Casting a Long Shadow

7:46 a.m.

I follow my shadow West on our morning walk,

When we head South, the shadow (attached at my feet) is beside me.

When we turn again the shadow chases me.

Sometimes the shadow is obscured 

by more dominating shadows of trees and buildings,

but I know it’s always there.

Nurses ask, “On a scale of one to ten how do you feel?”

A graphic designer asks, “On a gray scale with white being exquisite bliss and black being a black funk, just how funked up are you?”

Gray Scale

•  Sometimes 60%, sometimes 80%.

So what are your symptoms?

• Lack of concentration.
• Eating too much.
• Starting projects and not finishing.
• Staring at the wall.
• Starting to do ordinary paperwork, like recording bills and filing and then stopping to stare at the wall some more.
• Watching Netflix ALL DAY.
• Being tired.
• Forgetting things. I just thought of something I forgot, but now I can't remember what I forgot.
• Feel redundant.
• Not doing anything (Did I say that already?).

Sounds like some depression (I saw those symptoms on a pill commercial).

•  Hmm, but what if it’s alzheimer’s or dementia? 

And why do you think this is happening to you?

• Maybe it’s an “after a big project is done” slump?
• Maybe I’m sick of trying to promote my novel?
• Maybe I can’t figure out what happens in the next novel? 15,745 words in, and I don’t know where I’m going.
• Maybe I’m just tired?
• Maybe I’m eating too much sugar?
• Maybe it’s old age? Please not alzheimer's!

So what are you doing to fix the funk?

• Taking a two-mile morning walk with John (and our shadows) should help. But then I come home exhausted and sweaty, and need to watch Simon Baker in “The Guardian” for a couple episodes. I doubt if that’s fixing anything. Everyday, I say I’m not going to turn the TV on, but then I’m tired, so I turn it on. Tomorrow, I promise not to turn the tv on.
• During previous summers, I discovered that walking did something good to my brain--plot issues would get resolved. So I'll keep walking everyday. Physical activity is good for your mood and your brain and maybe your plot.
• The garden helps, like digging out weeds that have been hogging the raised flowerbed for years. But I have to focus only on the shovel and the immediate weeds. If I look at the rest of the yard, I get overwhelmed which leads to an 80% black funk.
• Focus on one flower. Make my eyes like a camera lens and let all the background go fuzzy.
• Read more of Super Brain and learn just how our amazing brains can be.
• Should I try yoga? More organic food? Less sugar?
• Talk to friends. That really helps!
• Write a blog to myself, maybe I’ll find answers...

The Urge to Purge

I’m allergic to dust—seriously. A few years ago when I went to the allergist for the first time, after some poking and scratching at my surfaces, he discovered that I’m allergic to dust, grass, trees, and cats. 

I like cats. I had one for nine years, but then its nine lives ran out and I didn’t have a cat anymore. 

I don’t like dust. I mostly leave it alone. I tend to treat it like I treat strange dogs, I walk by it quietly pretending to ignore it so it won’t bite me.

At this point you can start humming “Another one Bites the Dust” by Queen.

Last Monday, I began purging in my dining room. If you decide to purge, don’t do it in front of others. It can get ugly. Anyway, my urge to purge comes from an overwhelming need to own less. My eyes are constantly assaulted by STUFF. The fact that we have walls of open bookcases in the living room and dining room doesn’t help (although they do look nice—John built them, so of course, they’re wonderful).

My urge to purge is also inspired by Ann Amenta, my dear friend who had a stroke last September. Ann is the most generous person I know, she always gives dollars to homeless people, and months ago—even before the stroke—she gathered piles of clothes and books and treasures from her house and delivered them to a charity...not once asking for a receipt.

After seeing Ann last Monday, I decided it was time to tackle the dining room shelves. I should mention here that Ann sent me home with six white bumpy bowls and a stack of square white little plates, when John saw them he slapped himself on the forehead. Too many dishes. Too many bowls. To make room for Ann’s presents I better start elimination. Purgery was about to happen.

