it with fresh eyes, but come back to it I will.

Honestly, sometimes I think of writing like I think about walking a large, eager dog. There are moments when I can't tell if I'm writing the story, or if the story is simply dragging me along, taking me where it wants to go. All I know for sure right now is as long as the story still wants to be told, I still want to be the one to tell it, even if I'm not sure which one of us is in control half the time.

The one thing I will not do, cannot allow myself to do, is to listen to that small, negative voice in the back of my head, the one that tells me I can't do it. Truly, I don't know yet if I can or if I can't. The only way to find out is to do it, to walk the path to the end to see where it winds up.

On the 'Right Way' to Write

I've read several articles lately on when and how to make time to write. The argument, of course, is does one need a routine, writing in the same place, at the same time every day, or should one strive to write wherever, whenever the opportunity arises? The other type of article I frequently see, especially now, with NaNoWriMo approaching in November, is should one outline or write free form? The debate on these questions is endless.

Even in my writing group, there seems to be an ever-oingoing discussion about the right way, or the best way, to write. It seems to me that what all the debating comes down to, really, is a sort of literary alchemy that we writers fall prey to. We get caught up in trying to set things up 'just right,' so we can be our best selves and produce our best work. The more articles I read and the more we discuss this topic the more convinced I become, there really is no single right way to do any of it.

As much as we might wish otherwise, there is no one right time, or one right place, that an aspiring writer can slot themselves into to automatically become productive. Although we can, and should, strive to learn all we can about the mechanics of writing, to improve our craft, and routine can undoubtedly help with that, there is no magic formula for success.

For me, what works best is peace and quiet. No television in the background, no radio on, no kids yelling and playing nearby. Just me and my morning coffee, preferably with a cat on my lap and a dog at my feet. First thing in the morning is my best writing time, when my brain is still only half awake and less likely to question what I'm asking it to do.

Although I often have good intentions about writing in the evenings, it doesn't always happen. I have too much work stuff on my mind, then there is the need to make dinner, walk the dog, do dishes, etc. I can, and sometimes do, write when the evening chores are done, but it isn't my preference and the words don't flow as easily. Not to mention, evening is my reading time and I hate to give that up.

When I was younger, I would write late at night, after my restaurant job (which I went to after my office job). I would sit up quite late, when my son was asleep, writing whatever came to mind, or just jotting down bits of dialogue I'd overheard in the restaurant. These days I'm too old and frankly, I get tired to early, for late night writing. But back then, I worked double shifts almost every day and was simply used to it. Late at night was the only time I had, and so I took advantage of it.

My point in sharing this is simply to illustrate how even what works for one person can change and evolve over time, and under different circumstances. As I previously mentioned, I do have my preferred routines, but I can only presume that as long as I continue to want to write, I will continue to find a way to do it, no matter what circumstances I find myself in. If there ever were anything close to a magic formula, I suspect simply writing, no matter what, might be it.

A good writing group can be worth more than any one routine or technique, in my opinion, because they keep you motivated and help hold you accountable to your goals. Read about mine here. 

My pocketful of dreams

My birthday present to myself this year was business cards.

I don't really need business cards, and it wasn't even about wanting business cards. It was more about making a promise to my future self not to give up on our mutual dreams.

In the month since the cards arrived I've only used six; I gave two out to real people, and four more went through the wash by accident. After the washing machine disaster I know I should keep them in my handbag, but I like reaching into my pocket and feeling them there, a tangible piece of my dreams.

Some might call this faking it till you make it, but I have a different name for it: motivation. I know that success isn't about the end result, it is about getting up every day and doing the work, even when it feels futile. And believe me, it feels futile pretty darned often sometimes.

So if you spot me on the street, feel free to ask me for my business card. I'll bet you dollars to donuts I'll have one in my pocket, ready and waiting.

Do you ever feel you left your dreams too late? I have. All in Good time tells how I got through it.

A letter to the Universe

Today I turn forty-seven and embark on a brand new year of life.

My happy birthday hug from Luna

I've been pondering what values, actions and ideas I should be cultivating this year. Out of that pondering came this list:

• Live in the moment. 
• Be grateful
• Be creative 
• Be kinder and more patient (with myself as well as others). 
• Less social media
• More walks
• Less talking
• More writing
• Less judging
• More listening

Today, I put this list out into to the Universe.

I am calling on God, or my own subconscious self, or whoever or whatever it is that needs to be put on notice that these are the things I want the forty-seven-year-old version of myself to be about, and to ask for help, for guidance, for strength and protection as I continue to splash along through the currents that flow beneath the surface in the river of life. 

Only a couple more scenes to go to complete my second draft

As I work on my novel today, fueled by strong coffee, kept company by my favorite feline/canine duo, I will be beginning the year as I intend to go on: present, creative, focused, and open to the magic of all the unexpected possibilities waiting to be discovered just over the horizon.

Big Magic: An Afternoon with Elizabeth Gilbert

The county where I live is celebrating its 300 year anniversary this year. Literally hundreds of events have been planned throughout the year to celebrate the occasion, one of which I attended yesterday, a talk given by county resident and best-selling author, Elizabeth Gilbert.

