Yesterday, via email, I received what ranks as one of the more unusual questions about my writing. I was asked why I didn’t use the “F Word” in my books. I thought I’d answer that here.

While it wouldn’t be unusual–with some of the characters I deal with in my novels–for them to say it, or at all odd, there is a reason I haven’t used it.

My daughter and sons, and one day, my grandchildren, are going to read my books. It’s that simple.

I don’t want my kids or grands to settle for a four-letter word and substitute it for more critical thinking. I want them to think–and think hard–about anything that angers or upsets them so they work for solutions. I want them to be more circumspect in the example they’re setting for their children, and more careful about the energy they’re expending.

All that said, I’ve learned never to say never. Middle age weight gain is a direct result of eating your words, and every time you say never, you can bank on it coming back and you having to eat and digest it. Nevers are good for 3-5 pounds each. And that’s the truth.

So I won’t say I’ll never say it. I will say that when I’ve been about to write it, because of my kids and grands, I stop and ask myself, “Do I really need this? Can I say something else just as effective that doesn’t carry those kinds of moral connotations? Is this the ONLY thing this character would say that would come across to the reader as real?”

Thus far, there have been other ways, substitutes that I considered just as effective, so I’ve not used it.

And for those who might think my rationale on this is odd, before you judge me goofy, go sit in on a kindergarten class full of students whose parents or grandparents aren’t thinking about what their kids are hearing.

I speak to school kids often–kindergarten thru college–and let me tell you, some of the things that come out of these angels’ mouths will turn hair gray. That the little ones say them with all innocence and purity creates concern. But there are far too many little ones who know exactly what their words mean, and those are the ones who turn my hair gray and sour my stomach.

Blame it on parents and grands, on TV, on street-talk or books. Blame it on a society that has made this just another word. Blame it on whatever you like. The bottom-line is that what is, is. And know that so long as I’m satisfied with substitutes, you won’t see it in my books.

Isn’t it funny? As kids we used to say, “Don’t let my mom hear that! Don’t let my dad see that!”

Now, we say, “Don’t let my kids hear that! Don’t let my grandkids hear that!”

Life, indeed, comes full circle.

Blessings,

Vicki

“Trust is earned, one book at a time.”
–Vicki Hinze http://vickihinze.com

Note: I edit books and professional correspondence. But I do NOT edit email or this blog. This is chat time for me, so if the grammar is goofed or a word’s spelled wrong, please just breeze on past it. I’d appreciate it–and salute you with my coffee cup.

You are permitted to use the blog post above in its entirety, free of charge, provided you include the following text:
—————————————————————————–
Copyright 2005. Vicki Hinze
Vicki Hinze is a multi-published author, who has a free library of her articles on writing–the craft, business and life–at http://www.vickihinze.com.

This past weekend, I had the privilege and pleasure of speaking to FCRW, a group of writers to whom I’ve had a special attachment for a very long time.

While sitting in on another’s workshop, she teased that I had “the secret” and wouldn’t tell it. That stuck with me all day. And the more workshops I sat in on, and the more I considered it, the more I agreed with her–that I knew “the secret,” not that I wouldn’t share it.

That night, I scrapped the keynote I was to give and gave one that revealed “the secret.”

It’s simple. Like so many other things in life, almost ignored, its value obscured by it’s simplicity. But with intense focus, I saw the truth, and I knew it was truth.

I shared the secret with those who attended that night, and I share it here for any who care to see it. You consider it, you weigh its value, and you determine whether or not you deem it truth. I’m convinced, and content.

The secret is:

If you want to write, you will.

Everything beyond that is just stuff, and, yes, that includes selling and promotion, and even craft. We get ourselves all tied up in knots worrying about that which we shouldn’t, and neglect or skim over that which we should. Writing is. It either is a part of your life or it isn’t. You choose.

Years ago, when I went through this “should I continue writing or quit” crisis, I realized two things: 1) I have always loved to write. 2) I still loved to write, but I hated trying to sell what I was writing.

So I asked myself: “What if I continue to write the rest of my life and never sell anything I’ve written? Will I feel my time and life have been wasted?”

For me, obviously, the answer was no. But asking myself those questions liberated me from the “I must sell to justify doing this” burden.

I write because I love it. I’m fortunate that some of what I write sells. Not all, but some. And some is more than I need. Not more than I want, but more than I need. Significant difference.

That day, I knew I was a writer. That day, I knew if I never sold a thing–and I hadn’t then–I would always write.

I don’t find it at all coincidental that the project I started that day was the first of my works to sell. I believe writing for the love it infused that work with a special magic that can’t be faked, feigned, or infused. It’s either there because the writer feels it, or it’s not.

So there is “the secret.” If you want to write, you will.

Don’t be fooled by its simplicity. The power in those seven words is enormous.

Realize, too, that in those words is buried a universal truth. One that doesn’t just apply to writing, but to anything in life. If you want to… you will.

Blessings,

Vicki

“Trust is earned, one book at a time.”
–Vicki Hinze http://vickihinze.com

Note: I edit books and professional correspondence. But I do NOT edit email or this blog. This is chat time for me, so if the grammar is goofed or a word’s spelled wrong, please just breeze on past it. I’d appreciate it–and salute you with my coffee cup.

You are permitted to use the blog post above in its entirety, free of charge, provided you include the following text:
—————————————————————————–
Copyright 2005. Vicki Hinze
Vicki Hinze is a multi-published author, who has a free library of her articles on writing–the craft, business and life–at http://www.vickihinze.com.

Anyone who’s been writing for any length of time, and selling (or trying to sell) what they write, knows that a writer eats a lot more dust than she does diamonds. Often, it’s sheer grit and determination that keeps her going, which is why writing with purpose is crucial.

I’ve officially been a writer eighteen years. God, I just figured that up and couldn’t believe it! I sound like my parents, asking myself, “Where did they go?” But the truth is, I know exactly where they went. They went into me chasing the dream of being a full-time, employed writer who made enough money to sufficiently support herself.

I’ve never wanted to be rich. I don’t equate money with success. Material possessions beyond what we need are just stuff. I love beautiful things. But I have beautiful things and I know that they aren’t enough. One needs inner fulfillment, purpose, when driven in a career that demands you open your mind, your heart and your soul and invite the world to peek inside and see what you’re made of and why. In my world, it is fulfillment that equals success.

Writing isn’t easy. The work itself is huge challenge. Creating something out of thin air… Something logical that makes people… Well, it’s two-thirds sweat and one-third magic, and that’s the simple truth.

We’ve all heard, “Ass to leather” is required to finish a book. We’ve all heard that a writer must be in the right place at the right time with the right project to sell a book. We all know that there’s an x-factor in writing that can’t be taught no matter how hard one who has it tries to share it.

We suffer the frustrations–can’t get the scene just right. The rhythm, pacing is off. The character isn’t breathing–who cares what happens to her? And then there’s the rejections: too risky, too similar to another book we’ve just bought. And then we sell the story, and the promotion for it is non-existent, the reviews are stellar–or not–and no one, not even close friends can find the book in the store because the print run is next to nothing.

