C.J. Hall
March 21, 2021

Desert Vibes: Walkabouts and Wanderlust

Welcome to Presidio, Texas. Where, you ask? It’s a small border town–the only border crossing for hundreds of miles between El Paso and Del Rio. The temperature today is a cool 82 degrees Fahrenheit, the skies are blue, the sun is bright, and the humidity is low.

If you think this part of Texas is barren, you might be surprised at how much you can see and do. You can check out the art scene in Alpine or hike a canyon trail in the Big Bend state or federal park. You can visit the McDonald Observatory and drive through the Davis Mountains. Or, if you’d rather go east, take a scenic drive down Highway 170 towards Terlingua. Be sure to stop in Lajitas where the mayor is always eager to see you–pay no heed to the fact that he’s a goat.

I, however, spend most of my days at the RV park. It’s a nice place filled with nice people. I peck away at my stories and work on new marketing plans for my novel Evolving Elizah: Initiatum. I walk with Crash on desert trails, and some days I ride my bike to a nearby wetland to watch the sun go down. I’m not entirely sure if it’s birds or angels singing and dancing across the golden water, but I’m pretty sure it’s angels.

Instead of going and doing, I choose to be at peace, and it’s easy enough to find. I hear it in the melody of the mourning doves, and I feel it in the desert breeze that blows blissfully across my sun-warmed face. I see it in Orion’s Belt, the Big Dipper, and Cassiopeia as I study the night sky, wrapped in a cloak of darkness that hides all I am and all I’ll never be.

Most days, it’s enough for me. But occasionally I feel the need to go and do, to overwrite old memories with new ones. You see, I’ve been here before. I have clear memories of this place, even though nearly four decades have passed.

I was about seven when my family traveled from Odessa to camp at Big Bend. We had a solid history of miserable family vacations, and in that sense, our visit to Big Bend was typical. What made this trip different is that we weren’t alone–my paternal grandma and her husband Frank flew out to Odessa from San Francisco to go with us.

Six of us squeezed into dad’s company car–a gold Chevrolet Caprice Classic. Mom, grandma, and my sister rode in the back seat. As the smallest and youngest person, I had a dubious seat of honor in the front, wedged between dad and Frank.

I imagine that car ride is the closest I will come to knowing how an ant feels, just before combusting under a magnifying glass on a sunny day. In the Davis Mountains temperatures hovered around 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Beyond the mountains, temperatures soared to 120 degrees. Frank, a heavy drinker with no heat tolerance, sweated puddles as the sun shone through the windshield. Dad blasted the air conditioner to no avail, aiming all the vents at Frank while the rest of us roasted.

To further complicate matters, we also had to stop for groceries along the way. Mom and grandma clashed over food purchases just like the archenemies they were, a reminder of how much they despised each other. I don’t recall how they both survived the conflict, but somehow we continued our journey, dad’s car drooping under the added weight of groceries and animosity.

I thought my senses were fully engaged as we drove along the vast empty stretch of road that would take us to the other side of nowhere. My eyes and nose were fully consumed by Frank liquifying next to me, and mom’s strident and angry voice kept my ears fully engaged. But then I perceived something else–a clanging vibration of a piece of road debris dad tried to straddle, something metal that rolled and ripped its way down the underbelly of our sagging car. It didn’t take long to figure out that whatever he hit had punched a hole in the gas tank.

If we had known how to harness the power of my mother’s explosive fury, I have no doubt that the car could have run forever. But short of that, all we could do was keep going, watch the fuel level drop, and hope we made it to the next town–Alpine. Dad kept driving. Frank kept sweating. Mom alternated verbal floggings between dad (for his obviously inept driving) and grandma (whose excessive grocery purchase clearly weighed down the car too much to clear the debris.) I existed as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, waiting helplessly to see how it would all unfold.