The topic of Ms. Gilbert's talk was "Big Magic." She spoke about her personal journey as a writer, and how often magic, in the literal sense, factored into it. She is a excellent speaker and it was a great talk. She spoke about ideas, and how they flit from person to person, waiting for someone open enough to let them in, and ready enough to manifest them into the world.

So much of what she said resonated with me. I, too, am a firm believer in magic. In fact, I have always secretly thought of prayer as being a great deal like casting a magic spell. Both prayers and spells are powerful words, infused with the hopes, dreams and intentions of the one uttering them with devotion, and involve calling out to a source of power and mystery outside of ourselves in order to create change. I don't see a difference, personally, but maybe that is just me.

Regardless, I do believe there is a magical element to creativity, one that all creative people know about and can relate to. We may call it different things, saying "I'm in the zone," or "the muse took me," or "I had a vision," to describe it, but we've all been there and know that whatever it is, when it strikes, the best thing we can do is roll with it.

Something else that Elizabeth Gilbert said was meaningful to me, and very liberating. She shared how she discovered she simply cannot write fiction when her life is in chaos. She needs her house to be in order to be able to produce fiction, yet during times of chaos she still relies on writing to get her through it, and has, in fact, turned that writing into two best-sellers, "Eat, Pray, Love" and "Committed."

I thought I was the only person who felt this way. In fact, I considered it to be a major flaw in my creative ability. It is true that I clung to writing like a drowning person clings to a life preserver during my time as a foster parent; It was the one thing that allowed me to keep a sense of my own identity as I was swallowed up whole by second-time-around parenthood. Yet, looking back on that time period, when things were mostly under control, I was prolific, writing a new flash fiction every week. But when things got wild and wooly, I reverted mostly to blogging, using the blog as much as a tool to manage my own feelings as to document our journey together.

Judging by his smile, Toby approves of my current reading material.

I'm sure there are many people out there who can create while the storms of life swirl about them, whose creative genius is fueled by the force of the gale. I just don't happen to be one of them. Fact is, I'm an introvert who craves peace and solitude, so living with a crowd of boisterous house guests who stick around for three years is not the ideal situation for fostering my creativity. And let me just say, these damned bedbugs and the chaos that accompanies them sure aren't helping any, either.

When I zoom out, to look at the bigger picture, I can't help but see the connection to my three year plan. My plan is centered around three things, achieving financial stability through home ownership, getting published, and finding balance. What I didn't see before, but which is crystal-clear now, is that achieving these things has one true goal, which is to put my house in order so my most authentic self, the part of me that feels that magic and creates more magic from it, can flourish.

My blog has been a journey of self-discovery ever since the beginning, as illustrated by this early post "Who am I?"

Got your head in the clouds? Now your novel can be there, too!

I've been so caught up in my housing angst I haven't posted about much else, so this post about a great tool for writers is long overdue.

The tool in question is called Yarny, an appropriate name for software designed for storytellers. You can find Yarny online at https://yarny.me.

The first thing that jumped out at me about Yarny was its clean and simple interface. As someone with a design background, this appealed to me.

The screen is divided into three panes. The main pane is the text editor, which is front and center. When you type in this pane, the other panes fade out until you need them for distraction-free writing. Your work is saved automatically as you write, so no need to worry about remembering to hit the save button.

The pane at the left shows a list of "snippets." Snippets are simply sections of text. They can be paragraphs, chapters, or scenes, whatever works for you.  The benefit of writing in snippets is they can be dragged and dropped into any order you like, or combined into groups, which makes re-arranging your text a breeze.

Screen shot from the Yarny website. Click to enlarge.

The pane to the right is for keeping all your non-story stuff organized. You can use it for jotting down notes or for organizing research. It is conveniently divided into three sections - People, Places and Things, which makes it easy to find what you're looking for later. Like the pane to the left, material here can be grouped or re-ordered by dragging and dropping.

Down at the bottom of the screen there are buttons you can use to track versions of your work, or add keywords to make your text searchable.

Best of all, your work is automatically saved to the cloud, making it easy to access from anywhere with an internet connection. With Yarny it is easy to jot down a few ideas in the morning at home while you have your coffee, then work them into a story on your lunch break at work. Later, you can edit your work into a second draft on your tablet while watching the kids play at the park after dinner.  

All this, and it is free, too! There is supposedly a more feature-rich paid version available ($4 per month), but the paid features seemed to mostly be cosmetic (ability to pick a theme, typewriter sounds, etc.). I'm not sure that any of those things is worth $4 a month to me, at least not now while I'm saving for a house.

There were a couple of things about Yarny that didn't work so well for me. I'm a Planner, so I utilize the cork board and outlining features in Scrivener a lot. Yarny (at the last the free version I'm using) doesn't seem to have equivalent features. If you're more of a Pantser, this might not matter to you. Another drawback, albeit a minor one, is there is no formatting toolbar in the free version.

Overall, I found much more to like than not here. I still use Scrivener as my main tool of choice, but one of my major issues with Scrivener is the lack of a cloud-based version. If Yarny ever comes out with a tool similar to the Scrivener cork board, I'll be more than happy to migrate to Yarny permanently.

Give Yarny a try, it just might be the portable easy-to-use tool you've been looking for.

