I was re-reading "Travels With Puff", (by Richard Bach) the other night. This is a marvelous travel book full of full color photos of Richard and his ultralight plane, which he named Puff. I got to the chapter where Richard decides, against Puff's judgement, to taxi through some lily pads. Puff says quite distinctly, "Let's don't do the lily pads." But Richard does it anyway. And of course, when they try to take off, there's 30 pounds of lily pads clinging to Puff's tail, making it impossible for them to fly.
     I can't help but wonder? Do you have lily pads keeping you from flying? My personal lily pads are the fear of success. I know that sounds silly, but I think I really do fear being successful as a writer. Already, with only two books out, I have a few (very few, mind you!) people asking for the third, which is only 1/4 of a way finished. This same fear of success is why I've never wanted to sell my knitting or cross-stitch samplers. Part of the problem is, the minute someone is paying me for something, the minute it stops being fun and interesting and creative, and becomes work. There's an old saying, 'do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life.' Um. Well, only in the sense that what I love to do isn't paying the bills!
     But more importantly, if I were to become a success at my writing (a financial success, let me clarify) I'm afraid of how my lifestyle might have to change. I cherish my private time, my quiet house, my dogs and my garden. Would that be compromised if I suddenly (or even gradually) became more well-known? Am I subconsciously sabotaging my own success out of fear?

Desert Gold

A sweet, slow trumpet was easing its way through a brassy little song about a citrus fruit. The wine in my glass was cool and mellow. Trace and I slow-danced in perfect synchronization around the edge of the aquamarine pool, with only the light of the neon moon out by the street for illumination. As the song trailed off into silence, I felt myself being pulled into strong arms, and I tilted my face to meet his lips.

Instead of the spine-tingling kiss I was expecting, my senses were assaulted by kibble-scented dog breath. Dog hair tickled my nose, and I sneezed explosively.

“Darn you, Holden!” I grumbled, pushing my little black and white dog off my chest and onto the bed, “How many times have I told you, no doggy kisses before breakfast?”

Holden didn’t answer me. Instead, he hopped off the bed, and I heard the click of his nails as he wandered out into the hallway.

I turned on my side and snuggled my face back down into my pillow, hoping to slip back into sleep and, with any luck, back into that lovely dream. As images from the dream flashed in front of my closed eyelids, I tried to recapture the warmth and sweetness of being in Trace’s arms.

Trace’s arms? My eyes flew open, and I swore both loudly and creatively. What on earth was I doing, dreaming about Trace Bloome, while Will Benton’s shirts still hung in my bedroom closet?

Sometimes I wonder if it's too late to be an only child.

I was born the second of four children. I grew up in a traditional family, with traditional values and traditional differences of opinion. I might not have agreed with the political viewpoints of my siblings. We might have differed in our religious beliefs. And we certainly didn't share the same dreams for the future. But one thing I never doubted we shared was love. I didn't always like my siblings, but I always loved them.

After my mother died four and a half years ago, my brothers stopped talking to me. It happened gradually, over a six month period, but once both Mom and Dad's ashes had been poured into Monterey Bay,  Joe and Doug disappeared as thoroughly as if they, too, were at the bottom of the sea.

My sister followed suit, nursing some imaginary hurt. She and I had exchanged some heated and hurtful words after Mom's death. She had stabbed me in the heart, and made me question whether any of the past 59 years had been real.

But several years later, she finally responded to one of my barrage of emails and phone calls, and decided she wanted to be friends again. The only rule was, we weren't to talk about what had happened. No explanations, no apologies.

Whatever. Fine. Things went all right for a while, but then, last summer, I pissed her off again. I wrote about that in the first post on this blog. We got past that, and after her granddaughter was born, things seemed fine.
But apparently they weren't.

The last time I heard from her was just before the Super Bowl this year. She didn't answer my next two emails, and she didn't respond to the card and letter I sent at Easter. I figured I'd annoyed her again.

But I figured she'd get over it, right? As the weeks wore on, I sometimes thought of her, but mostly I just went on with my life.

Until April 15th. Yes, it's tax day, but it's also my birthday. This year, there was very little discussion of my birthday. No one asked what I wanted, or what I was doing that day, or if I wanted to go somewhere. My daughter said if I wanted to do something the weekend before, to let her know, but I really didn't.

The truth was, I was nursing this secret hope that there was a surprise in the works. I thought maybe my sister's silence was because she was planning on flying out here for my birthday and was afraid she would blow the secret if she called or emailed. In my mind, that explained why there was no card from her, much less a present, and why no one was pushing me to make plans with them.

I waited all day. I checked the mail, I checked my phone, I kept looking out the window. What a fool I was.
I cried myself to sleep that night.