We didn’t make it to Alpine, but we got close. Everyone except Frank, who was in the final stages of transforming into a human puddle, helped push the car over the crest of the last hill and into a filling station on the outskirts of town. Dad found an epoxy kit to patch the gas tank, and the rest of us found shade and cold drinks. We took to the road once more and found Big Bend, and now I’m here again.

My experience is much more pleasant this time. Instead of berating and abusing each other, Crash and I are kind. He waits patiently for me to wake up in the morning, and I wait patiently as his nose explores the vast mysteries of our desert trails.

My heart is different, too. The consequences of my life choices make my heart both sink in despair and soar on wings of victory, but at least they were my choices. I didn’t have real choices the last time I was here. Back then, my heart was filled with fear and anger–shame for my mom’s cruel nature and grief that no one would rescue me from it.

Now the desert feels like a different place–a more beautiful place, even though I know I’m the one who has changed. I try not to dwell on memories of our trip and what they mean, because there’s a real chance they don’t mean anything. Sure, I learned and grew through the hardship I experienced, but there are other ways to learn and grow–better ways. And so, I will add new memories to the old, and maybe even overwrite them–with desert winds and starry skies, a loving dog, and the singing of angels as the sun sets.

The Rio Grande at Big Bend Ranch State Park
B.J. Bishop Wetland, Presidio, TX
Crash assessing the desert

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February 11, 2021

Two doors down from pickleball

It’s a Thursday afternoon, the sun is shining, and you can find me at the RV park two doors down from the pickleball court. Can you see me? Look toward the ground, for two legs clad in Victoria’s Secret sweat pants sticking out from beneath a tall gray truck. Look for my striped socks and slide-on sandals. Classy, I know.

This is where Crash and I live, at least for a few more weeks. It’s a nice spot because each morning I am bathed in sounds of joy–laughter and cheers tucked between thwacks as pickleball players chase a green ball with their paddles across the painted court. Enjoyment seems so elusive these days, and it comforts me to know that I can witness it each morning as enthusiastic people show up with their gear to partake in the game.

By the time you find me under my truck, however, the pickleball court is empty. The excitement has transitioned two doors down, to my spot in the RV park.

What’s going on, you wonder? Two things.

First, I am installing steps on my truck. Steps are important because my truck is tall. Getting in and out of it can be a bit hazardous, and these steps have become a key part of my plan to living a long and healthy life.

Second, I am providing intrigue and entertainment to all of my RV park neighbors. The excitement has been building for two days, ever since I came back from the post office with very long box hanging over the tailgate of my truck. My neighbors have been passing by–on foot, in golf carts, or even in their own big trucks to take a closer look and to speculate about what I might be planning.

What’s in the box? They want to know. Is it for the truck or the RV? Could those be truck steps? Might they be the electronic kind that retract when the truck starts? Who will put them on the truck? They will approach me gradually, as they believe the time is right, seeking answers to their questions.

The first question came Wednesday afternoon as I sat at my picnic table appraising the myriad of parts that came in the box. It was a forthright “what are you doing?” from a man at least five spaces down.

“Steps,” I told him, pointing to the truck. He asked me if I had all the tools I needed and seemed surprised to learn that I did.

“You must be one of those mechanical girls,” he said, proceeding to offer up his best suggestions for how I might tackle the job. I thanked him for his good advice, and he laughed. “I rarely give good advice,” he responded, “but I take it even less than I give it!”

By Thursday morning I realized that I needed to stop trying to prepare and just do it. My neatly folded instruction manual offered no insight as I turned it this way and that, eyes searching fruitlessly for step one. I looked past the manual to the neat rows of plastic bags that segregated the parts. The sheer number of bolts, nuts, brackets, and washers overwhelmed me, each of them clamoring for my attention the way I’d love people to clamor for my newly published book, Evolving Elizah: Initiatum. All I could do was take my best guess and start bolting on parts.

Sooner, rather than later, it began to make sense.

Now I can see which pieces fit together, and when I realize I’ve used locking washers where I should have used plain washers, I take it all apart and start again. Why not? The sun is shining, there is a nice breeze, and I want to do the job properly.

