To Friendship

My daughter came home last night from play practice sprinting for the phone. "I have to call her. It will only take one second. I have to tell her!" She pleaded with me.

I told her no, she needs to go to bed. Then I looked at her and she had the look. It was like denying her Tylenol for a fever. She needed five minutes to tell her friend something. I remembered for that split second who the friend was that I had to talk to every night.

He was my locker-mate senior year. Double Fantasy just came out. I don't remember why we shared a locker. I suspect it was to insure that we saw each other every second we could.

I stopped in the hallway last night staring at my house, my life now, and remembering all those nights on the phone. Remembering how my heart would stop when my mother would inform me that I had a message. Remembering how just seeing his name scribbled on a piece of torn off white paper lying on the kitchen counter made my heart skip a beat. It took a grave effort for me not break out in a giggle over it.

We were like best friends. We never dated. When I think back on it now I'm not sure what happened, why we didn't date, but I suspect it was my fault. No, I know it was my fault. I remember vividly (like it was last week) literally running away from his advances. Running away from his kiss. Running away from getting hurt. Running away from the possibility (or reality in my mind) that he would love me and then leave me.

I was too scared. Scared that somehow if our relationship went to the next level that I could get hurt. Really hurt. I was so afraid of being hurt that I pushed him away. And I pushed hard.

He was the only thing I remember that was good about high school for me. We shared every thought, every dream, every angst that went on in our lives. We loved John Lennon and what he stood for. He told me to never change. Stay who I was. He was right.

Unfortunately, I did change. And not for the best. The next few years after high school were the worst in my life, filled with enough tragedy to write books about. ?REALLY?

It was though he knew me so well he could see it coming.

As I write my letters to prospective agents I tell them that I believe books can change people's lives. Not only do I believe that, I experience it every time I read a book. I finished Wally Lamb's book She's Come Undone recently. Through the tragic life of his characters, I was able to see more clearly the mistakes, the misfortunes and most importantly, the blessings and the things I have done absolutely right in my life. I saw my life more clearly than I ever have.

I heard Marketa Irglova (Once, 2006) say in an interview that she feels every friend she's had in her life, good or bad, has made her who she is and she's grateful for that. I thought that was really profound. And as I look back on my high school years, I feel really lucky to have had a friend that loved me enough to tell me not to change. To be so insightful at eighteen. To be such a good friend.

So to my good friend, wherever he is now: I'm sorry.

PS I still have my yearbook with your drawing in it. You were right: I haven't forgotten about the John Lennon memorial service in Grant Park...But you know you never finished what you were writing to me...something about not being a conformist and the revolution...

I remember the wink at our graduation ceremony.

Thanks for our friendship and I hope you haven't changed either!

The End...

The ending of Secrets Between Sisters has been quite challenging for me, and that's no secret. The book's been done for months. It has six endings. Each time I write the ending, I've come back to the story, reading it, re-reading it, unsatisfied...

One thing I knew for sure about the ending was that Carmella and Howie had to stay together (thank God). Face it, I'm a hopeless romantic. Carmella and Howie had to "live happily ever-after". But what troubled me was the decision Carmella had to make about the secret. Should she reveal it? Should she not? It's such a moral issue and it became very personal to me, as though I was giving one of my children moral advice. So every day, I sat down and wrote it. Then the next day, I'd sit down and re-write it.

Finally, last night I was trying to fall asleep, going over and over in my head what Carmella should do and why the heck I couldn't find it in me to write the ending that I felt happy with. Then, it dawned on me what my problem was. It wasn't the ending that was bothering me it was....the end... that was troubling me.

By ending this book, I have to say good-bye to these characters. As nuts as it sounds, these people feel real to me. They're my....well...co-workers. They've been a part of my life for years. So, I sat up and decided that I don't have to necessarily say good-bye. I just have to finish telling this one story. This one aspect of their life. Just as it is in real life, sometimes it's easier to hide from the truth and believe that this is not good-bye forever. It's just "so long, see you next time" type of thing.

So today, I wrote the last words. It was satisfying. It made me feel good. And it made me a little sad. And isn't it ironic, that I write a book about hiding from the truth, when in fact I have to hide from the truth to truly end it? Whoa.

To Critique or Not Critique, That Is the Question....

I recently attended a workshop that revolved around writing and finishing a novel. We had the option of signing up for a critique group during this weekend.  Much to my surprise it was a great experience.  Invaluable, in fact.  But even still, the topic of critiquing leaves me feeling like I want to rant.

Luckily, the people that I was in the critique group were all fantastic.  They gave criticism, but constructive to the point that I find some of their opinions have really helped my work.  In fact, they were nice enough NOT to say right out loud, to my face, "That's a stupid secret!"  When I unveiled the secret surrounding my story.  Instead, they gently offered their opinion that maybe I find something more....well...secretive...exciting...um...even interesting??  This feedback lead me to go back to the hotel, have a stiff drink and realize they were dead on right. My secret sucked.  Big time!  

In the car the next morning, while hubby was driving me to my workshop, I told him about the secret, about how the group politely said it sucked.  His response: When did you write that???? That's REALLY stupid!! You can think of something better than that!  (Did I mention that he's always brutally honest with me?)

Luckily, the secret is something that even I haven't known the truth of up until this point, so changing it only requires the rewrite of the last few chapters (drop in the bucket at this point).

So I went home and got to thinking up a brand new one. I went up to my bedroom and decided I was going to lie there, like a person on a psychiatrist couch and think of something really good! 

It took me all day Sunday, but I did it. 

(By the way, I ran it by hubby....he loved it.)

Now, don't get me wrong, this critique experience was not a walk in the park (I'm using a cliche..If I ran this blog posting by a critique group, they'd hang me by my toenails).  There were some suggestions that I flat out refuse to even entertain.  Nope.  I know it in my heart.  I change that, I change my character, I change the story, and I'm not doing it.  Let's be honest, comments like that as easy as they are to throw out of your mind, can irritate the living crap out of you.  

What's not easy to throw out of your mind (and still irritate) are the comments/suggestions that you're not really sure about.  Those were and will be tough to deal with.  These are the decisions that require a writer to dig deep and totally make a decision based on gut, inner voice.  

So of course with all this, I got to thinking philosophically about it.  What does it say about a person who is able to pour their deepest, innermost intimate thoughts and feelings out on paper and then be....criticized?    

I guess that's the nature of artists...

Or is it the nature of human beings?  

Maybe being critiqued is the only way we know how to learn?  School is like one big critique session, isn't it?   And then we graduate and get a job.  And what happens in our jobs:  We work hard, put forth a great amount of effort just to have a "boss"  give us a review, telling us what we do well and what we need to improve.  Sounds like a critique to me...

So maybe my rant isn't worth raving about.  Maybe I've just been feeling too sensitive, too impatient, too possessive of my work.  

Okay, I can live with that...