By the time I finished culling, the dining room table was crammed with goodies someone else would love (and dust). But all the Windex in the Costco jug couldn’t tame the dust. My nose was dripping like an outdoor faucet you accidently run into with your father’s car. (Don’t take that personally, Laura). And then the sore throat came along to keep the runny nose company.

Loaded dining room table

So for the rest of the week I sat on John’s recliner sniffin’ and drippin’. The massive (not exaggerating) allergy attack turned into a bad cold, then to avoid pneumonia the doc put me on antibiotics.

But, listen to this, all the time sitting in the chair I was itching to sort out more bookcases and closets. Purging is highly addictive (Ann warned me).

My granddaughter, Kristen, is coming this afternoon to select treasures from the dining room table. Grandson, Ryan, wants to snag a few goodies too.  The dining room cabinets look emptier and better than ever, and John gave me a dust mask from his workshop (the garage).

Purged cabinets

Next week more purging will happen! Dust be damned. Is an addiction something you do even when you know there might be suffering afterwards?

***

 Here's a tidbit (interesting or not). In my book, Intentional, a novel the main character is named Dust. Hmmm?

If you've read it and would like to give it a rating and/or review go here: http://www.amazon.com/Intentional-novel-Lynn-Arbor/dp/0986220604

Every review counts. I've sold or given away a total of 110 books. There are 15 reviews (Thank you, reviewers!) I'm greedy, I need more. Please...

Sniff, sigh, wipe a tear from your eye

My children were four and five years old, my first husband named John was in Chicago for three months training for his new job, and my job was to find us a house. And I did.

It was a charming little house with character, a repossession that FHA had cleaned up. They’d cleared out trash (left by the previous owners), painted, reroofed, and refinished the hardwood floors. It was a bargain—but for a young family just out of the Air Force, expensive—$13,500. Whoa baby, it was scary to think we were in so much debt after we signed the mortgage papers. This was 1967.

The only pictures I have of our little brown house.

It was our first house after six years of rentals near military bases in California and Massachusetts.  There were two small bedrooms and bath on the main floor, a tiny dining room, and likewise, a tiny kitchen, a finished attic bedroom, and a garage you couldn’t park a car in because there were two big oak trees in front of it.

My kids grew up there, and I grew up there too.

I loved that house. When my first husband named John when out of town for a week to six weeks for more job training, I always had a surprise for his return. Once I took out all the upper cabinets in the kitchen and put in mirrors and open shelves. Another time I removed the plaster from the outer walls in the cold, cold bedrooms, insulated and put up new plasterboard. I built a concrete sculpture on a chicken wire armature in the back yard.

My children opened Christmas presents under the tree in that living room. They played with our dog, Teddy. They dressed up for Halloween there. Sue learned to play the clarinet, and Jim built a telescope out of a cardboard tube. They went though grade school and junior high while we lived in that house. They survived their parents’ divorce when they were 12 and 13, and still that house was their home. The summer after Sue graduated from high school, and Jim finished the eleventh grade, I sold the house.

I sometimes drive by “our” house. I don’t know why. Maybe just to check on it? In Spring I check to see if the twenty mail order 6 inch azaleas that I planted are still blooming. Last year they were huge festoons of shocking pink, at least 5 feet high, surrounding the brick front terrace that Sue and I built.

A few days ago, I drove by and a high cyclone fence that came out to the front sidewalk surrounded the house. Why, I wondered? Was it condemned or what? I didn’t see any notice in the window.

Then the day before yesterday, not even thinking about the fence, I was on my way home from Costco and just turned down North Connecticut. I was confused for a moment. Something was missing.

It was the house. Totally gone. Gone. I felt weepy. I looked at that small bare lot and thought about how big our lives were when we lived there, and what a small about of space we took up in the world. Our four lives were full and rich in less than 700 square feet.

The three big oaks still stand, will they disappear too.

That night I called my kids. They were both distressed. Sue talked about how her elementary school and her junior high school were both gone, and her high school was now a junior high...nothing of her childhood still existed. Jim said he still had dreams about that house (I do too).

Maybe I shouldn’t have told them? Maybe they never do drive-bys? But it mattered to both of them, and in my sadness I had to talk to someone who’d share that loss.