Neighbors pass by, asking their questions and offering words of encouragement. I slide out from under my truck to retrieve a fresh batch of parts and comment to the latest passerby, “This might take me all day, but I’m going to get these steps on my truck.” He laughs and replies, “Well, what else do you have to do? If you were further north, you’d be shoveling snow.” Indeed.

I am struck with a realization. No one is judging me. I’ve received no criticism, no condescension–only words of encouragement. Perhaps my neighbors are skeptical of berating a woman with a socket wrench in her hand (especially one with striped socks and sandals,) but what difference does it make? They have offered me kindness and support, and I choose to accept it.

I take a moment to breathe in deeply, closing my eyes to feel the sun on my face, and then I check the ratchet on my wrench and slide back underneath my truck. Enjoyment seems so elusive these days, so I grab it by the tail and revel in satisfaction as my two hands make it all come together. I am pleased to spend my time this way, and isn’t that what it’s about? Indeed.

Time is one of the few things we all have in common.

We may live different ways in different places. We may speak different languages and want different things, but we all receive the same gift each moment we are here–time. The gift comes with a choice. How will you choose to use your time? How will I choose to use mine?

As my time on South Padre Island winds down, I find myself reflecting on choices I’ve made about how to spend my time. Some of my choices made me happy, others made me miserable, but I think the only time I truly wasted was the time I spent believing I had no choice in the matter.

I know now that we don’t have to make time for things we love. The time is already there, a gift we’ve been given so freely. All we have to do is choose how to use it. Enjoyment seems so elusive these days, but it doesn’t have to be. Not if we can be honest with ourselves about who we are and what we need and want out of all of this.

I open the door to my truck and gloriously place my foot on the new step, loving the ease I find as I climb up and then climb back down. Another neighbor passes by, checking my progress with a nod and a smile, and I conclude an afternoon well spent.

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January 4, 2021

Wildlife and rocket parts

On New Year’s Day of 2021, Crash and I ventured out with my sister to Boca Chica, Texas, to see the SpaceX Launch Facility. What dystopian science fiction author wouldn’t want to see this place of dreams, right down Highway 4? Besides, it was as good a way as any to put 2020 in our rear view mirror and start new chapters in our lives.

Crash and me

Boca Chica is only about five miles down the coast from South Padre Island. But the journey by car spans 40 miles, circumnavigating the bridgeless Verdolaga Lake and the Brownsville Ship Channel. The drive may seem barren to the casual observer, and in the most obvious sense, there is nothing on the road to Boca Chica. But I encourage you to be more than a casual observer. Look beyond the obvious, and if you aren’t in a hurry, the land will reveal many seasons that have come and gone here–seasons not just of nature but of people, with all their hopes and dreams, fears and worries.

For instance, during the Mexican-American War, Boca Chica was the site of Camp Belknap, a staging point for over 7,000 volunteer forces. The men suffered an array of manmade problems (the war, overcrowding, and unsanitary conditions) as well as the habitat’s flora and fauna that sting, stab, and bite human bodies and souls.

It is also considered by many to be the site of the last Civil War battle. A full month after the Confederacy surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse, fighting erupted at Palmito Ranch between Union and Confederate troops. Both sides knew the war was over, so best anyone can guess, the fighting was about pride, money, or possibly resources like horses and cotton. If the commanders offered any explanations, they’ve been lost in the wind..

Even today, conflict continues in the area, but it’s a different kind of fighting–a fight for survival. Boca Chica serves as a wildlife refuge for sea turtles and a variety of birds, including endangered aplomado falcons and piping plovers. It is also home to one of only two known breeding groups of ocelots, wild cats who live in the thorn forests and mangrove marshes.

SpaceX rocket

Painted on the backdrop of this conflict is a new plot twist for Boca Chica–a quest for the treasure of knowledge as man seeks to overcome the universe in Boca Chica Village. The settlement consists of a small collection of buildings and bears no city limit sign or population count. Instead, visitors are greeted by what might be an old propane tank, neatly painted in welcome. I have no doubt that the population is negligible, unless you count dreams and rocket parts. If you do that, the population is booming.