Salutations from The Beach

I finally made it here, to the land of palm trees and turquoise waters. I managed to forget my allergy pills and my phone charger, but it didn't matter; I was here at last.

Jupiter Inlet

The first day I was here I was so excited, I tried to do too many things at once and got too much sun. The next day was mostly about recovering from aforementioned overdoing.

Not having a schedule or anyone to be responsible for was a bit disorienting at first. I missed Big Brother, the kids, the animals. Now, halfway through the week, I have hit my stride. I spent a wonderful morning at Juno Beach yesterday, reading Journeys Under the Moon: Writing and the Hero's Quest. With no distractions and no time limits I was able to think through some of the concepts in the book in relation to my novel in progress, which sparked some ideas about how to make my story better.

The community garden at El Sol

Last night I spent time with Big Brother's cousins. They are such a nice family, and so open and welcoming to me, even after so many years of not having much contact. Playing with my little neices made me really miss the princesses and baby brother. I am going to start saving up to bring them here next summer, I would love to be able to share this with them.

The beach at Jupiter Inlet

Although I haven't been here long, and will be going home soon, I feel all the disjointed peices of myself coming back together. I am finding a new equilibrium here that got lost along the way. As I sit here on the lanai typing this, I am listening to the birds chirping and watching the sun come out over the palm trees, and it occurrs to me that I am more relaxed and at peace than I can remember being in years.

I know these positive changes are because of having time and space to spend on myself, not necessarily where I am spending it, but I feel increasingly certain that whatever my next chapter in life holds, it will be written here. I had been secretly afraid that maybe my plans to buy a home here had been based more on escapism than I wanted to believe. I worried that actually being here would burst the bubble. Instead, being here has put that fear to rest. There is just something about being able to walk on the beach or swim in the waves that I find soothing to the soul and I know I want more of that in my life. Exactly how or when I will be able to make that happen remains to be seen, I have accepted that it probably won't be this year after all. But this trip has helped reaffirm my goals, and that feels good.

Juno Beach

I will end this post by sending you greetings and good vibes from the beach, a Slow Lane I am happy to be in.

Write On Target

Last night my mom mentioned that my aunt asked how my writing was coming along. I decided to post the answer here, so she could see it. Aunt Kathy, this post is for you. :)

My writing is going quite well, if I do say so myself. Although I can't always write daily, I do make time to write weekly. I try to post one flash fiction piece per week in the flash fiction group I belong to. I also try to go in to work a little early, or stay a little late, to work on my novel whenever I can. How often I can do that varies depending on what else I have going on. I prefer to write on the work computer because my net book at home is too unreliable. It has a tendency to suddenly delete large blocks of text, or open and close windows whenever it feels like it. Not to mention, at work nobody is screaming or fighting over toys. Not usually, anyway.

I don't expect to be done with my novel anytime soon. In fact, I think I will probably still be working on it come National Novel Writing Month in November.

When I started the novel I planned it out, chapter by chapter. I flew through NaNo 2013 and had a complete manuscript by the end of it. It was good, but not great. The thing is, I want it to be great. Or at least have the potential to be great.

When I think about the authors who inspire me the most several come to mind. Diana Wynn Jones is at the top of my list. She is a children's author, but her plots and story lines are both incredibly complex and incredibly fluid. Carlos Ruiz Azafon is another writer I greatly admire. He writes beautiful prose, full of color and light, laced with humor, despite his plots being dark and menacing. Kate Atkinson is another favorite. I was blown away by her novel Life after Life, which followed a single character and her family through, literally, lifetime after lifetime during the second world war. Her characters leap off the page and her plots are incredibly complex with intertwined story lines following impressive numbers of characters.

I've been studying what I like about these author's, how they do what they do, which rules they break and why, and how it works for them when they do.  My writing style is not at all like theirs, and I certainly don't see myself having anywhere near their talent, but analyzing novels I especially like helps me understand how I want to shape my own stories.

While my favorite reading material is magic realism, or science fiction (time travel is a favorite topic), it is not what I write myself. I did try, early on, but I've found I can't seem to do it justice. I suspect part of the reason I like it so much is because I admire that the author can do things I cannot. My own writing best writing is almost always about the complexities of family life. Not too long ago I pulled out my high school creative writing journal and realized that, even back then, I seemed to know that this was my thing.

After a great deal of genre hopping, trying to find where I fit, I finally realized it didn't matter what my topic was. I could tell a story about anything, as long as it featured some sort of complex family relationship. The psychology of how families bond, what ties them together, and pushes them apart, seems to be where the stories lie for me.

The novel I'm working on now features foster care, which has consumed my life for the past two years. The foster care system didn't treat my kids or my family all that well. We had a rough and tumble experience, to say the least. Blogging about it helped me process it, but there was always more I couldn't say without violating confidentiality. Through creative writing about fictional characters, I am able to raise some of the issues that I came up against and explore them in more depth. If I can shed some light on what I perceive to be a broken system that does little to serve the interests of kids along the way, more's the better.