Then we sell the next book–for the same low advance and less than stellar terms because the sales weren’t stupendous on the first book, or the editor can’t buy the 2nd book because the sales weren’t stellar on the first one.

Never mind that the publisher only printed a few thousand copies and if every single copy sold, the work couldn’t earn out the advance. Never mind that even reviewers didn’t get a copy so word of mouth didn’t have a shot at helping sales. And never mind that the editor now handling your work hasn’t read it, much less been its in-house advocate.

Doesn’t matter. None of it matters. It’s your book, and you’re responsible.

Our dream disintegrates and once again you’re eating dust. And more dust. And more dust because we soon discover that now we’re in a worse position than a brand new writer.

The reason? We’ve got a track record–and it’s not one that will impress marketing into taking a chance on us. Editors can love the work, but they’ve got to get marketing on-board, and marketing just isn’t interested in the risks. More dust.

We start over, climbing out of the pit. Sometimes we do so with a new writing name, sometimes with the same name on a wing and a prayer. We are facing enormous obstacles and we do it–and continue to write the best books we can, and to hope that someone, somewhere sees the merit in them.

But during all this “dust” time, what keeps us going? It’s not money, and it’s sure not diamonds. Though we might enjoy a few sparkles here and there, we’re being covered in the dusty stuff.

It’s loving the book. It’s purpose. It’s knowing that no matter how hard it gets, this is what we’re supposed to be doing.

It’s having faith that the people who need to hear the stories we write will find them. It’s believing in grace. It’s knowing at cellular level that we can’t imagine waking up in the morning, not writing and being happy or content.

So we slog through the dust, pinching our nostrils to filter out enough of the tough stuff so we can keep breathing and pressing on, and we keep the faith.

And then something strange happens. In the middle of gloom-and-doom predictions, we’re happy. We’re amazingly peaceful. We’re working and writing, and while we don’t know how things work out, we do know that things will work out.

So we run on faith–at times, on fumes of faith–and just keep on keeping on. And things do work out.

Some editor with vision and guts comes into our lives, fights marketing and wins. And we sell our books, and marketing gets behind us, and we have support now to help us to reach more people. The more we create, the more fulfilled we feel. Blessings, all.

The diamonds come in chips before stones, and we should treasure the chips. They come to us when we most need a little sparkle. They remind us not to lose hope: a powerful, powerful ally.

And the chips gather and fall. Some are buried, and some catch the sun and shine brightly. And here and there, we are gifted with a diamond. They are precious and rare and we cherish and never forget them. The diamonds validate something good.

Looking back, I’ve been blessed with many sparkly chips during the past 18 years. A lot of dust, too, and some of that dust was the best thing that ever happened to me. There is merit in starting over. In reassessing and altering your path to one better suited to fulfilling your own needs.

I’ve been blessed with a few diamonds, too:

Friendships with other writers. What a blessing it is to talk writing with people who don’t get glassy-eyed bored but sparkly-eyed interested.

An amazing agent who is all that–and then some.

Supportive editors who care and trust, who are dedicated, who are great editors and not frustrated writers.

There have been a lot of up times. Awards and honors and great reviews (as well as a fair share of losses and bad ones). On this front, there have been two diamonds that weren’t stones, they were rocks. Huge rocks–to me.

The first was last year, when I was given the PRO Award. This award for helping other writers meant more to me than a six-figure contract. It acknowledges purpose. It validates efforts made were worthy of use. In my book, that PRO award was a 50-karet diamond, and far more treasured.

The second came on Friday. Jill Limber phoned on behalf of RWA to notify me that BODY DOUBLE, the first book in my WAR GAMES series for Bombshell, was a RITA finalist for Romantic Suspense. Being nominated for this award is a huge diamond because the competition is judged by my fellow writers. This is a high, high, all right. But win or lose the award, this recognition by my peers… I’ve won.

So there is dust and there are diamonds. And some might read this chat and decide the dust is too plentiful, or too heavy, for the few sparkles here and there and a couple diamonds. They’ll go where the odds are better to reverse that.

But if you’re a writer, it really doesn’t take much in the way of diamonds to keep you going strong. Not if purpose is at the core of your writing, because that drives you. The dust and diamonds? Well, they’re important, but they’re just dressing the windows. By writing, the sunlight’s already shining through the glass.

Yep, some days are diamonds and some are dust. Which is most valuable? Oh, lots on pondering on that and I’m afraid that the best I can do is say that nothing’s black-and-white. The truth lies in the billion shades of gray. And in the end, it’s hard to tell which to appreciate most–the dust, or the diamonds–and that makes it smart to equally appreciate both.

Dust can obscure, or protectively cloak.
Diamonds can cut, or snag sun and light darkness.

Best, in the end, to run on faith–or fumes of faith–and be grateful for both.

Blessings,

Vicki Hinze
“Trust is earned, one book at a time.”
–Vicki Hinze http://vickihinze.com

Note: I edit books and professional correspondence. But I do NOT edit email or this blog. This is chat time for me, so if the grammar is goofed or a word’s spelled wrong, please just breeze on past it. I’d appreciate it–and salute you with my coffee cup.

You are permitted to use the blog post above in its entirety, free of charge, provided you include the following text:
—————————————————————————–
Copyright 2005. Vicki Hinze
Vicki Hinze is a multi-published author, who has a free library of her articles on writing–the craft, business and life–at http://www.vickihinze.com.

“Aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something.”
–Henry David Thoreau

Yesterday, I was in pain. I have those days, as we all do, and when I do, they make me think, which can be a good or bad thing, depending on the nature of the thoughts. That made it a good time to review what I know about the relationship of thoughts to writing and life.

I know that thoughts have power. I have seen it demonstrated from my high school science lab on, over and again throughout my life. And I know that with all other factors remaining stable, we can drag ourselves up from the depths of despair or down into the darkest recesses of the abyss with no more than the direction of our thoughts. I know it. I have seen it, and lived it.

My mother was an extremely strong-willed woman. She would will it, and the seemingly impossible would happen (what I call everyday miracles). Not once, not twice, but repeatedly, going as far back as I remember. Bearing witness to this my whole life, made willing normal.

It also made her words of wisdom to me–and, bless her, there were many–all the easier to grasp, which is not to say that I always had the wisdom to listen, though more often than not, I wished I had.

Her wisdoms came in simple words–she was a plain-spoken woman–and weren’t all her own. She welcomed wisdom from any source. One of the earliest tidbits of wisdom I recall was “Pretty is as pretty does.” That translated to, “Listen, you can be gorgeous, positively stunning, but if you act ugly, you are ugly.” That “act” included actions, words, deeds, and thoughts.

She was also the source of “You can do anything, if you put your heart to it.” Little did I realize at the time the gift of that kind of faith, the blessing in that permission to fail all the way to success without recriminations, that license to make mistakes and learn from them and press onward and upward without guilt for not being perfect.

