An Unexpected Gift

By Courtney Pierce

My writing is an extension of me. Little did I know the positive effect being an author would have on the relationship with my family, especially with my older sister Debbie. We hadn't been particularly close since our teenage years. Life and careers got in the way and set us on parallel tracks. We saw each other at family birthday celebrations, but those visits amounted to only once or twice a year. We each lived in different states.

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."

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.

“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.”

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'." 

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.

In the morning quiet that follows our call, I turn to enjoy the ducks cruising and splashing on the lake. Honks of gossipy geese punch the sky on their flyover, and right behind them a bald eagle glides low and silent on his hunt for breakfast. I'm always amazed at how far eagles can fly without a single flap of their long wings, moving like a Stealth Bomber. 

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.

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 

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."

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.

It's a Journey All Right!

by Courtney Pierce

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.

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

Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Milwaukie, Oregon, 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 uses her time in a theater seat to create stories that are filled with heart, humor, and mystery. She has 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.

Audiobook now Available!

Check out all of Courtney's books: 

courtney-pierce.com and

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.

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."