To get from point A to point B...

It's a very satisfying thing to find someone who could (and initially does) prove to be a valuable resource.

I take research very seriously. It's important to me that I get the facts straight, that I get pertinent information clear in my head. Fact checking is a huge part of my research. Yes, I'm a writer, and yes, I can, and do, make shit up, but when it comes to the law, or police work, or medical situations/terminology, I like to ensure that I know what I'm talking about. To that end, I've met with several professionals over the years who have helped me enormously in this regard.

Today, I met with a law professor, who specializes in a field that pertains with startling immediacy to one of my characters. I couldn't have asked for a better contact, and she was the one who contacted me. Over lunch, she asked very precise questions; within half an hour she had warmed to my character, and started addressing her, and her situation, in very realistic terms. Her questions startled me with their astuteness, but didn't stump me: Is she like this? Has this happened? What is her motivation? Why do this, and not this? Is she violent, or merely driven? Are you envisioning a court case, or will you breeze past that? She was excellent.

I spent two hours with her, and could have spent more, but the amount, the sheer staggering amount of information she provided, and could yet provide, was rather overwhelming, and so I gracefully terminated the meeting. I extended the courtesy I always do with my contacts, the promise of respectful acknowledgement, a recompense for their time (I bought her lunch), and the hope that I could return to her should I have further questions.

But there's this: she was able to, immediately, make a connection I'd been worried about, with regard to a certain protagonist, in a certain well-touted, well known novel, and dismiss it. I was astonished. My mind had gone there, and worried at it like a dog worries a hot spot, and she had arrived there within thirty minutes, considered it, and then dismissed it. She had correctly ascertained that there was no correlation, that my character was unique and separate unto herself. I was deeply relieved. And completely unable to hide that relief.

And she said, "Your character, this girl, is well thought out, and while you haven't fully considered all of her, she's obviously complex, you're presenting her in a very realistic manner. Pay attention to her motivation, whether she's self-driven, or there's another, underlying motivation. I'd like to know more."

It's an amazing thing, to create someone, from the ether, and have someone else believe in her as strongly as I do.

Amazing.

Call me if you need to...

She calls me, later than expected, and within seconds, it's obvious she is extremely frustrated and aggravated.

She has spent the last four days with her mother, who is deeply grieving the loss of her husband, and who had chosen to go somewhere that re-awakened hugely painful memories of the times spent at this very same locale with him. Her mother has done things which seem so oddly disjointed and disconcerting, such as locking her purse in the trunk of the car, her purse which contains the keys to the car, and since the car does not have a trunk release button, a locksmith must be called. She cannot conceive how her mother could do this. and then, to top it all off, her mother informs her, in a rather vague way, that the dogs have escaped because she didn't close the back door to the house properly.

She tells me how she has spent the last hour trying to retrieve her dogs (the youngest of which has been enjoying his fling with freedom from confinement with carefree abandon), and trying to figure out a way to retrieve the purse from the trunk of the car. She sounds ragged, and tired, and at her wits end.

And then she starts to cry.

I listen to her diatribe patiently. I withstand her venting calmly. And then, slowly and carefully, I interrupt, interject, ease her out of her tears, with funny anecdotes, and soft wisdom, and tell her shit happens, and that I understand. We continue in this vein for some time, her venting, her frustration level climbing, and I listen, and patiently say, Yes, I understand, but what about this? Listen, what about this?

It takes several minutes, but eventually, she laughs, and then I tease her, gently, and distract her, and I can hear her calming. And I think, I can do this. For her, I can do this.

And I tell her, It's all about perspective. And choice. Pay attention to your perspective. Honour your choices.

She gets fired up once more. It's not about perspective, she says. I have perspective. It's more than that.

And I say, No, there's nothing more than perspective. Never lose your perspective. If you lose that, you lose everything.

She goes silent for a few moments, and then she laughs again, and I warm to it.

"It's good to talk to you," she says. "Talking to you is such a good thing."

I don't know if it was me, or if she just needed to talk, to vent. I won't flatter myself. But either way, I was the one she chose to talk to, and I helped. We all make innumerable choices, and sometimes those choices are bad, and sometimes they're good.

I'd like to think she made a good choice, calling me, feeling as terrible as she did. Because she's feeling the loss of her father, just as her mother is feeling the loss of her husband. But she made a choice. And if you choose to support someone in their loss, then you must set aside your own feelings. However briefly.

And never lose your perspective.

To have and to hold.

I go up to the room at the top of the house, as I often do, to have a smoke. The window there looks out onto a park where, more often than not, there are children of varying ages playing, their mothers look on, or chat with other mothers, or couples lounge, apart or together, so close together, and talk of things I cannot hear.