My mom talked about intentions, too. Often. likely because I had a penchant for intending to do this or that and got sidetracked a lot. Some might translate that as a discipline challenge, but it wasn’t. I would try things, get through the challenging part and grow bored. Then it was time to shift to something else new and exciting. This is how people become jacks of all trades and masters of none. It’s also how we learn what we don’t want, which is as important as what we do. Yet, if we start and don’t finish, we end up with a lot of beginnings and no endings, and while we pick up a broad base of knowledge and interests (which can certainly be helpful now and then), we’ve got to have more than jacks in our hand if we intend to accomplish whatever we intend to accomplish.

That, too, set me to thinking. Trying new things, experimenting is a good thing. Discovering what we don’t want is a good thing. We’re learning and growing all along the way. But growing to what? Learning for what? There is no fulfillment in starting. Ask anyone who’s decided to brick a patio or write a book. Half-done, it’s only half-done. So this experimenting has benefit but is not the end all to beat all or it’d also be fulfilling. So what kind of a challenge does that make it?

On finding myself in this position as an adult, I went to my wisdom source, my mom, and asked her opinion and advice. She didn’t speak plainly. Odd, for her. Her advice was to keep experimenting. I’m not sure if it was the certainty in her voice–she spoke with total conviction–or the bewilderment in my own–which I felt with total conviction–but I listened, and kept experimenting.

And thinking. And searching. At times the frustration was enormous. At times it was liberating. I’m not sure how it happened, but it occurred to me that I was seeking with passion and purpose. And that I’d been dedicated to it. And that I had no intention of stopping the search until I discovered my path.

So on I went, searching and searching and failing to find my way. I always wrote out my thoughts and feelings and did during this search for what I was to do with my life. And before I knew it, I had a dozen notebooks–all about the search: who I’d talked with, what they were doing, the research into this or that career, the personal challenges people had come to me to discuss and how we’d talked through them and found solutions. I was surprised at the number of people who’d crossed my path and the breadth of our discussions. I was also surprised that I felt no closer to finding my own path than I had been at the intentional onset of the journey. And I despaired.

It wasn’t until then that I discovered my passion and purpose hadn’t been in the search, but in the writing about the search. The antidotes and stories that came to mind, the challenges confronted and conquered. The people. Some were so fragile and others just powerhouses. The quiet and meek. The bold and obnoxious. The people and their stories were fascinating. I loved listening to them. I loved writing about them.

While my mother was sharing wisdoms and the esoteric, my dad made sure I kept a foot planted in the realities going on in the world. Politics and issues were discussed every day with passion and reason. He was a compassionate man, hell bent on fairness and equality, and determined that no one under his roof would turn a blind eye to the plight of others–kids and dogs fell under his wing as those who must always be protected. Easy to understand since he was orphaned at three and abused until he supported himself at the ripe old age of nine. Dogs are notoriously loyal, and that was indeed something to be treasured.

My dad instilled a sense of duty to justice and cause and, if one spoke of intentions to him, one had better have reason riding shotgun. Ignoring abuse of any kind–to a person, place, or thing–was a profound lack of respect, and that was unacceptable. Everything deserves respect. It’s an inherent right. That was his philosophy, and it was, I believe, a good one. Profound, too, if one lives it.

For him, I wrote. Political essays, which we would discuss at the kitchen table. I’d read the front page, pick an article, and form an opinion. Then we’d discuss it. Pros and cons, what I’d considered in forming my opinion, and what I hadn’t.

I look back on this now and I’m awed at all I gained from these chats. They weren’t interrogations by any means. But they were a way to make a child aware of the world in which she lived. They were a way to instill a sense of community and a concern about things that happened beyond the corner of Stafford and 21st Streets. He taught me how to think, not what to think, and to not be quiet about the things I oppose. Bitching rights come with the responsibility to do something. Many valuable lessons and life tools were learned at that kitchen table.

I’m often told I have flexible mind. It’s nothing I did. My mind was a gift from God and the development of it rested in the hands, and was learned on the knees, of my parents. They both contributed their own special uniqueness and imprinted on the mind and in the heart of their daughter that which they felt would make her a productive, happy, well-balanced human being.

I think sometimes parents forget the powerful influence they have on children. TV sets are babysitters and parents aren’t talking to their kids. They aren’t teaching them how to think and that a world beyond them exists and they’re part of it. How important a part is up to them.

Before you disagree, talk to a teacher. Ask how many parents don’t show up at open house, or for parent/teacher conferences. Ask how many kids come to school unprepared and when the teacher calls the parent, they tell her/him that the child’s challenge is the teacher’s problem. Ask a teacher how much time in her day is spent on behavioral problems. You know, kids need attention. And if they don’t get it by doing what they should, they’ll go for it by doing what they shouldn’t. But this is for another day.

While my mind might be flexible, it always seems to take the scenic route. One of the blessings of that (some might call it a challenge; I don’t) is that I think about a lot of things, in a lot of ways, a lot of times. I easily place myself in others’ positions and wonder what would I have done? What would I do? How would I do it?

I remember a discussion once where my mother listened to a complaint about me. “She lacks direction. She doesn’t think linear. She’s all over the place.”

My mom, ever gracious, smiled and said, “Thank you.”

I heard this, and even then, thought it was weird. Later, I asked her about it. “Being broad-minded is a good thing,” she said. “Thinking about all the little things, is a good thing. Life is in the little things. It was a compliment.”

The woman said it with a red face and in anger. It wasn’t a compliment. Yet, I knew my mother, and I knew if she said it in that voice, she’d definitely taken it as one. So I did, too.

I think she knew then what it took me years to discover. It’s all fodder. Everything shapes us. Nothing is wasted. And we collect all these little things and store them, and they become the building blocks for the big things.

Anyway, this is how I became a writer. I was always a writer. I just didn’t know it, because it was what I did while looking for what I was to do. The signs were there–while other kids played school, I played library; while others talked through their challenges, I wrote through mine. I wrote my way through successes and failures, through journeys both good and bad, through all things, easy or tough. Perplexed, outraged, or seething at the injustice of anything, I wrote through it.

I was a writer. Not a good writer, or a bad one. Not one writing to sell, but one writing to make sense of the world, others, and herself. At times, even of the journey itself.

My first book was about transferring real estate. I didn’t sell it. Never submitted it. But I wrote a book about the process of buying and selling, making the transaction, because I’d seen so many people sign bad real estate contracts and sign off on horrible terms for mortgages and it made me sick to see them do it and not be able to tell them what they were doing. It was cathartic.

And then my daughter was born and some unenlightened soul told her at school one day that she couldn’t do something because she was a girl. Needless to say, that didn’t sit well with her mom–(who’d once been told she couldn’t be an astronaut because only monkeys and men could go to space) even if it wasn’t uncommon at the time to still hear such things. So I wrote her a story–my first–and in it, the girl could do anything she wanted badly enough to work to make happen.