I won’t drive down our old block again. I don’t want to see the big-foot that will replace our little brown house, but then again...no promises.

The Doing of It

The novel’s written, the launch party’s over...so now what do I do with myself?

For weeks when John left the house each day to see clients or work in his “office” at Panera, I wanted to say, “Don’t leave. I don’t know what to do with myself.” I didn’t say it.

He left.

And then here I was pacing the house. I couldn’t clean. Cleaning takes concentration. I thought about putting things in piles—donate, sell, keep. Pare down. Get my life and this house in order. I’d pick up an old box of some cleaning product, and I’d think, “I should take this to the recycling center where they could properly dispose of it.” And then I’d put it back in the same spot. 

It was too quiet. I watched TV. I ate things.

I was exhausted. I had pains. Maybe my arteries were clogging? Maybe I was catching John’s heart problem? I went to the doctor. I was healthy as a horse. But why is health equated with horses? 

I reread Intentional and discovered some formatting errors. Imperfection. Aargh! Revisions would mean getting a new ISBN number, a new bar code. Resubmitting, fussing with the cover, redoing the Kindle and Smashwords versions. Would it mean a new Library of Congress number too? Just thinking about it made me feel even more exhausted.

The thing is, I was suffering from post book depression. Maybe it should be called Post Bookum Depression. It happens. When you're finishing a big creative project (or maybe any big project) there are frantic, final, all consuming finishing touches. When all the tasks are done, you’re wiped out. 

It’s over. Now what?

This isn’t to say that the month since the book launch has been all bad. Many people sent emails or even cards saying they liked my novel. And on March 11th, I got an email from Kirkus Reviews saying:

Your review for "Intentional" was selected by our Indie Editors to be featured in Kirkus Reviews 3/1 Issue. Congratulations! Your review appeared as one of the 20 reviews in the Indie section of the magazine which is sent out to over 5,000 industry professionals (librarians, publishers, agents, etc.) Less than 10% of our Indie reviews are chosen for this, so it's a great honor. You can view the 3/1 issue here: 

https://www.dropbox.com/s/02r3p9urpffgckd/Kirkus_Online_030115.pdf?dl=0 

And that was wonderful. But I was still in a funk.

Then yesterday I went into the room where I write. I’ve heard that sitting too much isn’t good for you, and I’ve been sitting too much. So I piled some things up and arranged my laptop at elbow height. I would stand at least part of the time to write the next novel.

I stood there reading over the first few chapters of A Bird in the House, which I’d started months ago when Intentional was off at the copyeditor’s. Then I wrote the gist of each chapter on post-it notes, so I could rearrange them on my white board, clarifying the order of events, and hopefully stop confusing myself.

Bird

I looked out the window and there was a shockingly red cardinal in the oak tree. All the chapters in the new book start with a bird quote or fact. Cardinal? Yes! Chapter 4 would be titled, “Cardinal Sin”. 

I started writing the new chapter. A sentence. Another sentence, and then it happened...words appeared on the computer screen that I hadn’t planned. This was it. The fun part! 

The funk lifted. It was my best day in a month. 

The best part isn't the party. It’s not the wine and hugs. It’s not the compliments on a job well done, although those are all very wonderful. 

The very best part is the doing of it.

The Book Report

Thank you to all my friends and family, 
who came out on a cold dark Monday night 
to help launch my book. 

It's been a busy week since my book launch party last Monday night. Here's the story...

February 8th...Sunday

I spent the day having an anxiety attack. It was supposed to rain and it was freezing cold. Rain and cold equals ICE! No one would come. I wouldn't even be able to get to the church. I expected to hear travel alerts any minute. 

Pacing. Nervous. What would I say. I hadn't written a speech. Damn, I should have written a speech. Whatever was I thinking? But then, why worry? Freezing rain—no one would come.

February 9th...Monday morning. 

No ice on our driveway. NO ICE! 