All humans are dreamers, but some of us dream bigger and louder than others. Elon Musk dreams so big and so loud that the world cannot help but notice, and those of us who hear the sound cannot help but respond to the call.

I responded to the call, driving down Highway 4 to see the rockets and the hangars that house them. They stand tall against the vast landscape, right next to the road like grain silos in America’s farmland. But instead of corn or wheat, these silos store knowledge–knowledge seeded by dreams, watered with perseverance, and harvested with rocket fuel.

Those who come stop along the road to witness and photograph the buildings and rockets that sit only yards away from the pavement. It’s all anyone can do since there are no tours or exhibits. I suppose that makes sense–we all want to share in the dream, but this is a place to test rockets, not entertain the public. Security officers are present but unobtrusive, gracious enough–at least for now–to those of us who creep down the shoulder of the road, yard by yard, pointing our cameras in awe at the future this place promises.

From the road, I see a new rocket standing tall, next to the debris of the last rocket that exploded short weeks ago. I am struck by the realization that this is the way of dreams. They aren’t all sunshine and roses, but there are no casualties–only lessons learned. What appears to be wreckage is not a failure, but only a spent piece of a larger dream, a stepping stone to move forward. This insight gives me hope as I look into my own winding, often-foggy dreamscape. I take comfort knowing that my imagination is interwoven with everything I see, for the dreams of science and science-fiction are hopelessly intertwined–feeding and inspiring each other, and holding each other to account.

I breathe in the excitement of Boca Chica and exhale slowly, sketching out the sequel to Evolving Elizah: Initiatum, and I allow myself to wonder. Perhaps someday… After the rockets are perfected, of course, and after Mars is or is not colonized… Perhaps that day, Elon–or someone like him–will dream of a space farm, similar to the Green Grow 3. Perhaps he will find it a worthy solution to the problems of the world, and perhaps he will take the words from my pages and mold them into something tangible.

Stranger things have happened, so I cannot discount the possibility that it will happen. Until then, I will keep writing.


SpaceX Launch Facility
Boca Chica, Texas

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December 31, 2020

There is no place like home…

I wait, I write, and I wait some more. There seems to be a lot of waiting in this writing game. Waiting for what, you wonder? Book reviews, I suppose. And maybe some sales reports, too—whatever is supposed to happen after launching Evolving Elizah: Initiatum on December 1. Do I even know why I wait? I toy with the possibility that I’m not actually waiting, but perhaps instead just wanting things to move faster, even though it’s all unfolding just fine.

  • Full moon rising over the Gulf of Mexico
  • Cristo de los Pescadores at Isla Blanca
  • Sunset on the Laguna Madre
South Padre Island, Texas

This is a way of being I know well—yearning to move faster, even when life becomes a blur. My heart is reluctant to race to the finish line, but my mind struggles forward, pushing harder and faster. Perhaps this is why I need to be here on South Padre Island—to learn how to slow my roll. I am trying. I try, I learn, and then I try again.

We are all moving. Even the ocean is in motion, and this is what I tell Crash as the tide steals away the shells he chases in the surf. But as the moon and the waves crescendo to a velocity that makes my head spin, I am reminded that everything comes in degrees, even in this magical place connected to the rest of the world by the Queen Isabella Causeway. Sometimes more can be overwhelming.

I first visited South Padre Island as a child, but I was so young that all I have are wispy memories of sand and surf. Besides, that was over 40 years ago—I doubt it is the same place even if I could remember with perfect clarity. And so I felt like I was seeing it for the first time when I drove across the 2-mile causeway two short months ago. The profoundly healing beauty of the Laguna Madre—the Mother Lagoon—birthed new life in me as I crossed to the other side.