My current protagonist and I are still getting to know one another, so, it may be awhile longer before my novel is ready to share with others outside my writing group. Hopefully you will all hang in there with me, but to break the waiting up a bit, here is a short excerpt:

I had a headache already when I got off the bus after school. The neighbor mowing his lawn and the kids screaming on the sidewalk didn’t help it any. As the bus chugged away in a cloud of diesel fumes, the awful stench was like a hand tightening around my throat. As I crossed the street I felt like I might need to puke.

I dodged a passel of kids on bikes and made my way across the lawn and up the short flight of concrete steps to the front door of our split level colonial. Mom ambushed me as soon as I walked in. “How was your day, honey?” As usual, she was all cheery and perky. Toby, our elderly Eskimo Spitz, wagged his tail and laughed up at me from behind mom’s legs.

“It was a barrel of laughs as usual, Mom.” I dropped down on one knee to fondle Toby’s ears and let him lick my chin. I buried my face in his thick white fur. “Hi Toby. Did you miss me, buddy?”

“Would you like a snack, honey?” Mom’s sing-song voice sliced into my throbbing head as I stood up. The pain made me want to punch her in the mouth just to get her to stop talking. I didn’t, of course. I just shook my head, dropped my backpack by the door, and sidled around her. I breathed a sigh of relief as the phone ringing in the kitchen stopped her from following me.

Toby trailed after me down the hallway, the click of his toenails on the parquet floor and his wheezy breath telling me he was struggling to keep up. I slowed down to accommodate his pace as we made our way past the long row of my framed school pictures to the sanctuary of my room. Quietly, I closed the door, grateful to finally have some peace. I hoped that whoever was on the phone would keep mom busy for awhile.

To my Aunt Kathy, and all of you who support my writing and follow my journey here on the blog, thank you. It means more than you know to have your support.

Should a writer only blog about writing? My answer to the question.

If I'm a writer, why don't I just stick to blogging about writing? Why bother with all this 'three year plan' stuff?

That is the question I recently asked myself. I wasn't asking out of any sense of self-doubt, it was more a case of probing to be sure the plan I committed to almost a year ago still fit. As you know, if you follow my blog, I'm lukewarm about blogging to begin with. I don't feel I'm that good at it, and I often wonder if anyone really wants to hear what I have to say.

I began blogging as a way to ease back into writing regularly again. I didn't know, at the time, what I wanted to write about, only that it was something I needed to do. I wrote essays and articles about all sorts of things as I tried to figure out where I belonged, both in the world and as a writer. Then, during my time as a foster parent, the blog became a vehicle for both documenting our journey and processing my own feelings.

The blog was all over the place, to say the least.

One of the fringe benefits of living in the limbo of foster care for so long was it made me really think about what was really important to me in life. I had to think about what I could let go, and what I would never let go of. One thing was clear - writing needed to be front and center in my life, no matter what.

It was also abundantly clear to me, after two years of wrangling small children, that I wasn't as young as I thought I was. All that time I thought I still had to make things happen in my own life 'someday'? It was just a myth. The half-century mark was staring me down on the horizon. Before I got there, I needed to come up with a plan to pursue my dreams and give myself some fiscal stability.

I'm not the only middle aged aspiring writer out there. I'm also not the only one struggling to write around raising a family, or grappling with the financial quandary that people of mid-life and limited means so often find ourselves in.  It occurred to me that, just maybe, this blog might help others to sort themselves out, too. And so, I keep plugging away, in the hope that something I put out there might serve some purpose to others as well as myself.

As for the three year plan itself, the goals I set for myself are pretty big and I didn't give myself a whole lot of time to achieve them, but after a year of ups and downs, I still think I can do it. In fact, I know I can do it and I know it because I've been working my plan and seeing results. Some areas of the plan have been easier to follow than others, but in all areas I feel like I've made progress. It may not have been the progress I anticipated, but part of any strategic plan is looking back at what you thought you could do compared to what you actually did, and learning from it. I may have to make some changes to my strategies, but ultimately, if I have a realistic plan I know I'll get there.

Come June, I'll revise my plan based on what I learned during year one and I'm sure I'll be blogging about it. As I make more progress towards my writing goals, I expect I'll be blogging about that, too. In fact, I've been working steadily on the manuscript I started during NaNoWriMo. It is starting to shape up and I hope soon to begin sharing some excerpts from it here on the blog.

So there you have it, my explanation of why I don't just blog about writing. Yes, writing is the central theme in my personal narrative these days, but life is a journey and to get where you want to go, wherever that might be, sometimes you have to hit a few potholes and make some hard choices. In the end, that is what this blog is really about, how to hold onto your dreams and make them reality, no matter what life throws at  you along the way.

My Inner Narrator Tells the Tale

One of my earliest memories is of pre-school, riding a very heavy tricycle around the perimeter of the playground, while narrating the experience in my head. "Now I push the pedals, now I hold on tight, now I go, go, go!"

The narrator in the back of my head was always there, and still is. I may not have known, at age three, what a writer was, much less that I wanted to grow-up to be one, but on some level I always knew that my life was a story and I was the protagonist.

In the small country grammar school I attended half the kids came from farming families. Many were related to each other in some way, if not by blood then by marriage, while the rest of us were recent transplants from "the city." I was a young kindergartener, small for my age and painfully shy. I was an equal opportunity victim, an ideal target for bullying by both the farm kids and the kids from the new housing developments. The sense of being an outsider only heightened my feeling of being a narrator, watching the world from the outside and commenting on it in a secrete inner monologue.

