So was kismet, in a way, when I wrote my first book back in 2012. I had abandoned my corporate career to move back to Portland, Oregon to help my ailing parents, and so had Debbie. Back then, there was no shortage of family health dramas--heart attacks, cancer, emotional breakdowns--so immersing myself into writing a book seemed like a supremely selfish activity. The story had been percolating in me for quite some time. When I dove into the project in earnest, something quite unexpected happened.
My older sister rented an apartment only a couple of miles from my house. Debbie is a voracious reader, sometimes reading a novel every two days to fulfill her endless ivy-league smarts. I was thrilled that she wanted to be by my side through every step of the writing process: plot, character development, proofing, and publishing. It was a perfect partnership.
As it turned out, my selfishness became more of a giving experience than I could've imagined.
I wrote every day in anticipation of my older sister’s arrival at four-thirty in the afternoon with
her box of pink wine. Debbie would sit at my kitchen island to read each chapter draft of my first book, STITCHES. This schedule soon became a predictable drill, except on Thursdays when she arrived with her laundry basket. First, she’d fill a water glass with crackling ice and lube the cubes in wine. Then she’d slap her pack of cigarettes on the granite counter top and
park herself on the chair at the kitchen island. She'd reach over the counter to switch on the downdraft fan on the
stovetop. Finally, her huge purse got a deep dig for a lighter and a thin red Sharpie.
“Whatcha got for me?” she’d say and light her cigarette. “Hit me up. I’m ready.” A ribbon of smoke inevitably escaped the suction of the fan.
I’d hand her a clipped stack of twenty or thirty pages, my days’ offering of frantic gray cell activity. She’d remain silent while
I pulled one of three options out of freezer for dinner—fish, chicken or
turkey. But I’d keep a peripheral eye on my sister’s
expression with each flip of the page. She’d smile, laugh, go quiet, or utter some undefinable sound. I didn’t really know what all those signals meant
until she'd meet my gaze. Sometimes, her eyes were full of tears.
“Where are you now?” I’d say.
“I need the next chapter, dammit,” she’d say, and squeeze her eyes . “You’re torturing me.”
“Do you like it?” I’d give her glass a few fresh splashes of wine. “Should I keep
writing?”
“Like I said, I need the next chapter.”
“Wanna eat?”
“Not yet.” Debbie would tap her demanding finger on the
granite. “God, I wish I could do this.”
“Do what?”
“Write.”
“Okay. I’ll have another chapter or two for you tomorrow.”
“Not what I meant.”
"I know, but you are writing. This is how it works, only it's my story, not yours."
"Suppose."
"I know, but you are writing. This is how it works, only it's my story, not yours."
"Suppose."
And so it went for three-hundred pages. At the end of each session, we'd divert our attention to each other. It became up close and personal. What came out of
the process was a reconciling of our childhood pain, laughing at our teenage antics, confronting the loss of our Dad, mourning the loss of our husbands, and rejecting the idea that we'd become orphans when our mom passed. The bond we had created between one
another during that time could never be broken. We had always loved each other, but it took
us reaching upper middle-age before we knew how much. The two of us, so
different and so alike. Her DNA and mine were forever bonded by sticky
words.
Sister relationships are inexplicable. We accept each other’s flaws without
challenge, but those little bugaboos
from our childhood stick in our hair like old gum. No one else knows about them,
and we keep the secrets from everyone. Even in our sixties, we remember those
details like the heartbreak of first loves, an exquisite fragrance, and the taste of our favorite foods.
That first book holds so much of my relationship with my
sister, not so much in content but in the process. Only she could read between
the lines of its themes of immortality, charity, magical realism, and tough justice for the bad guy. And now I’m drafting my seventh book, BIG SKY TALK. She hasn’t yet
read a word of it. Debbie has transitioned from the slow-drip review process to wanting to read the finished product.
