If you’ve read the three stories in About the Author, you know this writing journey took me by surprise. Well, not really.
In 2012, I didn’t realize I’d become an author. But looking back through my journals, I can see how Creativity was pushing hard to get me to see what I could never imagine. And dutiful student that I can sometimes be, I followed blindly, imposing my own views on the doors it was opening. Something was stirring inside, but Creativity and I had different views.
Both children in school and my husband, a consultant, working at a ‘gig’ in another state, I had the house and my thoughts to myself without interruption, yet frequently diverted;managing the household and the needs and activities of my children had been mastered, well, as much as it could be. I was ready for something new, but what? Questions pondered in my youth harnessed my freedom: what is the purpose for being given life? But choruses of yipping from the kitchen interrupted my more philosophical pondering.
You see, six years prior, the routine of life was starting to get to me then too, even with a nine and a four-year old to raise. A small confession is in order: I abhor routine, unlike my husband who was/is a Marine (you don’t undo a Marine; Rules of the Brotherhood). My husband folds his underwear and with scientific-like precision, smoothing all the wrinkles. His morning routine has been the same since we met 30 years ago, the same order every day and with the same, exact tortouse-like pace. It drives me nuts. If the house were on fire, or the world was coming to an end, aliens attacking and all that, he’d throw out a palm-block and tell it all to hold up until he was done with the laundry. And the world would likely obey. It’s a wonder we’ve been married as long as we have, but somewhere in this divine soup called life, he was meant to find me and I was meant to acquiesce…just this once.
So, back in 2006, I decided we would foster a dog. Every family needs a dog, right? What better than to have one ‘on loan’? It was the best of all worlds! I could teach my children the different forms of compassion, sympathy and empathy along with the all-important one, responsibility. And if things didn’t turn out, well, I didn’t like to think of that. Remember, Kathryn Winslow’s CWV’s? Yeah, that’s me.
Slight diversion here, but we’re still on the path.
I’ve always loved animals, nature. Animals were my only true friends growing up, uncomplicated in their thoughts, pure in their soul, honest to who they are, their intention for being. My heart has always been sympathetic, empathetic to their journey. They are victims of Society’s hierarchical beliefs and rules, ignored because of their size or stature, slaughtered to fill the needs of others, not a thought of what may go through their hearts and thoughts at the moment of their sacrifice to us. I think Linnaeus had it wrong. Humans are not the more evolved species, at least spiritually. There’s a stillness inside each animal that knows and stays connected to Divine Rules, it’s rhythms and states of consciousness that the most practiced Yogi’s work hard to attain.
Back to the story. So, light-bulb still over my head, I quickly developed my vision and mission statement, my goal and strategic plan for the dog idea. I considered the most important thing: my timing, because timing and I have an on/off relationship.
Back from taking the kids to school, I quietly entered the kitchen that Friday morning, studying my husband like a final exam. He may be a Marine, but he’s not a morning guy. I, on the other hand, am such an early morning gal!
With Get-Smart like tactics, I slowed my pace, strategically sauntered into the kitchen to hit him up while in his coffee-making routine. With as much child-like excitement as he can muster in the morning, he reached for his beloved Howdy Doody spoon that rests in the same spot in the silverware drawer. I’m surprised he doesn’t take Howdy with him when he travels. But as you can probably guess, he’s not a high-risk guy. Howdy did get lost one time. The children were immediately put under the heat of the interrogator lamp by my highly-piqued husband but that’s a whole other story. Howdy was finally found after weeks of homelessness and the children eventually recovered.
Back to the story. Howdy dipped into his cup, the sugar stirred as the creamer was added. Dazed from another red-eye into Nashville, he leaned on the counter, hoping for silence before his first sip. I seized the moment. Yeah, I know, it’s like pouring water on a person’s arm while they’re sleeping, it’s just not fair. But when I know what I want, I’ll find a way to get there. Fostering a dog, I had decided, was what we wanted, for the children of course. What does this have to do with me of all people writing a nine-book novel series? Hold on, I’m getting there.