It is no wonder, then, that reading and writing became my salvation. While other kids dreaded the book report, it was my homework of choice. Uninterrupted silent reading on Friday was sure to elicit a groan from most of the class, but was my favorite lesson of the week.

One of my best memories of being a small child is my mom reading to us, my sister snuggled on one side of her, I on the other. As I grew up I lived in books, literally. During summer vacation my mom took us to the county library every other week. I checked out fourteen books at a time, the maximum allowed by the children's librarian, and read every one. Usually I was out of books again well before the next library run.

My mom is herself an avid reader and she passed that on to my sister and I. She, in turn, acquired her love of reading from her own mother. My grandparents bookcase introduced me to Dickens, Shakespeare, D.H. Lawrence and Agatha Christie, among others; Paperbacks were a favorite haul during my grandparents weekend garage sale forays and were stashed in every nook and cranny in the room I shared with my siblings when we visited.

At home my parents bookcases were filled with an intriguing assortment of how-to books. How to organic garden, how to live off the land (it was the 70's, after all), how to repair bicycles, how to sell anything and everything. The message was clear: If you needed to know how to do a thing, the answer lay in books.

Today my own bookcase is a similarly eclectic mix. As I grew up and became a wife and mother I developed a love for cookbooks. I have many, most of them inscribed "To me, from myself, just because I can." Gladys Taber and Zarela Martinez are two of my favorite cookbook authors, both of whom were/are not only stupendous cooks, but wonderful story tellers whose medium of choice just happened to be food.

One day I hope to see a book with my own name on the spine sitting on the shelf. It is a goal I both cherish and fear. I siddled up to it for years, guarding myself against the possibility of failure by not taking the risk to begin with. At forty-six I'm finally old enough, and secure enough in myself, to realize that the only true failure is in not trying.

My inner narrator is still hard at work, this time telling the story of an aspiring author . . . "She sits down at the computer and starts to type . . . "

The Write Stuff

When I developed my three year goals I knew reaching them was going to involve some ups and downs. At the moment the financial side is mostly all downs, but at least the writing side is on the upswing.

The primary reason I feel so optimistic about my writing these days is due to one thing: Writers Village University. After six months of active membership I see measurable improvement in my writing. My sentences are tighter and I'm getting better at "showing" instead of "telling." I'm no longer intimidated at the idea of producing a 500-1,000 word flash fiction piece week after week.

What makes Writers Village University such a great resource for writers is the exposure to other writers. Yes, there are literally hundreds of courses to choose from to hone your technique--all of them excellent--but for me it is the feedback from other writers that is truly invaluable. Criticism at WVU is not just encouraged, it is required, but with the caveat that feedback must be constructive, not destructive. In other words, no tearing others down to build oneself up is permitted. Through receiving criticism of my own work I am learning to read with a more critical eye myself.

WVU members are a varied lot. I've met writers from all over the US, as well as other countries, of all ages and occupations, yet every single one of them "gets it." We all know the thrill of being "in the zone," that moment when the writing is flowing well, time is suspended, and the rest of the world recedes into the background. Conversely, we all know the hellish feeling of struggling with a piece that just won't work, or the frustration of a character that just lies there on the page, flat and lifeless. We all "get it" because we're all living it, every day, as we pursue our mutual quest to follow our writerly bliss wherever it may lead.

I still have a lot to learn, but I feel confident I'm headed in the "write" direction, thanks to Writers Village University and F2K.

Halfway There . . .

Believe it or not, November is halfway over. This means NaNoWriMo is halfway over, too. 

Here is an excerpt from my NaNo Novel:

Rosita went about her business as if nothing had changed. She went to work, wired money to her sister once a week, helped her aunt with the housework in the apartment. She did her best to ignore the child growing inside her. She didn’t think of it as her child. If she thought of it at all, which she tried not to do, she thought of it as “their” child, as in the child of the men who raped her.

When she discovered she was pregnant her first instinct was to confess everything to Rodrigo, to throw herself on his mercy and hope he might still love her somehow. Yet how could she expect Rodrigo to play father to the child of her rapist? No, it was not possible. The more she thought about it, the more clear it became; She must never tell him, much less try to convince him to accept a child who would be a constant reminder of other men having her. She loved Rodrigo too much to ask that of him. Better she should let him go, let him find a new girlfriend, one who was less damaged. One who was not carrying another man's child.

Although it broke her heart, she stopped returning Rodrigo’s phone calls. She knew she should make up an excuse, try to let him down easy, but she didn’t think she could bear to hear his voice. If she did, she might lose her resolve. When his letters came she sent them back unopened, but so far he hadn’t given up writing them. Yet another one was waiting for her when she came home from work.

“Here is another letter from your novio, Rosita.” Filomena handed her a fat envelop, no doubt filled with page after page of Rodrigo’s angst at her lack of response.

