It's A Mystery To Me

Every writer and non-writer has experienced blocks. I experienced it while trying to gear up to finish or even start a project at work back when I worked at a corporation (at a job now described by the youngest working generation as “soul-sucking.”) I experienced a “block”whenever I had to start or finish a project.

I now think writer’s block is just fear compounded by procrastination, or procrastination caused by fear or dread.

I would dread starting a project knowing how much energy it would take. I feared failing (which happened sometimes). I feared getting fired from my job. With writers, it might be fear of rejection, that you’d spend a year or longer on a book only to have it rejected.

Add in ADHD or some milder form of attention deficit, and starting and completing a project becomes more complicated.

The Internet is a great help, but also a great distraction. The Internet and Social Media gives our procrastination and attention deficit fuel.

I’ve tried programs that forbid me to enter into a site until my allotted writing hours are up. I’m proud and ashamed to say I’ve defeated all these programs.

I’ve tried wondering why in the world I’m writing when I could be enjoying myself in the outdoors or knitting or cooking or doing something that produces something tangible.

For now, I’m continuing to write, if only because writing books was and is something I’ve always wanted to do. Even if I get rejected. Even if I never make much money.

Now, I think I’ll go on Insta–see what’s happening there.

You know, the guy who writes and produces shows like Yellowstone, The Lioness and Landman?

I confess that I originally thought Taylor was a woman, and also admit that I was disappointed that Taylor is a man. Not a bad thing, it just put a different spin on things for me.

What makes his writing so engaging, so liked by men and women alike? His shows seem to be the exact proportion of action and emotion, of character and a little politics thrown in.

I recently read an interview with Mr. Sheridan that was later published in a magazine.

His writing advice: “I’ve made up little mantras for myself, catchphrases from a screenwriting book that doesn’t exist. One is “Write the movie you’d pay to go see.” Another is “Never let a character tell me something that the camera can show me.” Then there’s “You always want the audience wondering what’s going to happen next, never what’s happening.” Maybe if I’d graduated college or read a book on screenwriting, I’d do things differently. But this is how I do ’em.” Taylor Sheridan.

He also uses a philosophy of keeping the plot simple. I’ve not thought his stories to be simple, but if you study them, they are simple (except for many flashbacks).

I think he’s got a handle on it. He’s cracked the code.

Can’t wait for the new Landman season.

The theme of ‘shame’ follows me throughout my life. All of us have felt it at one time or another. I wrote a little about it in my first little-known book “Surviving Teen Pregnancy.”

I was reminded of the meaning and damage that shame brings during a recent yearly health check. The Physician’s Assistant doing my exam had lost about 50 pounds during the year since I’d seen her. I hesitated to tell her how good she looked; she had not only lost weight, but ‘glowed’ up her look and her clothing.

At the end of the exam, I told her how good she looked.

“GLP-1,” she said.

“Oh. Well, you look great.”

“Thank you. Now when I look at old pictures, I’m ashamed of myself. I even burned some of them.”

She left the room, and I felt like crying. Nobody should feel shame like this. Not over who we once were. Those things about ourselves who make us who we are today, good or bad, are part of our journey through life.

Sometimes I start to feel shame over my age, over telling people how old I am. Age shouldn’t be shameful, although in society, somehow it is. I once felt shame when someone visibly did the math on how young I had children. Now, ironically, society tells me to feel shame about advancing age and the things that come with it.

I have felt shame and I have been shamed, and I am choosing to reject these feelings when they come up and are inappropriate. Shame brings you down. Shame is something you can accept or not accept.

Sure, I still feel shame about things, but I’m choosing to squash those feelings when they was over me.

I recently received a small box with an Amazon label on it. I get one every day, almost, but this time I opened it and it contained—five ARCs (Advance Review Copies) of my upcoming book The Lost Tourist in Egypt. These ARCs came from my publisher, LBB (Level Best Books), which publishes mysteries and other genres.

My first reaction was not pride, joy or surprise; it was fear. I actually had to calm myself down as my brain went to fear of public speaking (sometimes required when you publish), fear of a hosting a book party or signing, fear of what “people” might think or say. Am I a closet writer?

I’m trying to become more fearless in this later stage of life, to be unafraid unless warranted (such as threat to life or limb or threat to my loved ones). I’ve had many fears and dare I say, phobias in my life, most having to do with judgement from others, fear of saying or doing the wrong thing, speaking in publish, and many others. Why can’t I have a normal phobia, like fear of needles (doesn’t phase me) or fear of elevators (ditto)?

I belong to a book club (zoom), and the most recent one was a fellow “Sister in Crime Colorado,” who wrote a book where the protagonist is a serial killer. Mind you, this club is filled with cozy mystery readers, nary a serial killer in print.

I like the way she handled any criticism or cringy comments, but it made me think–you are not your book and neither are you a character in your book. This woman occasionally flashed a slight look of embarrassment, and I cringed by proxy for her.

But, I came away with advice for myself; write the best book, the best words, the truest words and story (according to you) that you can. And, by the way, edit edit edit. Don’t let criticism, which is fated to arrive, or shame soak into you. Deflect it and get on with your next book.

True, this book for which I got my first box of Advanced Reader’s Copies, is a mid-list wanna-be book, most likely never destined to make much money or readership, but may encourage me to keep on with this hobby-dream of mine, one for which I waited probably decades.

So, I will tip-toe into this experience until I decide to dive in head-first. I’m not expecting awards, accolades or blessings from Oprah, but to be heard, to be read, to be what everyone wants to be–relevant.

Here is the ARC for my new book coming out in November. I have a 3-book contract and am working on book 2.

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. I wondered very briefly if he should’ve taken “Dr. Doom’s” initial diagnosis and he wouldn’t have gone through a year of painful and debilitating treatment. But, it gave him hope. It could have given future patients guidelines to treatments. It might have given hope for immune therapy and perhaps gave them more clues to developing better cancer treatment.

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

I will miss my brother and hold him fondly in my heart.

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.