Photo: Word Wise Tips

I publish this blog post every November and I believe it still bears repeating.

'TWAS THE MONTH BEFORE CHRISTMAS 

I confess I'm not a fan of Christmas letters.  

During the holiday season, my husband and I receive a handful of single-spaced letters typed on the front and on the back.  

So many words.  

In some holiday letters, photos are added here and there and I can't help but wonder if the sender thinks this will break up the text in order to make the reading more bite-size and thus more pleasurable. 

When one arrives in the mail, I put it side.  A holiday letter is a time commitment.  I have to fit it into my schedule in order to read it from start to finish.  

But senders may have a different vision of how their letters are perceived.  Perhaps they imagine me eagerly tearing into the envelope, pulling out reading glasses, and being enthralled with the 1000-word letter that consists of exotic vacations, camping trips, biking trips, the 4th of July celebrations, concerts, news about the kids, the grandkids, the pets.  Wait...did I miss something?  Yes, the grand pets. 

In most cases, these letters are sent with love to inform and to stay connected, yet sometimes, they seem to come across as bragging, and to me that is a put-off.  

On the other hand, I love receiving Christmas cards.  You know, the sparkly ones with glitter that sticks to fingers and to every surface they touch.  These cards portray serene winter scenes with snowy trees and frosted wreaths, deer and cardinals, ice-skaters and villages.  Often times, the senders may even include a hand-written note.  And they can even be displayed on mantels and bookshelves.  As for showing off the long-winded Christmas letters?  Hmmm...I think not.  

There are probably a gazillion people who love receiving the holiday letters.  They may even look forward to them.  And I would too, if they were shorter and more interesting.  If they were addressed to me instead to friends.  

Sad to say, so many of the letters that my husband and I receive lack a sincere way to communicate during the holidays.  Many friends haven't discovered how to write concise letters that I would actually look forward to reading.  

If you're among those who enjoy writing a holiday letter, I applaud your efforts, but I have some questions for you: 

Is your letter merely a month-by-month account of your accomplishments and travels?  And, is it the stuff your readers can relate to?    

Christmas will soon be upon us and I hate to be the one to tell you, but nobody wants to slog through a long self-centered letter.  So, I challenge you to come up with a short humble recap of the year and write personalized note at the end.  

And if you can do that, I will find time to sit down and enjoy your letter.   

À la prochaine!

For more on writing a great holiday letter, check these tips.

 https://blog.cardsdirect.com/holidays-special-occasions/tips-for-great-christmas-letters/

 https://www.nonprofitcopywriter.com/write-a-Christmas-letter.html

                                                                            My ballet class, me on the far left.

THE FEAR OF PERFORMING  

I confess I don't enjoy performing on stage.

There is a story, well, actually several:

So, let's go back, way back...

When I was six-years-old I danced in a ballet recital.  I wasn't nervous, but I should have been.  I didn't learn all of the steps and decided to follow the girl in front of me...until the teacher switched the order of dancers and I became the lead dancer! ON THE NIGHT OF THE PERFORMANCE!  Needless to say, I had to look over my shoulder to keep up with the others. 

As a teenager, I competed in a talent contest and played the piano.  My fingers flew across the keys so fast (faster than the piece was supposed to be played) that I skipped sections and repeated others phrases.  If you were familiar with the piece you'd know it sounded nothing like it was supposed to be played.   

Fast forward some twenty years.  I was on stage was for a springtime dance recital hosted by my ballet school.  I knew the steps by heart, but the stage lights distracted me.  They were intensely bright and hot and when the music began, my feet froze.  It was the weirdest experience.  It felt like I was nailed to the spot.  I literally could not move, though my brain was saying GO. GO. GO! Finally, I loosened up and completed the dance with my classmates.  

Ever since then, I refuse to perform on stage.  But that doesn't stop me from dancing. 

I take classes throughout the year with KRDT (Kentucky Repertory Dance Theatre).  In fact the teachers offer a summer dance intensive.  This special class is taught by Sue Champion, founder of KRDT for 3 hours Monday - Thursday.  Specifically, it involves 30 minutes of core strengthening followed by 2 and a half hours of barre and ballet.  I took this class last year and loved the challenge, but this year a performance was added—which I didn't know about until it was too late to back out.  Sue began choreographing the dance on our first evening.  

I dreaded the thought of performing.  My previous experiences weighed on me.  However, as I learned the dance steps, I felt better knowing the performance would be held in the comfort of our studio.  No dancing on a stage.  No hot lights.  A smaller audience.  Plus Sue would be off to the side mouthing the dance steps in case we forgot.  

On the evening of the performance, I didn't feel scared.  Something in my heart told me I could do this.  I knew the steps.  After our final bows, I glowed with accomplishment.  I had learned two dances in a very short time and performed them in front of families and friends.  By concentrating on the uplifting spiritual words of one song as well as the haunting melody of the other, I was able to relax, to enjoy and to move effortlessly to the music.   