As I struggle with my “waiting,” the island teaches me that the most magnificent sights can be seen by standing still. The sun goes up, and then it goes down. It commands witnesses, and I stand still to answer the call. The moon dances around the sky, waltzing amongst the stars. I quiet my mind and hear the perfect trinity of beats in each measure, the universe steadily keeping time as the veil dissolves between surf and sand. The water rushes in to find me, lapping around my feet and my knees, and then it recedes, luring me further into its depths—a siren’s song asking me to stay, beckoning me to make this place home.

But what makes a home? Is it the people? Is it the land? Is it merely a dream of a dream? Is it love? I don’t know. I have come to love this place, and yet, it’s not my home—it’s my teacher, and I still have lessons to learn.

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November 7, 2020

This is Adventure

I wanted new wheels, but funds are limited until the sale of my house in Maryland is complete. So instead of buying a house on wheels or a new truck to pull a house on wheels, I bought a bike. Now when the tide goes out in the middle of the day here on South Padre Island, Texas, I pedal up and down the beach on the packed sand. In these moments I realize that I didn’t just buy a bike–I bought freedom on two wheels.

I’ve learned things about the island while riding my bike. I’ve learned that north is uphill, and south is downhill. Also, the wind usually blows from north to south. So when I pedal up the beach, the forces of nature are aligned against me. When I pedal down the beach, I feel like I am floating on the wind. On any given ride, I have to do both.

This is adventure, and I love it.

The weather is nice, the beach is peaceful, and my friends are jealous. I write until I lose momentum, and then I ride my bike on the beach. It’s not a bad way to spend the days–not at all. Getting here from Maryland, however, wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

I think back to a particular stretch of Interstate 10 in Louisiana–the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge. Eighteen miles of no shoulders, no exits, and extra wide trailers attempting to pass at the speed of light as I chug along in my 15-year old GMC Sierra pulling a U-Haul trailer.

My truck is a beast, and it has carried me through both heaven and hell in our travels together. It runs like a top, but it’s 15 years old. I don’t worry about the engine–I worry about whatever ancillary system might fail next. Like when the brake lines corroded and snapped. Or that time the front wheel bearing gave out, and the wheel caught on fire partway through Virginia. I’ve replaced a lot of parts on this truck. In fact, days before I started this drive, I replaced the power steering pump and an axle boot. But, there are still many parts that could need replacing.

At this point in the trip, I already know I need a new air conditioner–it wails like a banshee, echoing off the jersey walls of the 18-mile Atchafalaya Basin Bridge. Who knew I was supposed to shut off the air conditioning when towing my little U-Haul trailer uphill? Now I know.

Plus, the last time I stopped for gas and started the truck, I was greeted with an ominous red warning flashing across the dash–“Service 4WD Now.” But I already did the 4WD service, and I’m pretty sure the dealer told me that if I got an error message, it was probably just a faulty switch–nothing serious. Dr. Google advised me to shut the truck off for ten minutes, and that seems to have worked. The warning message went away, and I was certain it was fine to continue.

Okay, “certain” may be too strong of a word, but as I ride across the bridge, I can hear the steady hum of the motor–a soothing layer of sound beneath the wailing air conditioner that is strong and reassuring. I begin to dismiss the question of what happens if a vehicle breaks down on this shoulderless bridge where the trucks fly past using their lane and half of mine. My confidence slowly grows that I will survive this part of the drive.

I begin to find my peaceful center, and even the blown air conditioner seems to find peace as it settles into a barely perceptible whine. Wind whips through both open windows as another semi passes me–a short rig with no trailer attached. The truck lurches forward as it pulls into my lane, the driver determined to keep pace with the other trucks flying across the bridge at 80 miles per hour.

As soon as it pulls in front of me, billows of black smoke begin to pour out of the two exhaust pipes that jut up from the rig, making it hard to see. Ashy, crusty debris begins to fly in my open windows. I squint to see the road through the opaque cloud of black smoke, and I see orange flames leaping out the top of the exhaust pipes.