Today there were two boys, perhaps 4 or 5 years of age, oddly uncoordinated (was I ever that clumsy?) who are brandishing branches, as long as they are tall. There are rocks, and picnic tables, strewn about the park, and the boys stumble-run between them, smashing their branches against these mostly impervious objects. They seem very serious as they go about this, there seems to be no joy in it, just a willful determination to destroy their branch. To smash it into fragments. Unfortunately for them, the branches are much more resilient then they expect, and they don't break easily. I watch as their frustration grows; it's obvious in their stance, and in the way they run faster (though still clumsily) between rocks, and picnic tables. They bring the branches down again and again, harder each time. Some pieces fly off. They want more. It's so obvious.

Why? Why this need to destroy? It's not about the rocks. Or the tables. It's about the branch, and their need, their almost desperate desire, to shatter what they hold. There's no thought behind it. If you were to ask them what they're thinking, it's unlikely they could tell you, or certainly not coherently. The need to destroy is neither cohesive, nor coherent.

Yet here's the thing: I have done the exact same. And there is no thought behind it. You pick up a branch, maybe carry it around for awhile, but eventually, without even thinking of it, you swing that branch against something unyielding, just to break it. There's no other reason for doing so. You wish to break it. Even if you haven't given it any thought. the driving force behind your action is to break that branch. It is, sad to say, satisfying, in it's own way.

To break something, to destroy what you hold in your hands, simply because you can.

And I ask again: Why?

To be so lucky...

He's been gone for such a short time now.

I miss him. God, how I miss him. I think about the things I'd like to talk to him about. How I'd like to tell him about all the good things that are currently happening in my life. How I know he'd be so happy, so proud. He'd be so proud of me.

I didn't handle the loss of him how I thought I might. I haven't cried. You can think of that whatever you like. But it's a fact: I haven't cried. It's not that I wouldn't, or couldn't. It's that I don't feel I should. Or need to.

Now please understand. I'm easily brought to tears. I'm a sensitive girl. I always have been. In this instance however, it's not about that. It's not about tears. It's about respecting, and understanding, the man he is. Was. Whatever.

He was my father. The only father I knew. He was my dad. And I loved him fiercely. I would have been there more often, but that was not something I could do. He understood that. Or, at least, I believe he did. We touched on the topic lightly, a bare fingers breadth of touch, that led me to believe that he understood. Did I pursue it? No. I felt no need to. I'm not one to relentlessly pursue something if I feel it's pointless, or already understood. If there's need for more discussion, I'm confident that the other person will bring it up, or I will. I never felt that was the case.

But, my god, I miss him.

I understand him. It took awhile, though. To add everything together. All of the experiences, his and mine...put them all together, in a storybook kind of way...and think, yes, that's a complete picture. I have done that. Added it all together, and been able to think, Yes, this. And that. Yes. I see it.

He was the most affecting, most fundamental person in my life. I could string together endless number of words to describe him...but if you knew him, you'd know that words, endless words, are superfluous. Yet words are what bind him and I together. He taught me to love words, to learn words, to know words. I would not be who I am, if not for him. That's heady. Weighty. I am, I simply am because of him.

He was my father, the only father I knew, the best I could have had. Any and all of you should have been so lucky.

I think sometimes I can still pick up the phone, or go for a drive, and talk to him, see him. Of course, I can't. But I am not distraught with this realization. Yes, I miss him. But I remember how happy he was to see me, when I last saw him, and I must, I simply must, remember that. It's no small thing to bring a smile to the face of a dying man. And I had already told him my first published novel would be dedicated to him. Because he had taught me to love words. To pay attention to words. That is something you never forget.

I'm quite certain I would not be who I am, if not for him. So if I don't cry, it's not because I wouldn't. Or couldn't. It's because I won't. That it's not appropriate. It doesn't fit. I think he would understand. I don't care if no one else does.


I love you, daddy. I always have, and I always will.

There will always be more.

It's a startling thing, to receive something you have long anticipated, yet never really expected.

I received my publishing contract today. For my first novel. A piece of work written, roughly, over the course of 10 years, though granted not full time. Life gets in the way. I started the novel in the summer of 1995. I started it because I got tired of reading bad lesbian fiction (though in truth, I'd only read three books, but that was enough). I wanted to write what I wanted to read. My first attempt (9 pages) was so poor I had to laugh...and then tear it up and start over again. The next attempt was true, more true to my idea, my vision, of what I wanted to ultimately present.

It wasn't easy.

I write from a hugely emotional place. Nothing is trite. My life, my experiences, my feelings, are not trite. They carry weight. I've heard a few comments about how long it took me to write that book. From people who don't write. I shrug those off. Granted, there was a very long time period from when I wrote the first 14 chapters, to when I completed the rest of the novel. As I said, life gets in the way. But until you have done what I, and other writers, have, I caution you to keep your negative, disparaging comments to yourself. It may have taken me a good portion of time to write this book, but it was time well spent.