“Oh. Thank you, Tia.” Rosita said politely without revealing her dismay. She took the envelope and tucked it into her coat pocket. She would write “return to sender” on it and drop it in the mail box tomorrow, on her way to the bus stop. She rubbed the persistent ache in her lower back. How many more letters would Rodrigo write before he finally gave up? Each envelope, with his familiar handwriting on it, was like another dagger thrust into her heart.

“Rosita.” Her aunt called her back as she took her jacket off and turned to leave the room. Her uncle would be home soon. Rather that sit in the living room watching TV while her Uncle studiously ignored her, she usually spent her evenings in the bed room she shared with Ovid and baby Lucia.

“Si, Tia?” Rosita turned to find her aunt looking at her intently with lowered brows.

“Come here, child.”

Rosita obediently stepped closer to her aunt, even as her heart sank in dismay at the look of understanding dawning in Filomena’s eyes.

“Are you with child, Rosita?” Her aunt’s tone was incredulous, but her eyes held only certainty.

“Si, Tia.” Rosita whispered. She cast her gaze downwards, unable to meet her aunt’s frank eyes. “I’m so sorry, Tia. I didn’t mean to bring another burden into your household.”

“Rosita!”Her aunt’s tone turned to one of reproach. “Look at me, Rosita.” Her aunt grabbed her by the upper arms and shook her lightly. “A child is never a burden, only a blessing. Perhaps your pregnancy is unplanned, but a child is always a gift from God. Do you understand me?”

“Oh, Tia! Not this time. This child is not a gift, it is a curse.” Her hands flew to cover her face as she broke down in tears, painful sobs ripping themselves from her throat. Haltingly, choked by tears, Rosita told her aunt what had happened to her in the dessert. When she looked up, she expected her aunt to be as shocked and appalled as she herself was.

“Ay, nina. The things that happen to us immigrants, no?” Her aunt’s face was filled with pity, and, Rosita realized with a shock, understanding. Filomena threw her arm around Rosita’s shoulders and guided her to the sofa, where she sat down next to her. “Crossing is never easy for us women, never. I crossed with baby Ovid in my arms, can you imagine? In that terrible heat, with almost no water, I somehow managed to keep him alive. There was another mother in my party, she was not so lucky. Her toddler died sometime during the second night. She carried her body the rest of the way, over two more days, for fear the coyotes would take the child from her and leave the body in the dessert for the animals to eat.” Filomena shuddered, remembering the horror.

“I wanted to help Abel, Tia.” Rosita’s voice was hoarse from sobbing. “I tried, I truly did. But I . . after . . . I just couldn’t. I wanted to explain to Tio Hector, but how could I tell him that? I was too ashamed. He already hates me, what will he say now, when he learns I’m pregnant?”

“Hush, Rosita! Your Tio doesn’t hate you!” Filomena’s voice was hard with reproach. “He’s a good man, your uncle. He is grieving for his brother, yes, but it has nothing to do with you. He was the oldest son, he was supposed to protect the younger siblings. First your father was killed, now Abel . . . It is only natural he should feel as he does. But none of it, Rosita, none of it is your fault. And he doesn’t hate you. Now now, not ever. Please, don’t let me hear you say such a thing ever again.”

Filomena wiped tears from her own eyes with the hem of her blouse. “You see, now you’ve got me crying, too, loca!” She laughed shakily. “Listen, you just let me handle your Tio. This baby is a blessing, you’ll see. You must love it, Rosita, because it is not responsible for what happened and neither are you. You are its mother, it needs you, that is all that is important now.”

“I will try, Tia. I promise.”

Rosita wrapped her arms around her growing midsection in a hug as a wave of protective instinct washed over her. Her aunt was right, the baby growing inside her had done no wrong. With a last shuddering sigh, she stood up, hung up her coat and followed the sound of TV cartoons to the bedroom, where Ovid and Lucia were waiting for her.

“Prima! Look at me drive my truck! Look!” Ovid made engine sounds with his lips and pushed the truck across the rug as Rosita scooped chubby Lucia out of the crib. She buried her face in the baby’s sweet smelling neck as she watched Ovid play.

Yes, she would love her baby. It was her baby, no matter who its father was. She would hold it as she held Lucia, watch it play as she watched Ovid. Guide and advise it, as her Tia Filomena tried to do for her, as her own mother had once done.

I will be there for you always, bebe. Please forgive me for thinking I didn’t want you. I do, I do, I do want you! She hid her face in Lucia’s silky tuft of hair as hot tears slid down her face anew.

Love it? Hate it? Have suggestions or criticism to share? Let me know in the comments below.

Inching Forward

I'm having a hard time reconciling myself to the fact that the holiday season has officially begun. Halloween is behind us, Thanksgiving is looming on the horizon and Christmas music reverberates through every store I enter, yet somehow my brain keeps expecting it to be summer.

Today I realized that I posted my three year plan six months ago already. SIX MONTHS! Where has that time gone? Have I made any progress at all on my plan? I felt very unprepared for this check-in, but when I went back to my plan to look at what I've done I was actually pleasantly surprised at what I found:

Writing
I have NOT improved my blogging skills. If anything, I think I've back-slid. I never got around to creating an editorial calendar, either, which probably accounts for how random and infrequent my blog posts are. Clearly, this is something I need to work on.

