Gone Post

Today's original post about building characters was actually just eaten by Blogger's Delete option. It was an anecdotal thing about me and my Dad and Neiman Marcus, only remotely related to characterizations, and while that might sound interesting it was actually beyond depressing. Now that's it gone forever, no copy saved, no printed out version to tuck in the personal journal, I'm glad I erased it out of existence. That stuff was between me and my dad, and Neiman Marcus was only peripheral. The unhappiness of the past needs to be released, not relished. And I wrote really because I was just missing Dad more than anything, and wishing I'd had more time with him in this place.

You know who my Dad was? The only person in my life who was always glad to see me. Always. No matter how or when or why I showed up on his doorstep, he smiled and hugged me and was genuinely happy to have me there. Every single time. Never once did he welcome me with anything but joy and delight. You think that may be a very small thing but actually it was huge for me; on a few occasions it was all the love I thought I had in my life. Think about everyone you know, and try to pick one person who felt or feels the same about you, and you'll understand how rare that is. That's really what I want to remember about Dad when I miss him: how blessed I am to have known someone as kind and sweet as he was. How I wish I could be more like him, too.

So here's today's bit of unsolicited advice for all of you: the next time you see someone you care for, be happy to see them. Welcome them with joy and delight. Let me know they are loved. It doesn't cost anything, it won't hurt you, and it will be something they remember when they think of you after you've moved on to the next place.

Peace

My dad passed away last night in his sleep. He was 77 years old.

Mom asked me to write his obituary for the newspaper, and I don't think it will be difficult to find the words to describe the man he was. He was born in New York City, and grew up in a tenement in a very poor neighborhood. He escaped poverty, first to become a Merchant Mariner, and then a chef.

He never had children of his own until he married my mom, at which point he bravely became stepfather to five sons and daughters, most of whom were teenagers. Despite the innumerable challenges of gaining an instant family, he was a devoted and loving husband to my mother, and a wonderful father to us.

He had so many friends. Too many to count, much less name. Everyone who got to know my dad loved him. Everyone. He was that kind of guy.

I don't have that many photos of me with my father, probably because I was either taking the pictures, or dodging them. But this morning I unearthed one of us together on a very fine day thirty-one years ago. It's one of those moments when he was just being my dad:




I was so blessed to have you in my life, Anthony. Thank you for choosing to be my father, and for all the love and kindness you gave me. May your journey be safe, your next place be filled with birds and dogs and a huge kitchen, and once you're there all that you know is joy and peace. I will see you again someday.

For My Dad

The only photo I have of us together on the day you married my Mom is this one, with you in the background. I've carried it in my wallet for thirty years, and here's why:

You're brave. I can't imagine what it must have been like for a middle-aged lifelong bachelor to take on not only a wife but an instant family of five kids. You never complained, not once, not even when a certain damaged, hostile teenager did her worst to aggravate you.

You're a self-made man. Because you never had the chance to go to school, you taught me the value of self-education, and that no matter how old we are or where we are in life, we should never stop learning. I doubt I would have tried to improve my writing or found the nerve to pursue publication if you hadn't spent years encouraging me to teach myself what I needed to know.

You have a gentle soul. You love dogs, and they adore you. So do kids and wild birds. In fact I think the wild birds come around here just because they're hoping you'll be visiting us.

You're considerate. You're the only one who came up with a nickname of my dreadful name that I liked (and thank you for not tacking on the obligatory -y)

You're incredibly gifted. Watching you cook is like watching Barishnikov dance. It's beautiful and amazing and slightly terrifying and makes us all wish we could do something half as accomplished.

You worry. You showed me how to check the engine and change a tire so I'd never have to wait helpless and alone in the dark on the side of the road.

You're not a chauvinist. You never minded my unfeminine choices, or later on that my dainty little daughter preferred to go outside and catch lizards and dig in the dirt instead of playing with dolls (in fact, I'm pretty sure you secretly encouraged her.)

You're committed. You never made me feel as if I disappointed you, even when I must have. You never got angry, or washed your hands of me, or rejected me. You were always there to talk about it and figure out what to do.

You care. You're always happy to see me. Always. No one else in my life can honestly make that claim, not even my kids.

You're a born storyteller. You should have been a writer; you always have the best stories.

You're kind. I think I fell in love with my guy partly because like you, he loves to laugh and also like you, he never yells.

They say we can't pick our parents, but Someone Up There was thinking of me and my brothers and sisters when they made you. I would not be the woman I am if not for all the things you are, especially the Father you've been to me.

I love you, Dad. Thanks for choosing me to be your daughter. Happy Father's Day.

Catch Up

Now that I have a computer that does not predate Stonehenge . . .

Dad continues to improve. He's gone for short walks and has a good appetite, and isn't as disoriented or subdued as he was after the last surgery. He watched Casino Royale with me and Mom, and although he liked the movie he still thinks of Sean Connery as the only actor who can play James Bond. I don't have a favorite Bond actor, so I enjoyed what Daniel Craig brought to the role. He gives a very energetic, muscular performance, and makes it a decent flick.

Back in November I made a charity wager with Jim Winter on Dave White and Bryon Quertermous's novel race. Although Bryon held onto the lead for quite some time, Dave has finished his novel first, so I've made a donation to Habitat for Humanity in Jim's name. Congratulations to Dave for winning. Bryon, I'll have to cancel that nubile young book wench I had hired to serve you grapes, read to you and rub your feet after you won, but maybe next time.