And that was the beginning. The storyteller in me was born. Sort of.

The realization came slowly that I’d been training for being a writer my whole life. To truly understand, you experience. That jack of all trades came in handy. That exposure to the world, that broad range of interests, that reasoning through things, that willing something to exist–it all came in handy because it was all needed to make a credible book manifest from thin air.

But the lesson I learned in the search goes far beyond writing. It goes straight into the hearts of people. And that is this:

It is the marriage of purpose and passion that makes things manifest.

Without both purpose and passion, a person has a lot of beginnings but few endings, and little fulfillment. I know this. I lived this.

If there is a secret to being a writer, I’d say that’s it. Passion and purpose for writing, for the story, for the people in the story. That makes the magic that can’t be taught or bought.

But I’d also say that to anyone about life. With passion and purpose, you’re driven to accomplish that which you’ve a mind to accomplish. But a caveat: watch those intentions. Because this is true, regardless of whether your intentions are good or bad. And you are responsible for your intentions as well as your actions and deeds. You’re responsible for your thoughts, too.

So if you’re lacking passion and purpose, seek it. With your whole heart, seek it. Experiment. Fail your way to it by eliminating that which you think you might feel passionate about and find purpose in and don’t. Keep looking. It’s there. But look inside, within you, into your past, your childhood, as well as out in the world. Because odds are good that you’ve been in training your whole life, too, and just didn’t realize it yet.

Too, if you’ve a child and you’re despairing because s/he lacks direction and doesn’t think linear, don’t. Learn from my wise mom, and just say, “Thanks.”

Because she was right. It’s all fodder.

And when fodder walks in hand with passion and purpose, and that combustible mix lives within a breathing human being, you grasp the truth in writing beyond reason.

Blessings,

Vicki Hinze

“Trust is earned, one book at a time.”
–Vicki Hinze http://vickihinze.com

Note: I edit books and professional correspondence. But I do NOT edit email or this blog. This is chat time for me, so if the grammar is goofed or a word’s spelled wrong, please just breeze on past it. I’d appreciate it–and salute you with my coffee cup.

You are permitted to use the blog post above in its entirety, free of charge, provided you include the following text:
—————————————————————————–
Copyright 2005. Vicki Hinze
Vicki Hinze is a multi-published author, who has a free library of her articles on writing–the craft, business and life–at http://www.vickihinze.com.

This is a note about a woman who’s been through hell–in love twice, and squashed twice for it. Now, she’s older and wiser and she’s dug through the relationship clutter and dared to give her heart to yet another man. And now he, too, has hurt her.

And of course, this made me think. About people and characters, who both come with a full set of baggage that impacts their lives and shapes the adults they’ve become.

Putting your heart on the line and getting a less than stellar response, of course leads to trudging through the darkest depths. Man, it’s nasty there in that abyss. But men have a way of putting women in that sucker, and, though I lack firsthand experience as a man, I dare to say, we women do it to them, too.

About getting the heart squashed, it’d be easy to respond with a flip, “Men are pigs, and that’s that. But the truth this, they aren’t all pigs. Just 90% of them. And while they make surviving in life toughest, that 90% definitely makes the most interesting and colorful characters. They have more issues, more conflicts, more stuff–and that gives them more to haul around to complicate things in the story.

But in life, it pretty much sucks. Let’s take a look at our guys. The first man we’ll call Greg. Greg was a taker in much the same way as the second man, James. We can’t give either of these guys too much credit as men go because they just haven’t earned it. But women have a way of hooking up with the same kind of Mr. Wrong time after time, so we’ll go with it.

Greg is flighty as hell and wouldn’t know what to do with roots if he was tied up in them. He talks the talk of being a sincere and sensitive guy, but he’s never going to walk the walk. So Greg opts for a good woman who is safe. The fantasy. The woman he can’t have–and that’s the main attraction.

But take Greg to a place in life where he can have the woman–the fantasy–and he chokes. Why? Because he realizes he’ll have to live up to the claims he’d made to the fantasy and he knows he can’t do it. Can’t and won’t. Doesn’t want to do it because that would take more than words. Words are cheap, and easy to spew. But this–this living it–that would take work! Oh, no. No way. It’s so much easier to just talk the talk elsewhere and find a new fantasy woman and not to have to actually be the man he professed to be.

In that, Greg and James were the same. Both takers, talking the talk but never walking the walk. Not actually being the men they professed. One couldn’t be that man because he had personal preferences that directly opposed it, and one wouldn’t be that man because it took work he wasn’t willing to do. The bottom line is that that neither was what they said.

I know. I know. Men today say they want honesty. And that magical 10% does. But these two fell into that sorry 90% group, and they actually want anything BUT honesty.

Both of these men lied. They used and abused. In some ways, they did so in exactly the same manner. Of course, they personalized their squashing, as well, and added other ways, too, just to keep life interesting. Both manipulated and deceived. Both looked out for themselves and used a woman to do it. Both sucked that woman emotionally dry and gave her nothing. Not when it mattered.

And the truth is–and this isn’t the character-creator in me, but the woman who knows women and the extremely high standards I set for heroines, their worth–neither of those two men were fit to touch a heroine’s shoes, much less her feet, and definitely not fit to accept the gift of her heart. I say that with all sincerity, because a heroine needs a hero worthy of her. An equal, not a manipulator or a user who steeps in deception and feeds on lies.

James hurt a woman who adored him deliberately. Greg professed to hate that about him, but did the same thing, just in a different way. James wanted her money, and so did Greg. James took her cash. Greg didn’t ask her for money, but he asked her to share in a business venture where she had expertise and he had none. Her expertise was valuable to him, and Greg wanted it enough to lie for it, making promises he had no intention of keeping and painting rainbows he had no intention of making manifest.

The thing is Greg and James are not typical of all men. Neither of them could commit with an open heart. Neither had pure intentions. Neither really wanted a relationship.

In both cases, these men were involved because they wanted something from the woman. But that something wasn’t a relationship–not in the soul-mate sense of the word. James wanted a legitimate front and money. Greg wanted someone to listen to his tales of woe on the world beating up on him and a woman to release the romantic in him–provided he didn’t actually have to live the part.

What I’m taking a long time to say is this: as men or book characters, both of these guys are interesting. Both are charming and compelling. But they’re not men worthy of a heroine.

A heroine is too good, too honest and too pure for them. She trusts, she respects, she loves. They lie and manipulate and use.

So as hard as it is, a woman can’t keep beating herself up over being squashed by these guys. Yes, she put her heart out there and, yes, it got squashed. Thank God it did. If not, she’d be stuck with the bastards and then she’d really know misery because she’d be living with it every day of her life.

These men weren’t real. They shared only a facade of themselves with the heroine. But they never wanted her to see the core of who they were, or the essence of what they saw in her. They went to great lengths to protect their secrets. Otherwise, their house of cards would tumble and fall.