On the other hand, I do write daily, I've joined a writing group and I have taken several writing classes. I have even created a solid outline for my novel already. In fact, I am working on a fist draft of it right now for NaNoWriMo. So far it is going well. I have about 25,000 words written already (disclaimer: a good 4K of my word count consists of chapter sketches and notes that don't count towards my final word count).

Finance
If you remember my last update, this was the area where I took the biggest hit. I was really struggling, having wiped out my savings after a series of unfortunate and unpredicted incidents.

Today I am able to say that I have built my savings up again, but really only because I finally got my taxes back. Saving continues to be a challenge and, since I haven't found a part time job yet, I expect it to continue to be challenging until I do.

To the good, getting my taxes back means I can take the next big step on the road to rebuilding my credit. I have taken out a secured credit card. I will begin using it to make routine, planned purchases which I will pay off immediately, things like groceries, the utility bills and the like.

Self-Care
The self-care area has been challenging, too.

I started out doing great. If you recall, I bought a set of pedals for under my desk and I pedaled all day long. I lost about thirteen pounds this way. Unfortunately, I pedaled so much I broke the machine. I've gained all the weight back, sadly, but I have a new set of pedals on order and intend to pedal my way to victory once again.

I suppose you can say the moral to my six month story so far is don't give up. Things will happen. It will be hard. Keep going anyway. 

Uphill Battle

As I write this post I am already late. I'm supposed to be getting ready for church right now, before the rush on the bathroom starts. Instead, here I am.

It is not lost on me that this situation pretty well sums up how my life is going these days. I should be doing "X," but instead, I'm doing "Y." At the moment "Y" is something that is completely under my control - I could decide not to write a blog post at this exact moment and go take a shower instead. But lately, it seems most of the "Ys" cropping up are things I can't do a darned thing about: Financial disasters, unexpected illnesses, government shut downs, other people not following through, etc.

Logically, I know this is how life is, there are upswings and downswings. To succeed we have to learn to make the most of the ups and ride out the downs. I'm trying to take my own advice by focusing on the things that I can control right now, one of which is my writing. I've thrown myself into preparation for National Novel Writing Month full force. For my third go-round with NaNo I'm determined to not just produce 50,000 words for their own sake, I want to dig a little deeper and challenge myself in new ways.

My novel idea has been percolating in the back of my mind for a full year. It is the story I wanted to tell last year, but veered away from last minute. At the time, the story hit too close to home. It is about a teenaged girl adopted from foster care as a young child who has a random encounter with a bio relative that challenges her sense of her own identity.  I started making notes, but soon realized I needed some time and distance from doing foster care before I could write about it. We didn't know what the ending of our own story would be then, it was all just too personal, too real.

Now, looking back, giving the idea a year to percolate was a good thing. When I sat down in September to begin blocking out the story I was amazed at how easily it flowed; my subconscious had been busy all that time. I blocked out each chapter using the cork board in Scrivener, doing a detailed synopsis for each one. I also used Scapple, a new Literature and Latte product, to brainstorm my way through some of the rough spots. Now, when November first comes, I can devote myself entirely to writing without having to stop and think "Hmm. What comes next?"

I am more prepared than I have ever been before and it feels good. Of course, that being said, I still find that writing with an outline is more like an archeological dig than building something from a blue print. My map shows me where to start digging, but what I uncover has a shape and direction of its own that is gradually revealed only through the act of writing.

The sound of doors slamming and children arguing upstairs tells me it is now or never where the bathroom is concerned, so I'll end this post here.  Hopefully, the next time I post the downturn will have become an upswing once again. Until then, I'll just keep on coasting here in the Slow Lane.

All in Good Time

While I always wrote for my own enjoyment, writing didn't become a priority in my life until I was well into my forties.  I started blogging at forty three, did my first NaNoWriMo at forty four, and became a newly minted Writers Village University member at forty five. Although slowly advancing towards my goal, I still struggled to find my "voice."

I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe I left it all too late.

Then, on a hot, sunshiny July afternoon, I had a revelation while out doing doing errands on my lunch break. Since I very rarely get out on my own, without the kids, I drove through town seeing it as if it were an old friend I hadn't run into in awhile. I took my time, enjoyed the scenery, checked out what was new. Everywhere I looked reminded me of some incident, misadventure or memory.

Over here is where the angry pink haired lady with all the dogs lived, and look, there goes the one-armed oven repair man who fixed my stove! 

After about the fifth "Oh gee, remember when" moment, the light bulb finally went on: My bi-cultural, stranger-than-fiction life is the stuff that stories are made of, literally.  I realized I am not a writer in spite of  the other things I did over the past twenty years, I am a writer because of them. These experiences will color my plots, brings realism to my settings and breathe life into my characters.

I still have a lot to learn about the craft of fiction writing, but I don't worry anymore that I left it too late. In fact, I think I might be right on time.

Re-decorating in the Slow Lane

Over the past month or so I've been focusing my bloggy activity on giving the blog a serious make-over. I think it is starting to finally come together, but what I think about it isn't all that important. The feeback that really matters is yours.

