My heart has been feeling sick lately, and it's been very difficult to sit down and think of something to write. But I was at work yesterday and a little sumthin sumthin popped into my head, followed by the thought, "Of course I would be inspired when I'm busy and far from my computer!" I think it definitely reflects the fragmented, random pieces that have been making up my life the last few months. . . 

I love when the last lunch customer leaves the cafe in the afternoon when it is gray and drizzling. Yesterday, "Riders On the Storm" came up on the playlist just as the door swung shut on the last stranger. My coworker propped the door open to let out the heat from the griddles, and I got to decompress to the melancholic sound of the Doors and the smell of a cold spring-time rain. A spontaneous convergence of perfectly favorable variables trumps a deliberately crafted moment, in my book--though there are many fine deliberately crafted moments. 

I love when I'm "rolling around in the bed" in the morning, as I like to call it, and my dog comes trotting in to jump on the bed. He absolutely refuses to sleep on the bed during the night--he actually prefers to sleep in another room entirely--but it's like he can hear me thinking and comes to get his head scratched. Even more than this, I love those mornings when the husband leaves particularly early and Toby crawls into his spot to sleep beside me until it's time for me to get up. 

I love the sun. I love waking up half an hour after dawn and seeing the early morning light on the brick. There is a corner of our building visible in one of our windows, and I've become addicted to the sight of the sharp angle cutting into a freshly lit blue sky. I love just before late afternoon, when the sun is hovering right above the armory and angling straight into the western windows. It pools in front of my feet and makes it hard to see the computer screen, but it is the best time to take a nap. 

Most of all I love those spring, fall, and most-of-summer sunny days when I can tie the dog up in front of our shop. I check on him often, not so much to see if he's okay, but to experience his happiness at getting to be outside. The sight of my happy sun dog on the pavement, with one leg crossed over the other and his head half-turned over his shoulder and half-flipped upside down as he regards me contently, is the best sight in the world. 

Life lately has not been so much rough as dissatisfying. I don't have what I want and I don't seem to know how to get what I want. It is an exercise in patience and an opportunity to learn--I will be sure to talk about it a little here. But it has also made it possible to experience the skeevy side of human nature, and it bothers me. Even so, there are moments, many, many moments where I can take a deep breath and be happy that I'm alive. 

Smelling someone's rose bush as you ride by. 

Riding through someone's venting dryer.

Spring blossoms raining on your shoulders.

Sunshine on your back. 

That moment you crest the hill and can gear up. 

Getting passed by a garbage truck--trust me; it's a terrific reminder of how you're definitely not stuck in your musty car.

Arriving at the coffee shop after a hard ride. 

Peeking into people's yards during dusk. To me, it feels very Shire-like.

Taking in the Halloween/Christmas/Easter decorations. 

Spontaneous stops at Krispy Kreme because you happened to be riding by--and hey, you're exercising. 

Rambling conversations with friends as you amble through neighborhoods. 

My grandfather is turning 90 in a few days, and for a surprise birthday party that I can't attend because I live across the country, my aunt asked everyone to write down memories for Grandpa to read. Well, my grandpa was--and is--awesome, no contest, so for all the world to enjoy, I present to you, fresh off the press and without any editing, Memories of my Grandpa:

     Grandpa, I sat down to write this and I couldn’t find my glasses. Where did those darn things go, anyway? I really needed them because I’ve gotten older and my eyes don’t work as well as they used to. This print is tiny! Well, I finally found my glasses, and guess where? On top of my head! 

     Grandpa, I like to think that I’ve gotten much of my sense of humor from you. In my earliest memories of you, I see you making me laugh. No one could pretend to be able to take their thumbs apart as convincingly as you. And who else thought to trick a couple of children by telling them the air in Arizona was different than the air in California? No one. I have distinct memories of breathing very heavily as we travelled along the straight, flat road from one state to the other. “Can you tell the difference?” you asked Barrett and me. “Yes!” we shouted as excitedly as only children can. How you must have laughed to yourself. 

     Your sense of humor evolved accordingly. I remember coming to visit when I was sixteen or seventeen. I had a beloved shirt with the picture of a cup of coffee on it. “Always hot!” said one side of the cup. “Always fresh!” said the other side. You took one look at my shirt and asked, “Oh, are they naming them now?” I was mortified then, but I’m laughing out loud even now as I sit by myself on the couch. The cats must think I’m very strange. 

     I have so many memories of you, Grandpa. It’s hard to write them all. I was always amazed at how much you knew. I don’t remember what you did in the printing industry, but I remember talking with you at the table about it. I remember you telling me about your experiences in the Navy. But mostly I remember you knowing every flower along the side of the road in Mineral King. You knew every bush and every tree along the Cold Springs nature trail. I still remember the awe with which I smelled my first Jeffrey pine because you said the bark smelled like vanilla. I remember coming home from that first hike in Mineral King a little disappointed because everyone had seen the grouse but me. 

     It was you who taught me to swim in the pool of the hotel when Ozzy owned it. Growing up I hated chicken. I’m grateful to Dad and Wendy for feeding me, but their chicken was always dry. I looked forward to visiting you and having you grill chicken on the patio because your chicken was always perfect—cooked thoroughly but never dry. That was some skill in my eyes. In the living room one year, you tried to teach me to dance like you dance with Grandma. Was it a four-step? I don’t remember. I was all feet and not used to being led. I very much wish I’d taken the time to learn, and danced with you. Even younger than that, you tried to teach me to tap dance. What fun you were! 

     There were so many evenings of eating on TV trays while watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. So many evenings spent playing Solitaire or playing with dominoes. “Come here,” you would say, and by your tone I had no problem getting up off the floor. Through this window or that, you would point at something come to visit: a doe, usually, but sometimes quail, or a dove in a tree. 