Remember that: in life and in creating characters.

These men were liars, takers, and users. But they were not monsters. Just men who are screwed up and unwilling to work to fix themselves.

They become a woman’s problem only in that she loves them. But she can’t protect them. She can’t fix them. And she can’t make them face their challenges so that they’re capable of loving.

Neither man is capable, you know. Not really.

The woman. She was real. She was honest, caring, nurturing. She loved them. Even when it was damned hard and took an enormous amount of work, she loved them. That speaks well of her. She was slow to give her heart, but when she did, she meant it. It was pure and she didn’t manipulate or have other, unstated intentions. She simply loved.

And she got hurt. Twice. But not because she didn’t love them enough. And not because anything was wrong with her. Because plenty was wrong with them and they couldn’t love.

Read that again. It’s important.

And now there’s a new man in our heroine’s life. Justin, who is also screwed up enough to be interesting, though in a different way. He’s hurt, he’s angry, he’s frustrated, he’s dissatisfied. He hates his job, hates his ex-wife, hates his life.

Then in comes this heroic woman, and he’s captivated. But he’s so bitter and twisted and caught up in the past that he can’t see the treasure she is for all the fury clouding his eyes.

And so she gently coaxes him, works to help him, is tender and caring and nurturing, giving him his space, but being there if needed.

And he calls when he wishes, does as he wishes, when he wishes. And she’s hurt, as naturally she would be. He ignores her birthday, misses a date or two, comes on strong, and then in a blink, disappears again. What is she to think?

Who wouldn’t be confused? So she gets a rancid message from him that tells her he’s still screwed up and not ready to think about what’s next because he’s wallowing in what’s past. She’s put herself out there this third time, and she’s gotten squashed–sort of–kind of–maybe, which shows his own utter confusion and inability to start anything new because, again, he’s wallowing in the old.

Frankly, he’s probably enjoying the wallow. To tell you the truth, I believe a large part of that 90% of men falls into this position, and wallowing is what they hold on to, to get through totally sucky times in their lives. Everything’s changed for Justin–home, work, life–and he’s just not happy in anything. Misery loves company. Our heroine knows this from James and Greg.

Justin’s admitted he isn’t sure what to feel–he’s so overwhelmed, he hasn’t had a spare second to think about it. Well, that’s honest, and we should give him credit for that. He didn’t lie or feed our heroine a line that he’d have to later deny or live up to. And you know, I’ll bet he really doesn’t know how he feels–and he won’t any time soon. Not unless he gets off his ass and does something to get past bitching and on to fixing.

Our heroine knows exactly what I mean–she’s just done it!

So I say about Justin what I said about James and Greg. She can’t protect him, she can’t fix him, and she can’t make him look ahead rather than behind. He has to choose to do all that on his own, and when he does, who knows whether or not he’ll look in her direction. I wish I could say he will because I know she wants it, but the truth is, even as character-creator, I can’t know because he doesn’t know himself. It’s going to depend on whether or not he grows up.

Yep, grows up. I don’t mean that in a flip sense, but in a mature sense. As in: a) Life ain’t fair, so get over it and live. b) The good guy often gets screwed. c) Just because something should be, doesn’t mean it will be.

There are other mature-minded realities, but those are a few biggies. A guy gets to choose. He can let these things make him nuts or just live and be happy anyway.

That goes for women, too.

Justin isn’t like James or Greg, and that warrants giving him a little more latitude. But it doesn’t give him a free pass. If he tosses out a rancid tirade and follows with a half-ass apology that leaves our heroine hanging somewhere in no man’s land, well, that isn’t exactly an endearing, heroic thing–even if it’s honest.

Regardless, tirades are out of line and no heroine deserves to be on the receiving end of one. Still, even on this, we can cut Justin a little slack because we know he’s screwed up and clawing his way out of the dark holed abyss. But we do so resolved that he’s not going put our heroine into one.

Men are pigs, and that’s that. But only 90% of them. There are the other 10% who are not users and takers and liars and men who are screwed up. There are some who are emotionally healthy and happy–yes, by God, I did say healthy. And they’ve been squashed a time or two–or three, or even more–as well. And they hurt, and they heal.

They’re the kind you want in your life, but not in your books. Flaws in books work–without making you crazy.

There’s no way around it. In life or in books, affairs of the heart are hard stuff. But getting squashed isn’t so bad. It really isn’t. It proves we’ve got guts and courage and that even though we’ve been screwed over, we’ve got the spirit to go for it again and put our hearts out there. The really important part of this is that we do it honestly. Genuinely. With sincerity and respect. And yes, even with love.

Who does that make the real winners?

Vicki Hinze

P.S. If you’re a guy, don’t get offended. Just reverse the sex and change the names to those of women, then switch “heroine” and “hero,” and read this again. Easy enough–and honest. Because in affairs of the heart, 90% of women are pigs, too.

“Trust is earned, one book at a time.”
–Vicki Hinze http://vickihinze.com

Note: I edit books and professional correspondence. But I do NOT edit email or this blog. This is chat time for me, so if the grammar is goofed or a word’s spelled wrong, please just breeze on past it. I’d appreciate it–and salute you with my coffee cup.

You are permitted to use the blog post above in its entirety, free of charge, provided you include the following text:
—————————————————————————–
Copyright 2005. VickiHinze
(http://www.vickihinze.com), is a multi-published author, who has a free library of her articles on writing–the craft, business and life.

When we have full lives–and who among us doesn’t these days?–we try ever so diligently to schedule as much as we can as cautiously as possible.

We start our days with prioritized to-do lists, we allow ourselves time in between major events (like the birth of a child/grandchild, for revisions on a novel we don’t yet know requires revisions. We consider time to prepare for conferences, days off for birthdays–and we even allow for those unforeseen challenges like illness.

And yet stuff happens. Stuff that we couldn’t project and didn’t imagine. And this stuff knocks us on our foolish elbows and our schedules are shredded and, if we’re lucky, make good garden fodder, because they’ve sure failed us on every conceivable other front.

When we can creatively (and diplomatically) rearrange, we’re lucky. Yes, it takes time and effort but it’s doable. These times we see as irritants but we should count them as blessings. For they could be like their counterparts: the times when we can’t rearrange or do a spitting thing about changes except endure them.

And that is the purpose of this entry. There will always be these un-fixable challenges. There will always be things that occur that weren’t foreseen (and sometimes they’re actually good–wonderful opportunities!)and can’t be postponed.

We need to understand that–and I wholeheartedly include myself in that remark. Understand and accept it and rather than complaining, get on with the process of progress so that we can come out of the wind tunnel that’s become our life and reenter the calm zone, where we can function without intense stress (and irritation).

The sooner we accept the challenges–whether they are book revisions, which always arrive at the most inopportune time imaginable–an event or change that turns our routine upside down and dumps it on its ear, or life interceding and refusing to wait for a more convenient time to knock us to our knees–and press on to solutions: ways to work within the confines we’re given, the more at ease and less stressed we’ll be.

