Author: smarthu (Page 1 of 12)

Lost my brother Bill a couple weeks ago, to a wicked cancer, which was discovered at stage 4 already. He was initially given 18 months, by a doctor my brother dubbed “Dr. Doom.” He promptly switched doctors, and with the help of my wonderful and attentive sister-in-law, even switched insurances to get the best doctors who handle his type of cancer.

He went through chemo, which he handled like a champ, and eventually got approved for genetic tests, which revealed a damaged chromosome, but also led to him getting on immune therapy.

It worked for a while, almost removing the initial tumor (in his esophagus), but he still had a spot on his spine.

Ultimately, the gene therapy didn’t work on the spine and it turned out that the cancer had gone to his brain, which required more treatment.

He never wanted to stop treatment; wanted to live. I don’t blame him.

He passed 1 year after his diagnosis.

F**k cancer. I’m hopeful though to immune and other non-aggressive treatments in the future.

I grew up in a small town in Western Colorado, near the Utah border (could drive to Utah in 20 minutes. I never traveled outside of Colorado until the age of 19 when I flew (Rocky Mountain “scare-ways” so named because the prop jet flied low over the Rockies and created horrible turbulence). I learned to be afraid of flying.

I decided I wanted to travel after I graduated from high school (a real feat for me, since I was a teen mom to a beautiful daughter during a time when doing so was up there with murder or grand larceny). The first thing I did was to buy a set of second-hand luggage from a used goods store. That’s what I do, it seems, buy the thing that will support what I want to do. Later on I bought furniture that was much too large for the home my family lived in, but we later built that house and put the furniture in it.

I still didn’t make it out of Colorado until the age of 21 or so; I only flew back and forth to Denver.

When anyone asked me what I wanted to do, what my goals were, I said: to get a college degree, to own a home for me and my daughter, to get married, and to travel. I have done all these things and more, and I’m a happy woman.

I didn’t really travel until I was 30 years old, and then it was for work. I overcame my fear of flying and decided that traveling for work wasn’t all that exciting.

When I met my husband (my current one; the first one was successful in giving me a second lovely daughter), he wanted to travel. And, off we went. We traveled the U.S., Hawaii, then overseas. I felt guilty at first. It seemed frivolous and selfish, but I soon realized that it also bought possibilities to my children (at least I hope so).

My husband taught me to travel really, to not be afraid of it, and that travel broadens a person’s horizons in all senses of the word.

I also have a love of reading and writing.

My 3-book mystery series about travel is due out later in 2026, published by Level Best Publishing.

It isn’t the writing part, it’s making your work public and all that entails.

Criticism, good and bad.

Work, blog posts, getting blurbs to put on book covers and inside, writing acknowledgements, etc.

Add to that Social Media (didn’t used to be this way back in the day).

Add to that doing marketing.

I have several books in virtual files on my computer that will never require anything of me. Not accepting criticism from people. Not marketing. Not making sure my author picture is current enough to be recognizable, not caring about sales numbers.

The thing is, I do it to have a voice and maybe leave something behind (besides my children and grands, who are my real legacy).

Of all the aspects of writing, POV (Point of View) has always been a mystery to me.

I recently sent some pages (a start of a novel I’m fiddling with) to an editor for his opinion. He sent back with some changes, saying that I tend to “slide into different points of view.”

I’d always thought that there were three points of view: first person (I); second person (you–seldom used accept in the novel Bright Lights, Big City and a handfull of others); 3rd (she/he).

Turns out I use “omniscient narrator” a lot, which isn’t really point of view, but rather “narrator perspective.” Now, I’m confused.

But, this editor (his professional name is The Book Butcher), helped me tremendously.

Turns out that maybe I live my life in omniscient narrator; i’m often feeling like I’m on the outside watching people, looking at the action and telling it rather than showing.

Here’s what I sent him (first paragraph):

It hadn’t rained for over 60 days, and the Western Colorado ranchers and farmers temperatures had kept pace with the rising thermometers. Some blamed the KREX weather girl, some blamed God, but no matter who they blamed, not a drop fell from the sky. The farmers needed the rain, the corn needed it, the melons, the peaches.

Here’s what he sent back (same paragraph in first person “close” point of view instead of first person “omniscient.”

It hadn’t rained for over sixty days, and to Rae it felt as if the heat had settled into western Colorado the same way it settled into her bones. Every day the thermometer climbed, and every day locals found someone new to blame: the weather girl, failed cloud seeding, God, anyone–but Rae only knew one thing for sure: the sky stayed empty. No rain. Not for the farmers, not for the corn or the melons or the peach trees she passed on her drives.

One more mystery solved.

Now, if the Book Butcher would write the rest of the book for me.

I have always been afraid of doctors and I suspect many people are, especially people who have had negative or even devastating experiences with medical issues. Hate to say it, but it increases as you get older and more prone to get one disease or another.

Talking with other people, I at least make it to the doctor, humiliating as it is at times, but I realize that many people don’t. My manicurist, middle-aged, confessed that she never has seen a doctor, not even when pregnant. She gave birth at home without medication. Then another nail technician piped in, saying he set his own broken bone. He showed us his misshapen arm. This should not happen.

I, at least, want the meds, but am always afraid of finding out i have some dreaded disease.

I see a show sometimes called “Pimple Popper,” a kind of disgusting title, but I can’t believe how many people live with some growth that has expanded to the size of a cantaloupe and still haven’t seen a doctor.

Sometimes it’s out of fear, somtimes lack of insurance and funds to pay for a doctor visit and procedure.