Below is our rehearsal of a Russian peasant dance with Sue Champion instructing us.  I'm the dancer with the blue scarf.  Who knows about next summer and whether I'll take the intensive.  It was challenging work.  But so much fun.  Maybe, just maybe I will perform again.

Paix

                                                                                                                                                                       photo: Stacey Back

 AFTER THE FUNERAL

I confess I dwell on things. Like the way my family treats me.

One would think after losing a father, things would be better between brothers and sisters.

And nothing's changed after the funeral.

My siblings rarely initiate a phone call or think of inviting me to family affairs. They even forgot to merge me into the phone call when making funeral arrangements for our dad.

There's more (unfortunately).

The other day, my sister texted me and my brothers if anyone was going to my cousin's (Vicki's) 90th birthday party.  I didn't receive an invitation from Vicki or her family.  The first I heard of it was 15 minutes BEFORE the party started—in Louisville, Kentucky—75 miles away.  Somehow, my sister  and brothers knew about it.  I later learned that one of my brothers had been personally invited after our father's funeral.  Now maybe he assumed I had been invited, too.  Who knows?  But everyone knew about the party but me.  

My relationship with one brother has not been good for years.  After the funeral he reached out and said he was going to do better, that he would communicate more often.  I called him 2 weeks later to chat on Father's Day.  It's been nearly two months and he hasn't bothered to call. 

I left a phone message with my other brother, wanting to catch up and find out about his recent trip to England.  And...as you'd expect...he didn't return my call. 

The funny thing is, I am not hurting as much as you'd think.  I'm used to being invisible to them. 

It's a shame we're not close.  But I know I'm not alone.  Other friends have told me their own family relationships are similar, if not worse.

Though I dwell on being mistreated, I usually get over feeling hurt in a day or two.  I'm used to this treatment and can't expect anything more from my family.  They are who they are.  In a perfect world, we'd get along, want to be together, want to chat on the phone.  But nothing's perfect, especially with  families.

I think about my wonderful husband and daughter and the great relationship we have.  We enjoy being together.  We want to chat with one another.  The same goes for friends and neighbors.  We care about each other. We want to be a part of each other's lives. 

Life is too short to be surrounded by those who could give a f*uck about me.  I hang around with people who are kind and caring.  I busy myself with planning vacations, studying French, taking ballet, and writing picture books.  I focus on the things that bring me joy and avoid the things that pull me down. And in the end, I force myself to remember:  those who don't think of me aren't worth being around. 

Paix

STILL MISSING HIM

I confess I am still grieving. 

My dad passed away in June.

And I still ache for him.

I've welled up with tears, but I haven't cried.  

I'm still processing his death.  

He should be here.  I know this sounds crazy, but he was a healthy 97-year-old man.

Sure, his hearing wasn't great, but he was sharp.  He could cruise down the halls of Vitality Living with his walker at top speed.  He took painting classes, exercised, and enjoyed happy hour.  He ate well.  Dad had a caregiver who visited four days a week and took care of his laundry, tidied up his apartment, and kept him company when family couldn't be there.  

But Dad also had heart issues.  This news came to us after he died.  We didn't know until his nurse told us.  She had advised that he have testing.  He refused.  In the end, this did him in. 

On top of heart problems, he got disoriented and confused which led to hospitalization.  What made this worse was when he was admitted, his case was mis-managed.  He was released too early and did not get the proper care he needed in order to get over a cough that had developed while in the hospital. 

Granted, managing an elderly person is tricky.  You treat one ailment which can lead to other complications.  Such was his case.  After he returned to assisted living, he had to be re-admitted to the hospital.  This time, in worse shape. In two days, he was gone. 

I keep his calendar in my study.  On it, he kept track of his appointments and family member's birthdays.  The last date on his calendar was June 10, the day before he died.

I keep an envelope that he used to jot down people's name and phone numbers.  This envelope and the calendar remind me of him.  

I keep his voicemails so I can listen to him speak to me.

I keep his thick, grey sweater on the back of a chair in my study.  When I touch it, I feel like I'm giving him a hug.

I think my dad wanted to live longer and enjoy his home and friends.   

I think he should have had a few more good months.  

I think he should still be here.     

Paix

IN MEMORY OF MY DAD

Dad loved ice cream

    He used to call himself Eugene Van Gogh

Eugene Miller

a coin collector

a dancer

an avid reader

a joke-teller

a painter

stubborn but adorable

a WWII veteran

a friend

a brother

an uncle

a husband

my dad

I will miss his phone calls, that "How are you doing today?"

I will miss his sly look, that gleam in his eye. 

I will miss my dad forever.

Paix

 

                                                                                                                                                          Photo: Lukas Medvedevas

SECRET

Something that happened 50 years ago still troubles me.   

When I was in my mid-twenties, I met Rick at a party.  Sparks flew that night.  We hit it off and felt deeply connected.  It was as if we had known each other long before.  After dating for a year, we decided to move in together.  When the lease was up in November, we renewed it for another year.  But one month afterward, he broke up with me—on Christmas day.  