I’ve had a difficult time with this for the past two months. I allowed time for revisions in November/December which didn’t arrive until March–time I’d allotted for writing a book under deadline. Then this wonderful opportunity arose, and wow, I was thrilled–until I looked at my schedule. Add a new birth, a friend in crisis, a few additional challenges and illness to a sudden desire on my husband’s part to move, and you’ve got one writer (and wife, mother, friend, counselor) struggling to juggle everything and keep all the balls in the air in order.

This was not a good time–on my birthday, no less–for my computer–my NEW computer–to fritz out on me again.

It was not a good time for additional tasking on committees, where I feel compelled to do my fair share of the work.

It was not a good time to have a major overhaul in progress in my master bath, even though I’ve been waiting for these particular guys to assist for over a year. (Thanks to Hurricane Ivan, who didn’t come at a great time, either!)

All these things happened after a month-long illness (flu, flu, and flu), which threw a major wrench in the works.

And it wasn’t the best time for my angelic and adored daughter, who so rarely asks ANYONE for anything, to shyly ask me to edit her National Board submission. She’s working extremely hard–and has been for a year–toward her certification.

But here it all came, and it did so within the space of a short few days.

I’m sorry to have to report that I didn’t handle it all with the skill, much less with the dignity and grace, I could have. But, I didn’t. When the computer fritzed out, I fritzed out with it. For two days, I was so tense and grouchy I couldn’t stand myself. And then it hit me.

This was not helping. It wasn’t resolving anything, only making me feel lousy. In addition to the time crunch challenges, I felt god-awful. What is the purpose in this? Why am I doing it?

I resolved to stop. And right then and there, I put my foot down–on me. On my attitude. I muzzled the nag inside my head that said I’d never get everything done on time and instead became determined to do my best. If I see I’m going to fail on some aspect, I’ve set suspenses so that there’ll be tons of advance notice to anyone else who might be affected.

I chose not to worry about October today. To instead do what I could today to move me closer to October.

Seriously, think about it. It’s March. October is seven months away, and tons of revisions and upsets in routine and life are sure to happen between now and then (though I do hope for a little reprieve, considering January thru March this year).

But practically speaking, there are always going to be upsets. Always. It’s an inescapable fact of life. And as long as we remain mere mortals, we’ve just got to deal with them as they occur and not stress out or let them chew us up inside.

I know, I know. Easier said than done. But I, for one, am going to do it. I choose to do it. Because the alternative, as I’ve recently experienced firsthand totally sucks–and that is, with all candor, being said with the utmost diplomacy.

Advice: Dodge this mud puddle and keep the squishy stuff from between your toes. Accept the inevitable and resolve to do your best–and then, be at peace with it.

Vicki Hinze

“Trust is earned, one book at a time.”
–Vicki Hinze http://vickihinze.com

Note: I edit books and professional correspondence. But I do NOT edit email or this blog. This is chat time for me, so if the grammar is goofed or a word’s spelled wrong, please just breeze on past it. I’d appreciate it–and salute you with my coffee cup.

You are permitted to use the blog post above in its entirety, free of charge, provided you include the following text:
—————————————————————————–
Copyright 2005. VickiHinze
(http://www.vickihinze.com), is a multi-published author, who has a free library of her articles on writing–the craft, business and life.

“Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the Titantic who waved off the dessert cart.”
–Erma Bombeck

I awakened yesterday morning in a strange and anxious place. One that wasn’t comfortable, wasn’t unfamiliar, and certainly wasn’t welcome. But there I was, and worse, I knew exactly how I’d gotten there.
I’d scheduled heavily–my writing–because I’m eager to write two types of books. They are equally important to me. Both hold purpose that I think warrants the investment of my time–my life.

Yet I sorely need some time to rejuvenate, too. Time to just be. On occasion, I’ve felt the need and stolen away for a day–sometimes two. Sometimes I leave the house–just take off for what my daughter and I used to call “Lost Days,” where we left and ended up wherever we ended up. I enjoyed those adventures. Sometimes I get a dozen movies and watch them back-to-back–not for research or work. For fun.

But this was a trip my husband and I had planned. This trip was a week–count ‘em–seven full days of nothing but music and tromping down trails and waterfalls and stuff. We intended to do a lot of stuff. Meandering through antique shops, sitting on the river bank and watching the water flow. You know, important stuff, when you’re doing stuff.

I haven’t done stuff in a very long time and I was REALLY looking forward to it. But then an opportunity arose. And then another.

I thought long and hard about whether or not to accept these gifts that had fallen into my proverbial plate, and soon the flood of memories of wishing and hoping and yearning for these type of opportunities invaded. I thought about what accepting and refusing would mean on all levels–physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And finally I got to the core of the matter.

What was I thinking? This didn’t have to be an either/or situation. It could be a win/win situation. One where I seized those elusive opportunities and did my stuff. With a little creative scheduling, which has now been done, I’m actually going to get three extra days to do my stuff, even if I have to wait a little longer to do it.

So now, rather than June, October is my time. It’s on the schedule and is not flexible, regardless of opportunities that may arise. I’ve given myself my word on that. And I don’t break my word.

The benefits have me giggling as I’m sitting here (not only because it took a lot of thinking to get to this point and should have taken two minutes but because I now have longer to anticipate something really good).

While it’s true that my Titanic could come before October, if it does at least I’ve had a lot of good stuff-dreams in the interim. And if it doesn’t, I have an extra three days.

The moral of this little story is that while you don’t want to always wave off the desert cart, when terrific opportunities you’ve wanted and wished would manifest in your life for a long time do manifest, it doesn’t hurt to park the puppy in the corner short-term.

Then you can have your cake and eat it too.

Vicki Hinze

“Trust is earned, one book at a time.”
–Vicki Hinze http://vickihinze.com

Note: I edit books and professional correspondence. But I do NOT edit email or this blog. This is chat time for me, so if the grammar is goofed or a word’s spelled wrong, please just breeze on past it. I’d appreciate it–and salute you with my coffee cup.

You are permitted to use the blog post above in its entirety, free of charge, provided you include the following text:
—————————————————————————–
Copyright 2005. VickiHinze
(http://www.vickihinze.com), is a multi-published author, who has a free library of her articles on writing–the craft, business and life.

This is a no-edit zone.

Saturday, I had the extreme pleasure of seeing my son become a father. His wife had a C-section, and he went into the OR with her–a brave thing for him, since he’s always been queasy at the sight of blood. Well, his knees went weak and down he went. But when his new daughter cried, he was up as if on springs, and his queasiness was forgotten.

It’s quite a miracle to see your child become a parent. It’s a miracle to see that special light in their eyes, that hope in their heart, that every atom of focus totally on their child. That too is a miracle.

