A funny thing happened on the way to writing my first book. Well . . . maybe not so funny, but let's give it a go..
The seeds of a book percolated inside me for over a decade, but I didn't do anything about it. After 25 years in corporate life, the routine had grown tiresome, and the constant business travel put me on the road to official burnout. So in 2011, when my company
wanted to transfer me from Houston to New York City (a third relocation), I heartily declined. I wanted to move back to Portland,
Oregon, to be closer to my family. It was also as far away from New York as I
could get.
I needed a sabbatical. With a healthy buyout of my
employment contract, I took a year off to recharge my batteries, the goal being to finally write that book. Dreamy images filled my thoughts: sitting on the patio with a cup of chamomile
tea, typing away on my laptop, and taking long walks for inspiration. I made
my fantasy a reality . . . for exactly two weeks.
Then the phone rang one evening. It was my Dad.
“Hey, Kid," he said. "Can I talk to you for a few minutes?” His tone made my heart pound. Something was wrong. My parents lived four hours away in
Southern Oregon. I eyed my car keys on the kitchen counter for a possible impromptu road trip.
“Sure. What’s up, Bear?" I said. "Everything okay?” I kept my voice upbeat by using his nickname. We all had nicknames. Our real names were saved for being in trouble.
“I think we need to move up your way. Can you help us find a
house?”
“What’s going on?”
“We need to be closer to you and better healthcare. Mom has colon cancer, and I have bladder
cancer.”
My mind immediately created on image of bacon circling in
the microwave while two cigarettes smoldered in an ashtray. But it wasn't the
time to spew out a healthcare lecture.
That phone call was only the beginning. Over the next six
months, my Dad added congestive heart failure to his health rap sheet, my Mom
had her own heart attack after her cancer surgery, and my younger sister had a breakdown
and attempted suicide. For a few of those months, three members of my small,
close family were on the brink of death in the same hospital.
My first book, Stitches, was in the gestation phase, and I feared my inspiration to write would be relegated to a mere pipe dream. Days were spent making the rounds in the hospital: Oncology, Cardiology, and the Psychology wings. The medical staff became an
extension of my familial network with their words of encouragement. My older sister and I stuck together like glue on the phone, but she lived too far away to help me in real time.
Every day I’d sit for a couple
of hours in each of my family member’s rooms with my laptop, attempting to heal
with my story's theme of a found magical artifact that holds the secret of immortality—The Thin Man meets History Detectives with a twist of magic.
Writing quickly became therapy. And the nurses took ownership of Stitches with me.
I believed that my story could give my family everlasting life, written in silence at their bedsides and read aloud when they stirred. And then something really did start to happen. In the darkest moments, my prose became progressively lighter and more humorous. Words became super fuel in the form of a simple return smile, a brightening of eyes, or a chuckle. The healing had officially begun.
Writing quickly became therapy. And the nurses took ownership of Stitches with me.
I believed that my story could give my family everlasting life, written in silence at their bedsides and read aloud when they stirred. And then something really did start to happen. In the darkest moments, my prose became progressively lighter and more humorous. Words became super fuel in the form of a simple return smile, a brightening of eyes, or a chuckle. The healing had officially begun.
They say that laughter is the best medicine. I can say with
conviction that it’s true. And remaining true to the rules of writing craft, I hefted
my protagonists over the hump of “all hope is lost” to land them squarely on their feet with courage and
conviction. The hospital rounds of therapy dogs, meant for patients, elevated me, too, with each stroke of their fur.
Dad lived long enough to see Stitches in print. I lost him soon after its publication. And my
Mom . . . well . . . she’s an Energizer Bunny. At eighty-five, she’s independent and indestructible, and seven years and six books later, Mom remains cancer free with a resilient heart. My little sister recovered and regained her independence. And to keep the inspiration going, I wrote the fictional Dushane Sisters Trilogy with Mom and my two sisters in mind. The trickster therapy dogs in that series were a celebration of my hospital time too.
The original manuscripts for all my published books are locked in Mom’s cedar
chest, because she’s convinced that I’ll be famous one day. That's a mom for 'ya. I guess I really did have the ability to make my family immortal on the page.
And in my next book, Big Sky Talk, Dad will forever live up to his nickname in the form of a reincarnated grizzly bear. We'll get to have another indelible conversation.
The light of Inspiration is brighter when emerging from the dark, but it takes a healthy
dose of love and sacrifice to realize the reward.
 |
| Photo: Micah Brooks |
windtreepress.com
Print and E-books are available through most major online retailers, including Amazon.com.
 |
| Available Now! Book 3 of the Dushane Sisters Trilogy |
The Dushane Sisters Trilogy concludes with Indigo Legacy, available now. There's love in the air for Olivia and Woody, but will family intrigue get in the way? Ride along for the wild trip that starts in a New York auction house and peaks in a mansion on Boston's Beacon Hill.
The Dushane sisters finally get to the truth about their mother.