Debbie wanted to be a reader, plain and simple. She never told me what to write or how to write it. She just loves a good story. But I learned a few things about her too. My sister is a steel-belted marshmallow. Beneath her rough veneer of strength sits a mushy heart.
Now that Debbie and I, once again, live in different states, I appreciate even more the time we spent together while I wrote that first book.
Being in quarantine in Montana is a writer’s dream. I go on long walks in the woods. Social distancing here means avoiding a Grizzly sow with three cubs on the hiking
trail. Instead of a mask, I sport a canister of bear spray on my waist and a
Glock in my chest holster.
Debbie and I are both early risers. Our favorite time is talk early in the morning. Before the sun clears the peaks of the Swan Mountains, I step outside to call my sister in Oregon. My heart soars when I hear her voice. She’s close, but so far away.
Debbie and I are both early risers. Our favorite time is talk early in the morning. Before the sun clears the peaks of the Swan Mountains, I step outside to call my sister in Oregon. My heart soars when I hear her voice. She’s close, but so far away.
“Where’s the manuscript for BIG SKY TALK?” Debbie said on a recent call.
“It’s a work in progress, and it might be a while,” I said.
“I’m on chapter ten.”
“Hurry up. I want to read it."
"The research into understanding a different culture is intense. "
Without missing a beat, Debbie said, "I’ll bet you’re writing that book on a computer made in China.”
"The research into understanding a different culture is intense. "
Without missing a beat, Debbie said, "I’ll bet you’re writing that book on a computer made in China.”
I smile. My sister, the CoVid-19 conspiracy theorist. “Oh yeah, I’m sure China implanted hacking chips in my laptop so they'll be able to read my book before you do.”
"They'd better not. I get the first read. Just make sure everything you buy is labelled 'Made in the USA'."
"They'd better not. I get the first read. Just make sure everything you buy is labelled 'Made in the USA'."
We have a good laugh. Then we dive into the ridiculousness of the pandemic situation. I end the call with a sigh, my grip tight on the memory of Debbie sitting in my kitchen. As always, the conversation gives me pause, because she's right about so many things. And I didn't want it to end.
Special moments need to be appreciated by never letting them go. The morning connection with my sister inspires me to keep going, challenging me to make what I wrote yesterday much better.
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| Photo: Micah Brooks |
Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Kalispell, Montana with her husband, stepdaughter, and their brainiac cat, Princeton. Courtney writes for the baby boomer audience. She spent 28 years as an executive in the entertainment industry and used her time in a theater seat to create stories that are filled with heart, humor, and mystery. She studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. Active in the writing community, Courtney is a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association and on the Advisory Council of the Independent Publishing Resource Center. She is a member of Willamette Writers, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and She Writes. The Executrix received the Library Journal Self-E recommendation seal.
Print and E-books are available through most major online retailers, including Amazon.com.
Check out all of Courtney's books:
courtney-pierce.com and windtreepress.com
Coming in 2020!
When Aubrey Cenderon moves to Montana after the death of her father, the peace and quiet of Big Sky Country becomes complicated with a knock on the door from the sheriff. An injured grizzly bear is on the loose and must be eliminated before it kills again. The sheriff's insistence that she buy a gun for protection will present Aubrey with some serious soul-searching, because the grizzly-on-the-run is hunting for her too . . . for a different reason.
New York Times best-selling author Karen Karbo says, "Courtney Pierce spins a madcap tale of family grudges, sisterly love, unexpected romance, mysterious mobsters and dog love. Reading Indigo Lake is like drinking champagne with a chaser of Mountain Dew. Pure Delight."
When Aubrey Cenderon moves to Montana after the death of her father, the peace and quiet of Big Sky Country becomes complicated with a knock on the door from the sheriff. An injured grizzly bear is on the loose and must be eliminated before it kills again. The sheriff's insistence that she buy a gun for protection will present Aubrey with some serious soul-searching, because the grizzly-on-the-run is hunting for her too . . . for a different reason.