Suddenly, your relationship with them changes. All the years of worrying (nagging) and protectiveness (over-protectiveness) and insistence on knowing details (nosing into every little thing in my life!) is clear to them. And it all carries different, understandable, positive connotations, because suddenly your child sees that to a parent there is nothing more important than the well being of their child. This change too is a miracle.

The awesome pride, as he held her up at the nursery window. A miracle.
The fierce protectiveness, as he discovered a bandage on her foot and hadn’t been informed of why it was there. A miracle.
The unconditional love in his every gentle stroke of her hair, touch of her face. Miracle upon miracle.

Mom and daughter and dad are home today. And as soon as he returned from work, he called me. Actually, the baby called and he interpreted. A miracle.

His voice fairly bubbled. He’d worked today and “couldn’t wait to get home.” A miracle.

We talked of children and being parents and the most amazing thing happened. He said, “Mom, I get it now. I understand how everything changes when you have children. Everything.”

I knew he meant his perspective had shifted in a significant way and all the hovering and nurturing and being overprotective had been now seen in a totally different light. And in his voice I heard a genuine appreciation for all those things that I’d never heard before. And that, too, was a miracle. One that touched me so deeply, I wept.

My cup runneth over, and my heart, if tender, is full. I learned something new in all this that will be with me forever.

The joy of a new life can’t be measured. Like a ripple in the water, much unseen is stirred and even more spreads outward–that which is expected and those amazing unexpected treasures that we cherish and hold deep inside for the rest of our lives.

The joy of a new life brings many more joys and heals many wounds. Some we knew we had, and some we didn’t. And recognizing it is a privilege and a blessing.

And on that, I close another day–a little sappy, but a little wiser, too…

This is an Edit-Free Zone.
Vicki Hinze http://www.vickihinze.com

Note: I edit books and professional correspondence. But I do NOT edit email or this blog. This is chat time for me, so if the grammar is goofed or a word’s spelled wrong, please just breeze on past it. I’d appreciate it–and salute you with my coffee cup.

“Trust is earned, one book at a time.”
–Vicki Hinze http://vickihinze.com

You are permitted to use the blog post above in its entirety, free of charge, provided you include the following text:
—————————————————————————–
Copyright 2005. VickiHinze (http://www.vickihinze.com), is an award-winning, multi-published author, who has on her website a free library of her articles on writing–the craft, business and life.

Why is it that we have so many more conveniences now, and rather than having more time for a life outside of work, we seem to have less?

My daughter, whom I swear was born old, says it’s because we take on more obligations. We give ourselves shorter periods of time to accomplish tasks, and that gives us space to add more tasks.

I think she’s right, but please don’t tell her.

She made me think. My life is good, very rich and fulfilling, and I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful for the privilege of having a lot of different irons in different fires. Life stays interesting, rewarding–until something comes up like did with me this past January.

I got the flu. I got a sinus infection and had chipmunk cheeks. Before I got over that, I had a relapse of flu. And then, a second round of sinus stuff and chipmunk cheeks, for which I went to the doc and–you got it–received my third round of flu. The bottom line is I felt like crud for over a month and lost a lot of time on my schedule. Like everyone else, I couldn’t not work, so I did what I could, but my ability to juggle was–shall we be polite and say–diminished.

The obligations and blocks of time already committed to this or that project required shifting. So I shifted what I could, and did as much as possible to stay on speed. (Note for those who hate messed up schedules as much as I do: it is possible to write in almost any position, save paying homage to porcelain. The good news is, now that I’m well, I can’t tell which portions I wrote when sick. I found that amazingly gratifying.

The point I’m talking around and not making due to being easily distracted is this: when you work, track your time and your progress. This way, you’ll quickly note how long it takes to work a project. That is incredibly important information when it comes time to scheduling multiple books.

You see, when we schedule, we tend to think in terms of only writing. I have no idea why. But there are many other things for which you must allow time. Reviewing copyedits–guaranteed to come when least expected or most jammed against tight deadlines. Galleys will arrive, too. And those must be reviewed, edited, and returned within days. These seem to always have a very short suspense. And then there’s all the other things you do: email, snail mail, promotional planning, conference lecturing–and preparation time for these lectures, seminars, workshops–and normal office management work.

It’s important too to remember to read, study the market, and take care of professional association obligations.

And in your spare time, there’s a thing called life.

My husband is an artist and he had s show this weekend. I worked all weekend, too, on copyedits that had to be done and back in New York within days. On Saturday, we were blessed with a new granddaughter, which of course makes you sappy and sentimental in ways others not having that experience find, er, less than refreshing. (How’s that for diplomacy!)

But if one looks at all of this constructively, it has benefits. I scheduled breaks. Time to snitch my oldest granddaughter, steal away and do something fun. (She’s not quite 2 and shops like a pro!) Time to spend with my daughter, who works so hard and is always trying to juggle a dozen things. And I was so glad I’d learned a valuable lesson from my mother early on.

Family members, people who are important to you, are the jewels in your life, and they deserve more than whatever is left of you when you’re done doing all you do.

She was a sharp cookie, wasn’t she? Sure, we have to be reasonable and realistic–of course, we do. But we don’t have to be exclusive and give those we most love the least of us.

To that end, my husband and I visited our new granddaughter, and we went for a long ride through the country. It was warm, sunny, and gorgeous outside–the perfect day for this. I wasn’t thinking about work, we weren’t discussing work–but I got the coolest idea for a proposal I’m working on right now. It’s fabulous!

I guess that’s a perk of taking a break. All the subconscious stuff that’s been whirling around in your mind has a chance to crawl through the clutter and finally get your attention.

So here’s the deal that’s working well for me (and I hope will for you, too):

1. Track how much time you invest in a project so you know how much time to allot for future projects.

2. When you’re scheduling your deadlines, allow yourself a reasonable pad. You never know when a “January” (like mine) is going to land in your lap, when the kids or the folks or whatever comes up in life.

3. Schedule in breaks for yourself–play time, down time, READING time, research time, writing new proposals time. If you don’t schedule these things, then you’re going to do something else, take on yet another project or workshop or conference, and then you’ll be functioning just a shade shy of crisis. So pull out the calendar and write these things down. Add other normal, typical tasks you do, too.

4. Love the writing with all your heart, soul and mind. But be careful not to choose it over a chance to hug your kids, kiss your spouse, or play with the grans. The writing will be richer for it. You will be more content and fulfilled and richer for it. And your family, knowing that even as much as you love writing you love them most, will be richer for it.

That’s a heart treasure, and those are priceless—far more valuable than an extra couple pages or even an extra couple ISBNs.

Because I’d scheduled reasonably well, the only casualty of the January war was that I didn’t get my February personal newsletter done. When I look at my task sheets, it was most expendable. And I have to say, when I read through all I’d managed to still do, I was really pleased—and surprised.

My new secondary mantra—after “Trust is earned, one book at a time”:

Schedule, schedule, schedule. Realistically schedule. You are mortal schedule.

Mmm… I’m still having trouble with the “Can I add one more thing there” schedule. But, I’m working on it!