It seems that some reporters and trade rag contributors have been lurking around here lately and e-mailing me with various requests for input, interviews and whatnot. I have enough to deal with right now and have (politely) turned them all down. However, they can still quote from my weblog content, which includes what you all post in comments. I don't want you to feel as if you have to censor yourselves, ever, but just be aware that whatever you post is fair game for them to use or misuse.

If all goes well, I'm hoping to return to my regular blogging schedule on Monday. In the meantime, I've got about ten thousand e-mails left to answer, so have a good weekend.

Through the Woods

Dad got through the surgery so well that he's like a different person. Turns out that 90% of his right ventricle was blocked, and having normal function restored will definitely clear up the heart and a bunch of related problems. Mom and I are going over medications, diet and exercise plans like two generals planning an all-out campaign.

Typing again after using a headset for so long is interesting. The "R" on Mom's keyboard doesn't work unless I slam it. If only I wrote like Elmer Fudd speaks.

I brought some work with me to keep me occupied in the waiting room, mostly pay-out schedule stuff to update and check on. Here's a little financial advice for when you sign a contract with separate pay-outs on the advance: I give publishers 90 days after they tell me they're request a payment for me for their check to show up on my end, which I think is more than reasonable (imagine if you had to wait three months for your paycheck.)

If no check arrives by the 91st day, I send a polite reminder via my agent to the publisher, and generally get back the same answer: the check is "lost" or "was never issued" and has to be re-requested (which takes four to six weeks from that date to happen.) I update the pay-out list and put a reminder to check on it again in six weeks. I've had two or three payments go lost or unissued every year since I got into the biz, and I know other writers who have to deal with the same problem, so I advise everyone who goes pro to keep a pay-out calendar or schedule and check it monthly.

Now that the last of our split payments are being issued upon publication of the work (this is a new industry/contract trend among major publishers), it's also a good idea to tally up your advances when the book hits the shelf and make sure you've gotten everything as per the contracted pay-outs. I'm told these upon-pub pay-outs are generated by computer, not by wayward requests, which if it's true would be a big help to writers trying to collect for their work. Now if we could just get the computers to handle all the other payments . . .

Arising

I am back, but things are probably going to be a bit sporadic around here for the next week. Today I'll be down south, at the hospital with my Mom while my Dad is in surgery. If any of you are awake and would be so kind as to send good thoughts, he goes under the knife around 7:00 am EST.

The very kind comments, e-mails, cards and messages you all have sent have me going through Kleenex like you wouldn't believe. I don't deserve them, or you. Thank you.

After my ten day tantrum, I figured I'd gotten the blues out of my system, but there's always one more zinger waiting in the wings. Tonight my daughter's hamster died (peacefully, in his sleep, of old age.) My daughter cried a bit, but we talked and she seems to be accepting it okay. Our sweetie pie was a lovely pet, playful and gentle, and never bit anyone during his long life, which I think entitles him to go straight to Hamster Heaven. I'm going to miss the little guy.

#11 on my list yesterday should have been something about dealing with the blues, only I haven't come up with a nifty coping strategy. Depression is tough. It's that uninvited house guest you dread. It shows up at the most inconvenient time, and totally railroads your schedule. It's always laying around doing nothing, but it won't let you work. If you try to ignore it, it makes a fuss. It wants you to cater to it endlessly, it never wants to leave. Even when you kick it out, it knows where you live.

I promised myself I'd write a bit about this from a personal angle without making the usual jokes, because I don't think depression is funny at all. I try to work through my bouts by staying busy and letting go of the bad stuff. Spending time with my family helps a lot, too. In the past, when things have gotten pretty dark, I avoided everyone and retreated into myself. Being depressed always diminishes and embarrasses me; I feel small and alone. Who wants their family and friends to see them like that? When I did climb out, I'd go on and pretend like it never happened: Who, me, depressed? I was just meditating.

You keep doing that, though, and you run the risk of falling into the pit, not being able to climb out, and really needing help -- but you've hidden it so well that no one knows you're even in there.

Anyway, I'll be posting from my folks' house while I'm down there, God and Mom's computer willing, and I'll hopefully have good news the next time I sign on. If I'm absent, don't worry. I'm out of the pits now, and fighting the good fight again.

Home

I'm back, and first thing I have to do is thank my pal Tom for standing in for me. I called him from the highway, asked him to do this on a very bad mobile connection and the man didn't even bat an eyelash. All the upgrade work he did around here while I was out of town looks beautiful. Tommy, you're a prince and a genius, but you know that. I owe you big time.

Now for you guys: your messages, e-mails, comments, prayers and good thoughts went with me every time I drove to the hospital and waited in ICU. I felt them surrounding my dad like invisible body guards. They kept me company, too; I never felt alone, not once, even when I was by myself. For my dad, my mom, and for me, thank you all.

Dad is better and stronger. We should know this week exactly what needs to be done next, and when that will happen. I'll also be heading back to be with him and my mom when he goes in for the next surgery. The parents come before the blog, but I know you understand, and I appreciate it.

Monday Ten will be posted later on today, or as soon as I figure out where all my drafts are on this thing and how to publish them without accidentally ordering nineteen anchovy pizzas, realigning the Hubble, launching an ICBM....