I call this FOFO (fear of finding out). This, and self-diagnosing via internet and asking non-medical people, sometimes leads to missed diagnosis that have really bad consequences.

On the other spectrum are people who are misdiagnosed or dismissed as being obsessive or fearful, thereby causing their own illness.

I’m determined to be more brave, being more of an example to my children and family.

Get those screenings, no matter how uncomfortable.

Look into aid for medical care if you don’t have insurance.

It’s better to know, and a relief if you’re found to be healthy.

So, instead of “dreaded doctor,” I’m trying to call medicine and doctors “harbingers of health.”

Not all docs are equal; if you find one who is dismissive or brusk with you or doesn’t answer questions, find another.

Someone once said that 50% of doctors graduated in the bottom of their class….

I grew up in a relatively non-reading household. By that I mean my father was a reader, but read mostly pulp westerns, Field & Stream and Mechanical Engineering. My brother read comic books (until he got into Dune series later). I must have read all the fine print on every package of cereal I poured a bowl from.

Other than that, there was a dearth of reading materials in my house, at least when I was young. I would accept my grandmother’s McCall’s Magazine, which had paper dolls in the back you could cut out. (Betsy McCall was her name). I read almost all the Archie comics and the Donald Duck ones, but didn’t like the super-hero comics.

At a tender age, I took some of my uncle’s murder mystery pulp magazines and read some of those, which scared me so bad that I threw them away. I’m not sure anyone in the house knew I was reading them.

I hadn’t yet discovered the library (my fourth grade teacher introduced me, having noticed I like to read the labels on everything). I was off and running in the reading department. I read through Nancy Drew and her pals the Hardy Boys mysteries. My favorite book was Wrinkle in Time, and the L’engle series.

I grew up in a family of seven children, and we drew names for Christmas gifts with the extended family. I remember my grandmother drew my name only once, and she gave me Little Women, which I read at least three times.

I knew I would grow up with a love for books:; the way they smell musty and full of information; the way they let you travel without leaving your room; and the way they let you jump into another person’s life (real or imagined).

I never imagined I’d grow up with a love of also writing books. I didn’t realize until high school that an actual person wrote these books.

That was when I started reading the author biographies in the back of the books.

All that to say, may libraries always be available and free! It hurts my heart that anyone in America would want to ban books and disparage libraries.

Knowledge is power.

While visiting Japan —i know, humble brag—we visited a kind of Japanese craft store & one small section sold what the Japanese call Kintsugi Art.

Kintsugi is the art of putting broken pieces of plate or pot together (via some kind of soldering technique) with gold, and the result is beautiful (if not functional), each piece different and stronger than the original, perhaps more flexible

At the risk of sounding too, as they call it in writing lingo, flowery, I felt that maybe I and many others, are like Kintsugi pottery, broken in pieces and in infinitely different ways, made stronger by our physical and psychological scars, the gold in between the breaks. The gold represents both reward and trophy for a hurt, a catastrophe, a loss, or simply an unexpected change. Also, how it is up to each person to put a broken plate or bowl together in a way they struggle through in their own way.

So, I am a porcelain plate repaired with scars of gold.

Or, maybe I am a Haiku.

Or, maybe I need to chill and take a walk.

I realize that I write faster (and maybe better) when I have an “assignment.” I recently volunteered to write a short story for Sisters in Crime Colorado Chapter for their Anthology series.

I was able to churn out an outline, character studies and story within a week.

Makes me think I fail to write up to my word-count expectations.

Except, in order to have a finished product, I want to know that what I’m writing might actually be needed–or read for that matter.

I’m working on book two of a three-book contract, but meanwhile waiting for development edits on the first book. What if there are dramatic changes to the first book that might require changes to the second?

So many reasons (excuses) for not writing. Is it writer’s block? Is there any such thing as writer’s block?

I’ve often said that trying to be a writer is like assigning yourself homework for the rest of your life.

Maybe I miss school/college? If so, I’m fairly certain I could do the research and paper edits much faster with the help of the Internet.

Except for last week when my Internet was sporadically down.

I consider myself a “multi-tasker” but lately have wondered if I can write more than one project at a time.

I’m currently working on book one of a contracted mystery series; manuscript sent and waiting for author related materials and edit requests, working on a new novel project (decided to table this because I’m getting characters confused), and working on 2 anthology short stories due by January.

When I worked for a corporation, I juggled lots of things, pushed dates sometimes, made mistakes and did re-work sometimes, but this seems different. Maybe because I’m doing it for myself.

I have to have some kind of deadline to really deep-dive on things, so having a contract helps; that project seems more important, but also sends me into the “dreads,” where I put off working on it.

No different than working for a corporation, but I’m “doing what I love,” Right?

Keep on reading and writing.

And please, fight book banning. The more information we have, the better.

DH and I had a long-scheduled visit to downtown Denver last weekend to eat dinner and see a comedy show at Bellco Theatre near Buell theatre (the theatre hub for Denver). When Saturday came around, we had an urge to NOT go, to give up the tickets and stay home.

We decided if we didn’t get out of our comfort-zone and do it, we might have FOMO (fear of missing out for the fellow-boomers out there). Then we talked about what if we decided not to go; what would it be called?

We decided there is a yin-yang to everything, so if therei s a FOMO, there is a GIMI (glad I missed it). If we decide not to go, we should just say “GIMI.”

We went, had perfect weather, perfect meal at Ocean Prime, and a so-so comedy show.

Glad we went.