I was absolutely devastated.  Emotionally and financially.  Not only was it really bad timing, he left me with the responsibility of paying 11 months for a two-bedroom apartment.  And the worse thing was, he couldn't tell me why he wanted to break up.  He simply said he had to leave. 

I asked him if he was gay, but he denied it.  It didn't matter to me if his sexual preferences had changed.  I simply wanted to know for closure.  But he couldn't tell me why he needed to leave.   

And...to top it off, he sent me a letter a few months later informing me he had moved to California and how great his life was.  What was he thinking?  I wanted to tell him:  F*ck you!  You screwed me over and then gloat about how happy you are?   

Many years later, I found out that he had passed away.  His obituary was in the local paper.  It stated that he had been married, lived in Massachusetts, and had three daughters and that he died unexpectantly at home.  I sent his mother a sympathy card and placed a picture of him inside it.  I was hoping she'd write back, but she never did.  I wanted to know how he died.  Was it an accident or did he commit suicide?  

To this day, I wonder what really happened.  If I lean into my gut feelings, I suspect he killed himself. Though he would never admit it to me, I believe he was secretly gay.  I have good reason to believe that the month before we broke up, he was having an affair with another man.  

His death must have been tragic for his family.  Rick was only 50-years-old.  I suppose his wife remarried.  His daughters are now grown-up.  Once, I toyed with the idea of trying to contact her, to express my sadness about his passing and to find out how he died.  But this would have been too awkward, especially if he had died of a heart attack or an accident at home.  And then again, if he was gay and couldn't live with that fact, I would have been able to give her a reason why he took his life.  In the end, I nixed the idea.  It would have been too selfish of me, and reaching out to her could cause more harm than good. 

Over the last few years, Rick's father, then his mother, and then a brother passed away.  I had actually wanted to go to the funerals, but after all of these years, they wouldn't have remembered me.  I would have wanted to learn what really happened to Rick. 

It's been over twenty years and still, something aches inside me.  Not from the residual pain of the break-up, but from not knowing what caused the break-up.  Why couldn't he have told me?  Surely, there was a reason.  I think back to my younger self, being madly in love and then being dumped without any answers.  How did I get through that heartache?  

To this day, I live with this unknowing.  This silent and unspoken part of my past.  Somethings are never forgotten.  Somethings will remain a secret. 

À la prochaine!

                                                                                                                                                   Photo: Kyle Johnson

LIKE CLIMBING MOUNT EVEREST 

I never thought I had it in me—

I only write 500-word picture book stories. 

But I decided to write a middle grade novel in verse 

after composing a 50-word story about a girl named Shelby

for Vivian Kirkfield's 50 Precious Words Contest.

This very short story inspired me to go in depth 

and tell Shelby's story while using 

the 50 words as a chapter in the book.

Surprisingly, this novel flowed out quickly

and in no time I had 2000 words.

If you do the math, that's as many words as 

four picture books.

After comparing it to the multi-prize-winning Love That Dog, 

a 4,000-word middle-grade novel in verse by Sharon Creech, 

I realized my story needed to be developed more. So, I 

created subplots and new characters, reached 6,000 words, 

and thought that was long enough for this genre.

But wanting to be sure, I reached out 

to an agent to find out if this 6000 story

would be long enough for a middle grade novel in verse 

and she said try to flesh out the story more

and aim for 20,00 words. 

Which freaked me out. 

How could I expand my story that much?  

To me, that seemed excessive.

So, I researched again and found the 

sweet spot for middle grade novel in verse

for ages 8 - 12 was between 10, 000 - 15,000 words. 

This was still daunting. 

For me, this was like climbing Mount Everest.

But, maybe doable.

I developed a plot twist, added more tension,

and delivered all of this in an imaginative and creative format 

which managed to move the plot forward 

and in the end, me, a picture book writer used to writing only 

500-word stories 

finally reached 14,000 words.  

Is it enough for a middle grade novel in verse?

I won't know until I submit this work to agents.

But if I have to reach 20,000 words, 

it would feel like padding this story.

As is, the book feels complete.  

There are character arcs—

every character changes and grows.

I won't know if my word count will work against me.

Agents may expect a middle grade book to run longer.

(And I would argue, this is a novel in verse, and these run shorter.)

I have asked beta readers to help me out

and let me know if the story is captivating 

and to mark places that may need more attention. 

After this step?  I have an opportunity to submit

to agents interested in middle grade novels with

a unique format and strong voice.  

Why put myself through writing a piece with

so much effort and time invested?  With no guarantee it will be published?

That's kind of hard to answer. 

But I think it's because this story was brewing inside me.

I had to tell Shelby's story. 

I was driven to put it in words, 

every bit of this mysterious, sad and uplifting story, 

all of it in 14,000 words. 

À la prochaine!