And now, today, I have signed a publishing contract. This is an astonishing thing. Astonishing. More so because I had previously turned down one publisher (five years ago), and been dismissed by another (less than a year ago). I'm not an easy egg to crack. In fact, if you were to ask anyone who knows me well, I'm very difficult to crack indeed. I have a very clear vision of who I am, what I want, and where I'm going. My thought, my belief, has always been, I will get there eventually.

I'm very proud of my first novel. I'm very proud of myself. Of my commitment. My belief. Writing from the emotional place that I do is very draining. Continuing to do so is a commitment to continual pain, and joy, and, ultimately, satisfaction. I'm okay with that. If I must bleed, and cry, rend myself, display myself openly for all and sundry to view, then I will do so with integrity and courage. I've never questioned it. I just do it. The whys, wherefores, and hows never cross my mind. I just do it.

I have now signed the contract. The contract that has my name, and the title of my book, in bold print. Bold print. My god. I will mail it tomorrow. And that, as they say, is that. But it's more than that. It will always be more than that.

And a part of me is scared to death of all that that entails.

The sun rises and sets...

I have seen many sunrises and sunsets.


I make it a point of doing so. If I am not someplace where I can view either easily, I have made a point of going to somewhere I can do so. To see it. To experience it. To feel it.


This...habit of mine, if you will, applies to the entirety of my life, my existence. I need to see, to experience, to feel. I will go where I must to take in all I feel I should, all I feel I need. 


We are only granted one life. So far as we know. I've made it a point to try to cram in as much of the beauty of this life as I can. Within the limited resources of my finances. I can't travel to all places deemed beautiful. Yet. But what I am able to view that is beautiful, I will.


I'm currently in the beginnings of a long distance relationship. The woman I am involved with possesses a fine mixture of characteristics I've never before come across. She is sweet, and funny, articulate, and intelligent. Witty, sharp, compassionate, present in a startling way. She does not mislead, nor misrepresent. She is disarmingly forward, yet so very concerned that she not be misunderstood. She surprises me often. While I had no expectations, she constantly exceeds any expectations I might have had. She is, frankly, a beautiful person.


She's on the same continent, but quite far away. Yet, true to my nature, I will go where I must to experience that which I feel is important to me. She does not even question this. She understands the risk, the fear, the trepidation, the bravery, but she does not discourage it. If I need to experience, to feel, to know, she says, Yes, please, I understand.


I will go wherever I must, to find and experience that which my soul craves.


The beauty of life.


The only life I have.

Growth vs Need

I didn't know I needed instant gratification.

That's not something I ever really paid attention to. The need for instant gratification. The need to put something out there, for someone, and get back what I needed, emotionally, in return, almost immediately.

I'd never known that about myself.

Until I started playing music.

Being a dj, in a club full of women, playing music for them, provided instant gratification. It's that kind of job (though it never felt like a job, not ever). You play the tunes, they either love what you play, or they don't. Your feedback is the number of bodies you get on the dance floor: instant gratification. When my mentor first mentioned this to me, I was mystified. Once I'd been doing it for awhile, I understood it better. And understood that it was something that fed some hunger in me I'd never known existed. 

Later on, I learned that I actually am that kind of person: I require instant gratification. Outside of playing music, in every day situations, if I give you something of myself, no matter how small, I need something in return, some kind of recognition, acknowledgement, to let me know that you have received what I have given, and that what I have given has affected you in some way. Positive or negative. It doesn't matter. I. Need. To. Know.

For awhile, when I'd send her something, I would receive that acknowledgement. That recognition, that I had put myself out there, for her. An email, an explanation, a thank you. Lately, that hasn't happened. I know why. She's exhausted at the end of the day, she's not one to check her email on a regular basis (though she's gotten better with that since we've come together), and when she does check now, I believe she feels that since we'll talk the next day (we always do), it's okay to just hold her thoughts and words and feelings until then.

Yet I'm impatient. 

I can send flowers days ahead, and know when she'll receive them (roughly), and wait with anticipation for her to tell me of her surprise. But if I send some poem or rambling thought process of emotion, I expect something almost immediately in return. It makes no sense, really. My impatience. My requirement for instant gratification. 

But there's a tempering factor now. Where once I would have asked, perhaps demanded to be acknowledged, that no longer occurs. Now I am patient enough to wait for her recognition. To know that what I have done, my actions, will be received and, eventually, acknowledged. Positively. So positively.

Over the years, and with the help of learning through some very poor relationships, I have come to understand that instant gratification, while not a bad thing, is not all it's cracked up to be.

But I find I cannot easily let go of the need. However, I've also found that, unlike in previous relationships, I feel no need to tell her of this. I may never tell her of this.

This, then, is growth. I have grown.

My god, how I have grown.