A Box to the Left

Packing central here. Movers will be here before I know it. Today I’m spending time figuring out which personal items to gather in the boxes that will go with us across country, and which to load onto the moving van.

How does one decide which photo albums are the most meaningful, which childhood drawings possess the most value? And please, is it even possible to sort through my 25+ writing journals? Laughing as I factor in which one I’d be most horrified if somehow it got tossed from the moving van and discovered by an innocent bystander. Imagining Joe Shmoe reading, eyes wide, about a character plotting murder, certain he’s stumbled upon something truly sinister. (Nope, Joe, just hashing out a novel.) I know what Joe’s really stumbled upon—a woman who couldn’t possibly sort the can’t-leave-it-behind important items from all the rest.

In the end, they’re all simply things. Stuff. Try as I might, I can’t shove memories—a lifetime—into a box. I can toy with collecting the sentimental, piling in special photographs, letters, and memorabilia,

as well as passports, medical papers, and school forms.

How do you respond when people ask you what you’d run back in to save if your house was on fire?

I’ve heard pets, photo albums, the Bible, as well as other poignant books. I’m creating a box of memories and it will fall short. It will be incomplete. It won’t make sense to most.

Love, nature walks, laughter, ugly cries, growth, deep and loyal affection—they don’t fit in a box. They exist somewhere else entirely. They’ll be going with me in the car alright because they’re stitched into my being—not to be lost or mistakenly read by some Joe Shmoe. The aforementioned—those are the workings of my life. They go with me everywhere—accessible at any given time.

*Be back sometime in June…on the road again.

Window to my Soul

I thought it might be fun to show you my office in our new home. I’m really doing this as an excuse, so I could open up and share a few things you may not guess about me—to let you in a little more. 

Here it is . . . where the magic happens. Or the drivel. Or nothing at all. Here’s one of the rooms where I give my creativity permission to come most alive. I thought I’d share a little about what you’re seeing in this picture.

The fat Shakespeare book. A dear friend I met in Seattle gave this to me. I remember thinking how cool it was she earned her PhD in writing. I look at it as a reminder to keep learning. I also keep it as a visual to remind myself of a college break when I couldn’t make it home, and I sat curled up in my papasan, falling for Shakespeare, the words strumming some untouched territory in my brain. I also happen to think it looks uber-cool in a writer’s office.

The angel girl hanging from the doorknob. A friend from Connecticut gave this to me after I released THE FLOWER GIRLS. This nature-loving angel is my muse. She knows it. I know it, and I still love her even though my dog ate the big blossoming flower off her head.

The keys. I went a little nutty buying anything key-related after the release of my first novella, THE DISAPPEARING KEY. These remind me of the start to my first brave foray out into the world as a published author.

The computer. Hard to say how many times I’ve cried in front of that thing. Over characters. Rejections. Offers. Doubt. Even over my stubborn refusal to quit. Pretty sure I’ve begged that screen to release me. Try as I have, it never works. I’m always seduced back. With more characters and more stories to be told.

The refurbished chair with a stack of books. I love working with furniture and painting anything I can get my hands on and I’m a little addicted to the library.

The picture of my girls walking away in Ogunquit, Maine. I’m in love with this picture. Truly. Because it serves as a reminder of my role in their lives—to teach them how to take their own brave steps in this world, hoping that they’ll always know I’ll be behind them cheering them on every step of the way.

Next week I’m revealing the cover of THE AFTER GLIMPSE!