I drove north to the church to get the key, so we could lock up after the party. I dropped off a couple books. Talked to Jim Shettel about the arrangement of chairs and tables in the Pavilion. Butt tested a table—I was thinking I'd sit on the table edge instead of standing at the podium. Nice and relaxed, unless you break the table and fall on the floor. 

On the way home I stopped at Trader Joes for more treats and wine. No ice on the road!

My sister-in-law Terry stopped by. She brought a huge hug and a beautiful bouquet.

I studied my book, finding passages to read after John confirmed or looked skeptical. I decided against reading one of my favorite lines in the book, “What the fuck, Chuck!” I was going to be reading in a church, for God’s sake.

That Night

My dear husband, who had heart surgery in September, loaded boxes—four heavy boxes filled with 100 books and a case of wine—into the van. (Here, so you’ll know I’m a good and loving wife, I will mention that he’s been working out everyday—including a lot of weight lifting.) I loaded bags of treats and sweets, and we picked up Ann Amenta in route to BOOK NIGHT.

My Helpers: Keith Brown, Ann Amenta and Joy Powell.
John's busy somewhere. 

Keith arrived early to set up the church’s coffee pot. The red and white checked tablecloth was spread on the treat table, and things were looking good. Ann arranged Terry’s bouquet. Joy arranged cookies.  John and I arranged the books in piles on a table at the front of the room—same table that would hold my butt. 

People started coming, lots of hugs happened. Then some folks wanted books but couldn’t stay, so John and I stationed ourselves at the table. He took money and I signed books.

The room filled. All these people had come out in the cold on a Monday night. As I looked around at all the faces, I realized that these people were all my friends. People I liked, who liked me back. I wasn’t nervous. I plopped my butt down on the edge of the table and talked. I read some passages (none with the F word). The table didn't break. At one point I meant to take a sip of wine, and the glass shook so bad that the wine splashed out. Okay, so I wasn’t nervous…the wine glass was. 

Relaxing after my talking was done.

At the end of my talking and answering a few questions, John spoke up. He told everyone that he wasn’t there at the conception of my book. He was though…I remember running ideas past him and his fertile encouragement. Then he said, right there in front of everyone, “I’m really proud of you.” It was a high point for me.

John thinks that 70 people came. I'm not sure, but I was thrilled and honored that each one of you took the time to come out.

Thank you all!

This week I’ve met friends who wanted a book, but missed the launch party. I still have more deliveries to make. Libraries: Huntington Woods and Royal Oak each have a copy, and this week Ferndale and Birmingham are also getting gift books. So if you don’t have one, and want to read it, ask your librarian. 

Vertical books are waiting for their owners.
Horizontal books are resting until they're adopted.

Books are also available on amazon.com for paperbacks, and Kindle books. And smashwords.com has iBooks. 

PS. After the love and kindness you’ve all shown, I feel guilty asking one more thing. But, if you're so inclined, please consider writing a brief (or long) review and rate the book on my Amazon page. You don’t have to buy the book from Amazon to write a review. Reviews really do matter.

Love you all!

IT'S A BOOK!!!

 Delivered: January 24th (After 3 proof copies)

Weight: 1 pound

Height: 9 inches, Width: 6 inches, Pages: 264

Given name: Intentional, A Novel

There will be a party celebrating this book's very difficult delivery.

YOU'RE INVITED!

Monday, February 9th, 2015

7:00 till 9:00

The book's Mom will read a bit (showing off her new born), 

and answer questions.

Get your autographed copy

There with be copies available for purchase 

($15.00 each)

The mom is covering shipping costs.

Such a deal!

 Wine, sweets and coffee will be served.

Location:

Birmingham Unitarian Church

38651 Woodward Avenue

Just North of Lone Pine Road 

Bloomfield Hills, MI 48304

Please RSVP 

Facebook friends RSVP in comments.

Blog Friends RSVP by email.

If you forget to RSVP, come anyway. Bring friends.

If you can't come, you can get a signed book from me,

or shop on Amazon.com.

E-book versions will be available-- 

Kindle, Smashwords and iBooks after February 7th.

PS. I've read it, and it's pretty good.

The shiny cover feels good to the touch. 

Yeah, I admit it, I pet the book.