Crash (my semi-willing canine adventure partner) becomes concerned that the whole truck might explode, so I slow down to try and put some distance between us. The truck ahead of me slows down too, still belching black clouds of opaque smoke and flames. Other trucks are passing us, and I hope they are hailing this guy (or gal) on their radios and giving him (or her) good advice. I’ll never know. The smoke continues to billow, the flames continue to dance, and a scratchy piece of the crusty ash lands in my eye.

Eventually we come upon an exit, and the truck pulls to the side. I gratefully pass the smoking, flaming rig only to see it pull back on the highway behind me and accelerate again. But we are across the 18-mile bridge. We are further on our journey, and Crash settles back into his shotgun seat to contemplate what kind of therapy he might need when we finally get to the beach.

I guess this is adventure, too.

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October 25, 2020

I think it’s time to go home now.

A lady always knows when to leave.

Sipsey, Fried Green Tomatoes

I sit, watching Fall come to Maryland, watching the trees get sleepy as they prepare for a long winter slumber. I see the beauty of the leaves–yellow, orange, and of course my favorite–flaming red. I’ve lived here for twenty years–a Fall, Winter, Spring, and Summer for each finger and each toe.

I think it’s time to go home now.

Where does a person go when she wants to go home? Where should I go? I don’t quite know. I’ve tried it all–I’ve looked for home as a place, home as a person, home as a feeling. I haven’t quite found it yet, or maybe I did find it and it just didn’t last. Is it meant to last?

I came here twenty years ago, following a job and a dream, and I’m so glad I did. I have loved the people and the places, but like the seasons, they come and go. I love this house that I turned into a home, a place I thought I would stay until I die.

Maybe I did stay until I died. Maybe I have been reborn, into a dream of my own conception. This place has been a dream come true, but also a place of dreaming new dreams. A memory of me will linger here, sitting by the fireplace or curled up on the back porch with a notebook and pen, just as a memory of this place will linger in me.

So where will I go? Perhaps I will follow the wind. Or the sun. Or a road I’ve never taken before. Stay tuned–it will be an adventure.

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September 10, 2020

COVID Contemplations

These days, when my mind summons the word “normal,” all I get is a cloudy haze of what used to be and doubts about the road ahead. But, the local movie theater re-opened last Friday, and I was joyful beyond words to go and once again do something I so enjoy — something I would refer to as “normal.”

Who would have guessed I’d miss the sound of other people crunching popcorn, slurping drinks, and exchanging whispered comments and snickers? It was tremendous, even with only three of us in the theater. It was tremendous to do something besides *wait* and make the best of a bad situation.

I feel like I’ve been doing a lot of *waiting* recently, especially since my novel is currently in copy editing. But isn’t that what many of us are doing? Waiting. Wondering. Hoping. Laughing, perhaps, when we think back to “two weeks to flatten the curve” — not a jolly ha-ha laugh, but the edge-of-sanity cackle that questions whether it would have been better or worse to know the truth from the beginning.

It’s easy to get caught up in the present moment, especially since the present is all we really have. But, when the present moment becomes fearful, it might help to add perspective. COVID-19 is certainly a novel situation, but I’ve lived through other novel times. I’m sure you have as well.

I was born in the 1970s, so let’s fast forward to times I remember clearly. The 1980s brought the AIDS epidemic, ongoing fear of Mutually Assured Destruction in the Cold War, the war on drugs, and a recession. The 1990s brought the Gulf War, the dot-com bubble, the Oklahoma City bombing, and then Y2K. The 2000s brought a collapse of the housing market, 9/11, and the war on terror.

Even some advancements and breakthroughs were pretty scary in the moment. Consider the creation of personal computers, mobile phones, the Internet, and artificial intelligence. Advancing medical knowledge brought serious and frightening possibilities, including DNA analysis, cloning, and mapping the human genome.

Your own list of novel situations may be longer, shorter, or different than mine, but I’m certain we all have one. I’m also certain they will change over time. I hope my own list will continue to anchor me, as we all continue to be inundated with messages about social distancing, infection rates, restrictions, and everyone’s judgements about what everyone else is doing.

