The Universality of Love and Loss

Last week’s post prompted an unprecedented number of emails from friends and strangers. People shared stories of favourite pets and the heart-wrenching moments of saying goodbye. It was not my intention to focus on that event, but on the lesson learned through the experience. However, it resonated with so many readers and it is that response that has lingered with me this week.

It seems all of us have a story of loss wrapped in love. It is unavoidable. It is part and parcel of this cycle we call life. I was discussing this with a friend of mine who still struggles with frightening memories of her children’s life-threatening illnesses. I am in awe of those folks who take on the task of raising the little beings of our future, and told her I could never do so. I mean, look at the mess I still am over my dog. Her wise observation gave me pause. The minute you love someone is the minute you open yourself up to heartache.

Yet, it is love that keeps us human, that helps us rise above the ugliness in the world and be a better person on a small scale and, for some, on a larger scale. When we give it freely, unconditionally, we are strengthened by it. When we must say goodbye, we are devastated, never to be quite the same again. In this we are all united. In this we are all the same.

I believe it is why so many people connected with last week’s post and why they felt compelled to share their own moments of despair. Although each of us writes our own life’s story through our decisions and chance, each tale is woven with the common threads of love and loss. Thank you my friends, old and new, for sharing.

Realize deeply that the present moment is all you have. Make the NOW the primary focus of your life. –Eckhart Tolle

This week one of my little dogs has been demanding my attention. Each morning when I sit at the computer, she has moved in closer and closer. She now rests her head upon my laptop as I type. She wants to be near, she wants to connect, she wants me to know she exists. And, I do. I allow her to rest there, work around her and reach over frequently to pet her head or rub her belly.

I had another Lhasa years ago. She was brilliant, entertaining and loving. I valued her in my life but I was younger, busier and had much to accomplish. She always accepted it with grace and joyfully received my attention when I deigned to give it.

One week I was working in our spare room, turning it into my personal space. I had chosen lemon chiffon, a nice light airy colour. I had been painting for hours with the door closed over, not wanting the smell of it to permeate the house. My Lhasa decided it had been long enough and came in to tell me so, gently nudging open the door and wandering in. I panicked as her tentative tail thwacked against the fresh paint, and I yelled at her. Her tail went down and she dutifully left the room.

The next day, we realized she was not well. She was only twelve, not old for a small dog, and it was unusual for her not to eat. The vet did not think that he could do anything for her but, at our insistence, took her into surgery. I was standing in that freshly painted room when the call came. She was riddled with cancer and he could not, in good conscience, let her live a few more painful weeks. He did not bring her out of the anesthesia.

I stood in that room and cried, looking around and seeing only ugly yellow. All she wanted was to connect with me, and I had yelled at her. I crushed her spirit, a spirit infused with love. I did it for a room. A stinking room. I hated that room; it was too sad. I eventually had to repaint and move out of it. It is ten years this month since I said goodbye to her and I still cry, feel the loss and the overwhelming sense of guilt.

Life is packed with drama, big and small. It gets busy. That’s unavoidable. But, whether you are working at an insular job, such as writing, working in a hectic high-stress environment, or have days packed with to-do lists, you only get to live this day once. With each moment’s arrival, another has passed, never to be experienced again. The next time your child, your partner, or your fur friend asks for your attention, stop, if only for a minute. Grab ahold of the here and now. In seconds it will be gone.

Hooked on Sequels

As I delve into the continuation of Ana and Brandan’s journey, I have been pondering the wisdom of putting my time and energy into a sequel. The publishing industry is a shifty beast, metamorphosing, it seems, daily. Is there an interest in sagas anymore? Successes like Outlander, Twilight and Game of Thrones would indicate there is, yet the industry professionals do not seem to be clamouring for them.

Love Denied is, without doubt, a historical romance. Catherine and Nicholas play out their story and leave us with a satisfying happily ever after. There are characters within their tale that demand their own stories and I have given it to two of them in novellas. Two more have so much to say that they will be getting their own novels. But, none of them are dependent upon Love Denied, nor is Love Denied dependent on them. However, readers of the next novels and the novellas will enjoy getting a glimpse of Catherine and Nicholas again and, if they are anything like me, will be pleased to know that their happy ever after continues.

Raven’s Path has been more difficult to classify. History is not just a backdrop; it is a co-pilot, assisting in driving the plot. There is a satisfying ending, but there is so much more to tell, so much more to that era and Brandan and Ana’s lives within it. I feel compelled to continue to explore it. And, the question I have been asking myself is why?

I think it goes back to my reading preferences, developed at a young age. I read every Nancy Drew book, not just for the mystery but because I got to see Nancy and crew again and again. After that I was hooked on Anne of Green Gables. Following her life was such a thrill. Mary Stewart’s Merlin series is another joyful reading memory from my early teen years. Later, as an adult promoting the joy of books to children, I fell in love with the Harry Potter series and was as disappointed as any child when it ended.

Why do I like these series and hold them fondly in my heart? When a story is good, when I fall in love with the characters, I don’t want to say goodbye. They become real in some corner of my mind and I want to know what happens in their lives. Like good friends I have not seen in a while, when I pick up the latest in a series it is as though we’ve never been apart.

I don’t think I am alone in my penchant for sagas. The longevity of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series and its recent leap to fame on the small screen, is testimony to that. I await, alongside millions, to see what will happen next with Jamie and Claire.

It seems it is no different for me when I am writing. I want to know what happens next to the characters in Raven’s Path. What are the events of 1750 that impact their lives? How do they respond to them? Where will they go next? Whom will they meet? I am as anxious for the answers to these questions as a writer as I am as a reader. It seems publishing trends are irrelevant to this author. I must follow my heart. And, it leads me back down Raven’s Path.

Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way. ― E.L. Doctorow

I am taking a break from fretting about finished work and, instead, I am diving back into the sequel to Raven’s Path, tentatively titled Crossroads. I started it back in October, doing extensive research before putting word to paper. I also had a general sense of where I wanted the first segment to go. It was fairly easy to pick up where I left off and follow that path. But then, coincidentally, I hit a crossroad.
 

Panic struck. There are multiple directions and I was overwhelmed by choice. I dipped back into the research, hoping it would provide clues. But, while research is foundational to the series, it is the characters who are directing this drama, not historical events. Still, I felt pressured by the need to know exactly where it was heading before I could continue. Frustrated, I took a break and began Anne Lamott’s book, Bird by Bird, where I found the quote for this week’s post.

 

I am not really a panster but neither am I a pedigree plotter. I do need to see my final destination, to have a general sense of the overall arc of the novel. Yet, I long ago recognized that I enjoy not knowing all of it. It is fun to deviate from the prospective path and travel to unexpected places. So, despite the overwhelming fear of selecting the wrong route, I sat at the computer and listened carefully. Ana and Brandan began to speak. And, they chose a direction. I don't know where it will lead, but I’m breathing easier. I am driving slowly in the fog—that’s okay because I know I am once again heading somewhere and, eventually, I will get there.

...and repeat.

Love Denied has been complete for some time. It has undergone multiple revisions and even more edits. Yet, I pulled it out again and have just finished another round of line editing. I enjoyed the process, happy to catch the odd little typo (an is for an it kind of thing) or spot the odd pleonasm. I feel good about it but have once again shelved it. Why?

I have been pondering that why. “When is a story done? Truly finished?” There are multiple stages to writing for most authors. The first draft, then the second—maybe more. Beta readers and critique partners read your story and it’s back to the table to sort through their feedback for those nuggets that will strengthen the story, tighten the plot or add fluidity to the prose. When the story is finalized, it is on to editing, where you are specifically looking for those technical pitfalls and follies.

However, the journey does not end there. If one is lucky, an agent appreciates all of the work and sees potential in your novel. They may ask for more revisions and edits. When they find the perfect editor, that person may again ask for changes. Then, prior to publishing, the galleys provide yet another opportunity to find nits and fix them. It is not until after this stage that authors actually let go of their novels, at least physically. I’m guessing they continue to fret about them.

So, why have I shelved Love Denied rather than submit? One writer peep accused me of being afraid to submit. I quickly corrected her. No fear of submission, only of rejection. J And, perhaps there is some truth in that. Or, maybe I just need to let it sit for a while and come at it one more time. After all, it is what a writer does. Create, revise, edit...and repeat.

You can do anything as long as you have the passion, the drive, the focus, and the support. —Sabrina Bryan

Writing is an insular and solitary activity. It is just you and your laptop and your words. Day in and day out, you lose yourself in a world of your making, converse with characters you create and live vicariously through events you orchestrate. In thinking about all of this aloneness, I realized I am not remotely lonely. Nor am I truly isolated. I am blessed with a plethora of support.

My friends are enthusiastic and encouraging. They celebrate landmark moments in my writing and give gifts that honour and support the process. They look forward to my first published book. And, they do this despite the fact that I have not let a single one of them read a word of what I have written.

While I have hugged my writing close to my breast, I have not been foolish enough not to seek feedback. I merely wanted it from folks who have no vested interest in liking what I wrote. My beta readers live in opposite corners of the world. From Germany to the United States, these strangers have taken the time, not just to read my work but also to provide valuable feedback. It’s hard work to beta read, yet they do it despite the fact that they have never met me and probably never will.

I have writer peeps, too, who offer feedback, encouragement and laughter every day. We share on a writers’ forum and we chat regularly on Twitter. I have learned so much through their courage to share and critique, as well as through their willingness to reach out across the cyber distance and hold my hand when I need it held or tell it like it is when I need to grow.

When I wanted to leave my career and focus on writing, DH supported me unconditionally. He believes in my writing. He believes in me. When I am filled with self-doubt, he rallies me with his faith.

Yes, writing is an insular and solitary activity, but it sure doesn't have to be lonely. Thank you, my friends, near and far.

 

Change: to make the form, nature, content, future course, etc., of (something) different from what it is or from what it would be if left alone

As a teen and young adult, I was restless. I moved a lot, I switched jobs often and I changed up friends as frequently as my wardrobe. Somewhere along the way, things shifted. I chose a career path, I settled down and I became the model of a grown up. I thought it was due to the stabilizing influence of my life’s partner and, perhaps, part and parcel of maturing. Until the past few years.

A restlessness began to whisper quietly in the recesses of my mind. I was enjoying a fulfilling career, still performing with my theatre gang and the love of my life remained firmly by my side. Writing chased the voices away, but stolen moments in a busy life were not enough to keep the growing agitation at bay. To top it off, there were reminders everywhere that life is finite—too many warning signs not to put important experiences off for a tomorrow that may never come.

So, I shook up my world. With DH’s hand in mine, I said goodbye to the career I loved. It has been nine months and I have enjoyed spending more time together, escaping winter for warmer climes and making writing a part of every day. A dream come true. Yet, the voice has not finished challenging me to take hold of life. And, it seems, the restlessness stirs within DH too.

He announced his desire to move. Well, not just move but to make a dramatic change by leaving central Canada and heading west. The whispers stopped and the voice shouted in glee. My young self resurfaced, thrilled to let go of the staid and predictable and reach out to adventure. We have daringly sold our home without having found a new one yet. The adrenalin is high and it is exciting not to know. It is as simple as that. It is exciting not to know what lies ahead.

Sometimes you just have to take hold of your world, turn it upside down, give it a shake and see what falls out.