Whether you've been with me for awhile now, or are a first time visitor, I'd like to know what you think about the following:

Content:
Is the content worth your time? Are posts too long, too short, too frequent or not frequent enough? Is it clear to you what the focus of the blog is, or do I need to put a finer point on it?

Design:
How about the color scheme and layout? Are they working for you? If not, what would make the look and feel more appealing? Are the navigational tools easy to find and use?

Thanks in advance for your help making a ride through the Slow Lane a trip worth taking.

Flash Fiction: The Visit

A couple of weeks ago I signed up for F2k, a six week writing course offered by Writers Village University. I'm enjoying the course so much I decided to also join a flash fiction group launched on the WVU forums by a fellow F2K participant. I've never tried flash fiction before, but so far I'm having fun with it.

Below is my first flash fiction attempt. The feedback from the group indicated that maybe this would be better fleshed out as a longer short story. Your feedback is welcome, too, so please feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.

"The Visit"

 
“Bunk 34B! You got visitors!”

Marisol sat up in her bunk. Was she being called to the visitation room? No, not yet. She was 34A. 34B was Zwena, the Ghanian woman whose bunk was on the opposite wall of the dormitory from hers. Zwena’s smile as she hurried off to the visiting room was irrepressible. “You’ll be next!” She called over her shoulder to Marisol as she went.

Everyone in the dorm knew, today was the day Marisol’s babies were coming. Today, finally, she would hold them in her arms. Thinking about hugging her children made Marisol’s arms physically ache, she longed so to hold them close.

To keep her trembling hands busy Marisol reached into the battered metal locker next to her bunk and pulled out the folder in which she kept the letters and artwork her children sent to her. The picture on top was nothing more than a colorful blue and green scribble, but she saw a masterpiece. Little Beto made it. She smiled, imagining his chubby three year old fingers gripping the fat crayons. When they took her he was not quite two. Her baby, her Betito, was growing up without her. Would he even remember her now?

Marisol swept the back of her hand across her eyes to wipe away the tears that were blurring Beto’s lovely picture. The need to hold her baby again was so strong she was almost sick with it. Why weren’t they calling her? When would they call bunk 34A? What if they didn’t come? Had the plan changed? The caseworker was never good about informing her of what was happening. What would she do if they didn’t come? What if . . ? No! She stopped her thoughts from going any further. They would come, they would! They had to. She could go at any time now, so they had to come today. If they didn’t . . .

She knew she mustn’t think of it, but the image of Reina’s tearful departure the night before filled her mind, unbidden. Reina had hoped and prayed that perhaps there would be a delay so she, too, could see her children one last time. Yet at 6:00 p.m. they had called Reina’s name with the others. She was given a mere fifteen minutes to say her goodbyes and collect her few things before they came for her.

Marisol ground her knuckles into her eyes, her resolve caving momentarily as all the fear she usually kept at bay came rushing in. She had been here too long, much too long. The last time they spoke the caseworker made it clear, if they sent her back she would lose her children permanently. Her only consolation was at least the foster family was willing to adopt. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing her babies, but to have her rights terminated and the children lost to foster care, bounced from home to home, maybe separated, would be like a living death. At least these people were kind, nice. They had written her a letter, told her how much they loved Betito, Ariana and Serena. Her babies, her children that would soon be theirs.

“Bunk 34A! You have visitors.” The loud speaker crackled to life, causing Marisol’s heart to leap with bittersweet joy. She wiped away the last traces of her tears on the hem of uniform shirt, put away the cherished folder of mementos and ran to the doorway where an agent was waiting to escort her.

“34A?” The agent glanced at Marisol’s ID bracelet without looking her in the face.

“Yes!” Marisol replied brightly, prepared to smile at the woman should she look up, but the agent merely turned and began walking, her every loose-limbed step conveying her utter indifference to her charges. Marisol wanted to push past the woman, run the rest of the way to the visiting room, but instead she walked docilely down the putty colored corridors behind the agent.

As they neared the visiting room, which was really just the gymnasium, filled up with plastic lawn chairs to accommodate the visitors, Marisol could hear the hum of chatter as eager detainees traded news with the loved ones who had come to see them before they were deported. Marisol quivered in shivery anticipation. Her babies were only steps away now.

Instead of continuing down the hallway to the gymnasium, the agent stopped abruptly. She fished a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door to a smaller room. “Inside.” Was all she said.

Marisol closed her eyes and took a deep breath, holding back tears of anguish through sheer force of will. They had lied to her. There was no visitor. She was being sent somewhere else, she knew it. She would be shipped off to yet another facility in yet another state. All this time, all the work her attorney had done to get her transfered to a detention camp closer to her children, and now she wouldn’t even see them.

Teary eyed, Marisol squared her shoulders, head held high despite the pain of betrayal. They might wish to look through her, to ignore her humanity, but she would make them see her. She would face them with all that remained to her, her dignity. Marisol pushed the door wider and stepped into the room.

There were no agents waiting with shackles and manacles, ready to put her on a plane to who knew where. Instead her shaggy haired young lawyer grinned at her from the other side of the table as he gestured to her to sit.

“Marisol” He said, his grin widening as he took a document from his briefcase and handed it to her. “We won the motion. The judge canceled your deportation this morning, this is a copy of her order. You’re going home to your kids!”