Is this the “new normal” we’ve been hearing about? I certainly hope not, but only time will tell. In the meantime, I’m trying to make the most of whatever I have, and I’m thankful to be able to add a visit to the movies to that list.

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August 8, 2020

What’s a girl like me doing in a genre like this?

That’s what fiction is for. It’s for getting at the truth when the truth isn’t sufficient for the truth.

Tim O’Brien

“You’re going to write a dystopian science fiction novel, and it’s going to be amazing.” This is now-me, whispering in the ear of me-ten-years ago. Then-me laughs until she cries. And yet, here I am.

Now-me knows something then-me doesn’t. Science fiction, including the dystopian variety, is not defined by the stereotypes many of us hold. You know the ones — technology, aliens, endless techno-babble, ultra-modern societies, more aliens, more technology… But we aren’t all H.G. Wells or Isaac Asimov. Indeed, we are not.

Just because a story is set in the future, or in space, or in an alien land, doesn’t mean that the story itself is about the setting. Evolving Elizah: Initiatum isn’t a story about technology or outer space — that’s simply the setting. No, this is a story about life and death, love and adventure. It’s a story of friends and enemies and family. Most importantly, it’s a story of possibility and imagination, and it happens in an ultra-cool setting.

So why write it that way? Why not write it in the here and now, somewhere and sometime you can already relate to? Maybe I don’t want you to relate — not yet. Maybe, instead, I want you to suspend belief for a little while — belief about how the world works and what it means to live in the midst of the present.

This is the value of fiction as a truth-telling tool. You don’t have to be weighed down by the convictions of your beliefs. Instead, you are free to experience a different reality, a reality that may seem completely irrelevant to the world you live in, until you realize it actually couldn’t be more relevant.

I’m an avid reader, across a wide array of styles and genres. And yet, it’s fiction that gives me hope. It’s fiction that carries me through my toughest times, and it’s fiction that inspires me to be more and do more. Fiction is where I hide when I need to process the world, where I go for comfort and solace. It’s where I look for heroes.

By suspending belief in the world around you, I believe you can see your own world more clearly. Indeed, I have written a dystopian science fiction novel, and it is amazing. I believe this story will mean something to you, just as it means something to me. I don’t yet have a final publication date, but it’s coming. Expect great things, my friends — it’s coming.

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May 13, 2020

Memoirs with Mom: The COVID-19 Sh*t Show

If COVID-19 has accomplished anything, it has lifted the veil on our domestic situations. In some cases, said lifting has been as pleasant as a duct tape band-aid.

If your household is functional, happy, and loving, you are likely coping from a place of strength, even if you have substantial challenges to overcome. If your household is dysfunctional, abusive, or unhappy, you are probably in hell.

What about my own domestic situation? Well, it needed some tending, for sure. Almost a year and a half ago, I opened my home to an old friend and her two children in an attempt to help her improve her life, an effort that definitely put my own well-being in a precarious situation. When a stay-at-home order was issued in my state, I could no longer deny the pitfalls of gambling my peaceful home for the sake of helping someone else. I stuck it out for about a month before it became completely untenable, and two weeks later we parted ways — ideally forever.

Now I once again have a peaceful home, and my new challenge is to manage the isolation. Ironically, I feel less isolated living alone than when I shared my home with others, but I didn’t have the bandwidth to focus on feeling isolated then. I was too busy trying to survive the dysfunction. Now it creeps up on me, especially in the mornings. And so, like many of you, I do what I can to stay busy.

Since my novel Evolving Elizah is currently undergoing an editorial assessment, I’ve turned my attention to another project — a memoir about my relationship with my mother. I anticipate working on it between other projects, so I don’t expect it to come together quickly. But I know there is no better time to start writing it, because this emotionally and psychologically tumultuous pandemic is the exact same roller coaster I rode in my relationship with my mother.