Now I end a lovely rejuvenating day to work on Income Tax, which I didn’t dare face without it. I wonder if the CPA would consider the mileage today a legitimate deduction…

This is an Edit-Free Zone.
Vicki Hinze http://www.vickihinze.com

Note: I edit books and professional correspondence. But I do NOT edit email or this blog. This is chat time for me, so if the grammar is goofed or a word’s spelled wrong, please just breeze on past it. I’d appreciate it–and salute you with my coffee cup.

“Trust is earned, one book at a time.”
–Vicki Hinze http://vickihinze.com

You are permitted to use the blog post above in its entirety, free of charge, provided you include the following text:
—————————————————————————–
Copyright 2005. VickiHinze (http://www.vickihinze.com), is a multi-published author, who has a free library of her articles on writing–the craft, business and life.

Today, as I spoke with my daughter, I realized how much our roles change. Not just year to year, but often day to day—and sometimes even a dozen times during a single day.

It isn’t something we consciously think about. Actually, if I hadn’t been body-slammed with a changing role recently, I likely would have continued to ignore role changes. I’m a people-watcher and an empath so I’ve often been intensely aware of how people interact one way with one person and another way with a different person. It’s like changing hats. For this one, I’m the teacher, with that one, the student, with yet a third, the employee, and with the fourth, the employer.

Not too many years ago, women were frowned upon if they had jobs outside the home, and frowned upon if they didn’t. Hard for women now in their twenties to believe that, but it was true. A woman was defined as so-and-so’s wife, or daughter, or mother. Women rarely used their first names, except for with very close friends and family. Then, women were defined by their roles in the lives of others.

A lot has changed in that regard in the past twenty years. And don’t misunderstand me on this. Men didn’t escape being classified. They had their own challenges to contend with on the matter. It was just that in those days, the role definitions were more prominent for women, easy to spot.

Then there were children of the cusp, as I like to call them. I am one. If I stayed at home with my kids, I was “just a housewife,” and I’m sorry to say often treated as a person of no note. If I pursued my career, then I was “a horrible mother.” I couldn’t win, and I wasn’t alone. An entire generation of women rode the cusp—and the men in our lives, bless ’em, were stuck with apologizing for us either way.

But the roles I’m talking about here go much deeper than the superficial roles we live. I’m talking about roles of the heart.

Roles of the heart are life defining. And they cut you no quarter and give you no mercy. They are what they are, with passion and conviction. If the role is a pleasant one, you experience bliss. If it’s a difficult one, you trudge through hell. Either way, you take solace in that you know what to expect.

I sifted through my past and was genuinely surprised at all the different roles I’ve lived. I can’t say played, because they were my life, and that’s been no game. Sometimes role changes were expected, and sometimes they weren’t. Sometimes I sought them, and sometimes, though I ran like hell, they caught me and I was stuck with living with them.

Transitions can be easy or difficult; there’s no pattern. And while our attitude toward them generally has a huge impact on how easily we make the transition, it doesn’t always. They say that everything in life has balance. Culture and counter-culture; good and evil; joy and despair. I suppose that holds true for everything, for as I sit here and ponder on it, I can’t think of a single instance where it is not so. Transition’s opposite is stagnant. We all know anything stagnant decays until it dies.

Some role changes come a little at the time, like a child growing up. You know that there will come a day when the child is a woman or a man. You know that all during childhood, your role will change and that holds true into adulthood. These are role changes we expect to happen. They’re a part of the cycle of life.

Some role changes are gentle, like the role reversal that occurs when you, the child, mother the parent. Or when your child, a young adult, clasps your arm for the first time when the two of you are walking through a parking lot.

Some role changes are neither expected nor gentle. Some are thrust upon you, and you find yourself in the challenging position of just having to accept them. I think of all the role changes, these are the most difficult. Because you have no choice and you have no control.

It is these changes that knock you to your knees and strike hardest at your heart. These that devastate, and change you forever. They’re the most challenging, of course, because you must respect (and stomach) the choices that others make, and find a way to live with them that doesn’t chew you up inside or fill you with resentment and hate.

I’m thinking here of a friend whose mother suffered with Alzheimer’s. She went from being a daughter, to acting as a mother, to being a stranger to her mother. I remember the day her mother first failed to recognize her. The pain was overwhelming, the despondency suffocating. We talked for hours that day. About what had been and now was. The emotional roller coaster was immense. She wept for her mother, her illness, for herself because her father had already passed on, and it struck her that with her mother unable to remember her, she was essentially an orphan.

It doesn’t matter how old you are, when you lose your parents, by death or a mind-robbing illness, it’s a shock, and even if you have a wonderful family of your own, when you are parentless, you still feel alone, abandoned, and, yes, even betrayed. But that’s another story best kept for another time.

This is about the role change in the woman who hadn’t forgotten. In the daughter, who remembered every kiss to every bump and bruise and broken bone. Who recalled hours and hours of Mom warming the bleachers at her ball games, helping her with homework, baking muffins and doing her time at PTA. She was there helping her dress for her first dance, on Prom night, and her wedding day. She was always there, to talk, to listen, to support and nurture. To love.

The daughter remembered everything, had done nothing wrong, and yet her role changed dramatically and she could but watch it happen, and mourn all it signified lost.

I learned that day that memories can comfort, but they’re a poor substitute for making more of them.

Still, change isn’t all bad. It’s a natural part of life. And it’s good that we change and grow as those around us do. But I think it’s important to not just drift through these changes. I think it’s important to acknowledge them. And, hard as it might be when it’s a change inflicted, I think it’s healthy to accept them. Accept that some changes come because you will them to come, and some changes are inflicted on you no matter how hard you rebel. Either way, the change has arrived and you’ve got a new reality. And that’s the part it’s healthy to accept: the new reality.

In this exploration, I find the variance of attitudes and the vast differences in people’s reactions astounding. One person can be devastated, and the other involved clueless. One can be thrilled, and the other totally oblivious. It’s an interesting thing to sift through on a dreary day.

I’m sitting here and asking myself about the heroine in DOUBLE DARE. How many roles does Maggie Holt play? How many hats does she wear during the course of the novel? The answer surprised me. It was more than twice what I guessed.

For people or characters, here’s the thing. Each of the roles we live, as we live them, brings something to our lives that make it richer. We can but hope that, as we live each role, we are enriching as well.

And on that note, I’ll end another writing day….

Vicki Hinze http://www.vickihinze.com

Note: I edit books and professional correspondence. But I do NOT edit email or this blog. This is chat time for me, so if the grammar is goofed or a word’s spelled wrong, please just breeze on past it. I’d appreciate it–and salute you with my coffee cup.

“Trust is earned, one book at a time.”
–Vicki Hinze http://vickihinze.com

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Copyright 2005. VickiHinze (http://www.vickihinze.com), is a multi-published author, who has a free library of her articles on writing–the craft, business and life.