     There were Fourth of July dinners at Great-Grandpa and Great-Grandma’s during those early years. How else could a six- and seven-year-old feel so comfortable around so many strangers so far from home except that you and Grandma were so loving, kind, and gentle? It was you, Grandpa, who taught me how to patiently win over the most skittish of cats. I have a little Hiss myself now, a little girl cat who won’t let anyone near her except me. And I have a MacArthur too, a strapping boy cat that has never met a stranger. You taught me how to see and how to appreciate nature.

     You worked so hard, Grandpa. Year after year I came to visit, and year after year there was work to be done at the Lion’s club. There was yard work and I don’t even know what else. I never paid attention to what you were doing, exactly.  It was just pleasant to tag along, to be around you, because there were spider tunnels to look into, or interesting people to meet, or lots of conversation to be had with you. 

     One day you sat at the table with me when I was eighteen. It was the last summer I visited consecutively; I didn’t visit again until I was twenty-one. “Develop relationships,” you said. “Develop friendships. They will be important in your life.” I cried and didn’t answer. That summer I’d lost several close friends. I’d not yet learned that some people come and go, and only some people come and stay. But I never forgot what you told me. You were right. My friendships and relationships are important; they are one of the most valuable things I have in my life. 

     It mattered a lot to you that I forgave my mom and moved past the anger. It was hard for me then, but it was so important that you talked to me about those things. I remember being struck with how novel it was that other adults actually liked and approved of my mom; at that time, the only experience I had of adults’ opinions about my mom were the opinions of Dad and Wendy—and those were hardly unbiased. The things you said to me you only said to me once a year, but they really stuck. They came from a place of wisdom and of caring, and I heard them, and they became a part of me. I’ve now fully forgiven my mom and have a very close relationship with her. That is due partly because of you, Grandpa. 

     There was the epic first trip to the Pacific Ocean. There were fishing holes so secret, I’ve never told anyone for fear of being killed. You tried to teach me how to gut a fish, but I would not! You let me drive around Visalia—you always were a little adventurous. You introduced us to our older brother, with whom I now also have a relationship, thanks to you. There is so much to remember, Grandpa, that you taught me: how to treat people, how to care about them and for them, how to nurture relationships. How to work hard and be happy doing it. How to treasure those evenings when time seems to stop. We would sit for a long time after dinner, waving away meat bees and wondering who was going to finish that last leftover piece. I learned a lot watching you and the time you spent with people: Aunt Marge and Uncle Allen, Ozzy and his first wife, and then Ozzy and Eva. I watched very closely, and learned without knowing I was learning, what to do when a couple you’re close to breaks up. There are so many valuable lessons I have in my being, that I don’t even know I know, because they all came just by watching you. 

     You are my treasure, Grandpa. I am so blessed, tremendously blessed, to have grandparents who were involved in my life and in my upbringing. I’m even luckier that those involved grandparents were so funny, so engaging, and so adventurous! My time with you was some of the very best time of my life, full of fun and full of growing. I love you dearly. I love you, I love you, I love you. And I will never, never, never forget you, not even when I’m old and can’t find my glasses anymore! 

Do you ever feel you’re actually witnessing how all the world--or at least your world--is connected? I've been struggling with my next step as a writer. It's very hard to let go of the ambition to finish my first novel while I'm thirty, despite realizing that I want to paint the Mona Lisa before graduating from art school. I’ve gotten stuck, wedged between “This is your best work and it’s not good enough” and “Keep writing; it’ll be good practice and you can achieve your goal, even if you don’t do anything with it afterwards.” A lot of what’s captured my feet has been the frustration that none of those 70,000 words are the depth they need to be, and I’ve done enough editing to know that editing is twice as hard as writing. In the end, I’m completely overwhelmed by the need to do my characters, their story—and my readers—justice.

Well, this morning I had a brief, fascinating thought about guys who look like girls. So I did what any person used to researching does: I Googled it. Half the search results showcased hot Asian actors who were so beautiful, they looked like girls (if I understood the link titles correctly), and the other half of the results were how to dress up like a girl if you were a dude. Not what I was looking for. I wanted to read the experience of a guy who looked feminine and was often mistaken for a girl—you know, something real life. 

Listen, you may never tell the world about your little fascinations, but I would encourage you not to be afraid to learn about them a little, to flesh them out. Don’t be afraid to Google “guys who look like girls” just because you think people would laugh at your or condemn you if they knew. You never know what you will come across. For example, my search yielded a gem of an article: two authors discussed writing characters of the opposite sex, and what that is like. One of the authors, Danny Pelletier, said the following:

"Writing badly is an important part of the process. We must first misjudge ourselves and our characters before we can truly know one another as people. Your characters will misread you and you’ll miswrite them, just as two people who have known one another for a long time squabble over petty misunderstandings. 

In other words, the arguments make the marriage work."

BAM. It was like a punch to the eyes. The most random of Google searches, based on nothing concrete but a passing whim, went right to the heart of the matter. Maybe only writers will understand this, but I have this irrational desire to apologize to my poor, woefully underdeveloped male character for not fully understanding him. But the dying fire was relit and now I am driven, not just to tell their story, not to finish my Mona Lisa before my birthday, but to understand my characters and write that understanding down.

So this will be the year. I am determined to write my short stories and submit them for publication. I will develop my writer's platform, seriously and as a real resource to further my career. I will faithfully write a blog, not as an obligation and not as a way to self-serve my ego, but as a sharpening of the knife against the block to keep the edge sharp. I absolutely love and believe in my novel. Maybe I will finish it before I'm 31; maybe I won't. But this is my first race and it serves as the finish line, calling me forward to learn and practice and hone my craft until I can paint my Mona Lisa.