There’s something oddly harmonious about contemplating her while I struggle with isolation. She isolated herself for much of her life, and she certainly isolated her children. In fact, as I struggled to first understand the reality of stay-at-home during COVID-19, my first terrible thoughts were memories of isolation as a child, and a teenager, and even a young adult — helpless, scary, dangerous isolation.

However, I know that my struggle with isolation now is not the same struggle I survived as a child — because I am a different person. I have a different array of choices, and I have no fear of choosing something that serves me. In fact, COVID-19 gave me an opportunity to prove that I could and would choose something that served me as I dealt with the toxicity of my housemates. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.

I certainly have a lot to consider as I begin to sketch out what my mother meant to me, and what it meant to be raised by a woman who was clearly mentally ill, although undiagnosed. No doubt, this memoir will be a doozie. But hey, I have survived — my mother, this bizarre pandemic, sixteen months of toxic housemates, and so much more! So, why not? I’m ready.

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May 11, 2020

The Nine-Year Publication Plan: More Trials and Tribulations of a New Author

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.

Sylvia Plath

Momentum builds exponentially, taking me faster and faster, until I’m moving too fast to even be scared anymore. After all, who can be fearful with the wind in her hair and the sun on her face as she flies into the unknown?

Nine years ago, a question wriggled into my brain. Why my brain? Well, it’s an odd brain with odd machinations, and it was ripe for the wriggling. You see, my mind didn’t actually create the idea — not this one, anyway. This one existed in its own right, wanting so desperately to be brought to life that it cast itself onto the winds of the universe to find the right place — the right mind — to settle in and grow. Sometimes the idea chooses us, and this idea chose me.

Like any blossoming idea, it grew in the land of “what if.” In this particular case, the “what if” involved an article I read about Earth’s magnetic field. Did you know that birds can actually see Earth’s magnetic field, and they use what they see as a compass to migrate? What more intimate connection could a being have to the planet? And what about us humans? How are we tied to the planet? The seed of the idea settled into my mind like this — “What if our souls are just as intimately connected to the planet as a bird’s migration pattern? If humans left the Earth forever, would they still have souls?”

And so, that’s how it started — a vision of a woman leaving Earth forever. Who is this woman, and why is she leaving? And most importantly, what happens next? The story began to unfold, which is how it must work since the idea chose me. I began to write — slowly at first because I had many other commitments.

The more I wrote, the more I wanted to write. I used every tool in my toolbox to help this story come to life. Then, when I ran out of tools, I discovered new ones and kept on. By the time I left my 21-year career in civil service, I thought the story was almost finished. I thought it was almost ready to breathe its first breath and enchant you with all its wonders. How could it not be ready? I’d given it so much of me for so many years.

I was riding the wave of the story’s momentum, and it was exhilarating. And yet, I realized rather abruptly that my work had only just begun. I hadn’t yet written the story. This wasn’t failure — just misunderstanding. I’d built a strong foundation to write the story, but the story still needed writing. And so, that’s what I’ve been doing. Fast and furiously, the story has poured out of me at an unprecedented rate — a rate equal to nine years of building momentum. And I think I’m almost done.

I still expect to publish my novel this summer, and I still expect it will be titled Evolving Elizah: Initiatum. Even though I believe the story is written, I still have a lot of work to do between now and then. Proofreading, copy editing, type setting. Publication. Social media platforms. A brand new website. I can’t wait to share all of this with you.

I want you to witness the birth of this story, to feel the rush of air as it takes its first breath and greets the world. I can’t wait for you to meet the characters, especially the main character Liz. She is worth knowing, and you are worth knowing her. I am privileged to tell her story, and honored that she chose me to tell it. She’s as real as anyone else in my life, and in your life she will be as real as you want her to be, or as real as you let her be. I hope you’ll let her be real.

Stay the course, and I will tell you a story — a story of life and death and love and adventure, a story of friends and enemies and family, a story of possibility and imagination. Stay tuned, my friends. There is so much more to come.

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