WHERE DO I GO TO ESCAPE REALITY? - February 1, 2024

When Hurricane Ian turned our lives inside out and upside down, part of me checked out. In those early days of using squeegees to push mud and filthy water out the front door, my husband and I felt like Sisyphus, pushing that damned boulder to the top of the hill, only to watch it roll back where it started from. No matter how much of the remains of the three feet of water we moved out, there didn’t appear to be any difference in the layer of muck throughout the house.

I found myself retreating from our new reality. My brain refused to believe what my eyes were seeing, and I proceeded to sleepwalk through the next weeks, knowing that at some point, my protective denial would have to shatter.

Normally, I would have turned to reading fiction, preferably crime fiction, to engage my attention and distract from whatever bad thing was happening. Not this time. I was unable to read for the first time in my life. My New Year’s resolution that year of 2022 had been to write and submit at least one new short mystery story each month. By September 28, I had stuck to it, with nine stories in the hands of editors. I never could have imagined I wouldn’t write again for the next six months.

What saved my sanity? Mindless romcoms and streaming mysteries. Nothing dark, nothing tragic. Reality was noir enough for me. My attention span was no more than 90 minutes long, and as soon as I reached The End, I retained nothing I had watched, but it had served its purpose by providing a respite from the lineup of our possessions out by the curb, waiting for the City to cart them away.

I was reminded of this recently when my husband tested positive for Covid. Playing nurse, chef, and housekeeper while trying to keep from catching it myself brought a whole new level of stress. Glimpses of the current news were more than I could bear. Climate change, politics, multiple wars, global misery. I ran out of bandwidth, so where did I turn for respite? Where else but Taylor Swift and the Kansas City Chiefs.

Married to a Kansas boy, and having watched Netflix’s “Quarterback,” I was more familiar with Patrick Mahomes’s career than with Taylor Swift’s music. Who could resist a real-life, Hallmark movie love story? Not me.

Even now, when Covid has left the building and I’m reading and writing again, the news grabs me every time there’s a mention of the lovebirds. I’m not looking forward to the Super Bowl because it will mean the end of those glimpses of Taylor cheering on her man. I just hope if and when I need to escape again, I’ll be able to find my next shelter from the storm.

(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight

This latest anthology (and I'm betting the tune for the title is now embedded in your brain!) was a fun project that started as a joke. The editor/publisher was talking about the explosion of music-related short story anthologies. A friend of his said, "At least please don't do one for one hit wonders." A lightbulb moment. And so, here it is, an anthology of crime stories inspired by those flash in the pan songs by groups that are never heard from again. Some of the biggest names in short mystery fiction appear in the volume, along with (insert delicate blush) me.

My story, "It's Raining Men," was inspired by (a) a song I've always enjoyed, (b) the video on youtube of the song being performed (check it out; it's a hoot), and (c) my visit back in the day to a male strip club. What a fun project! I hope you'll consider checking it out. You'll find links on the "Short Stories" page shown on the banner at the top of this blog.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A WATCH MAKES! - January 1, 2024

My Garmin Forerunner had stood me well when I was training for half-marathons and my one-and-done sprint triathlon. I chose it because it was waterproof and could count laps in the pool for the swim part of swim-bike-run. I'm quite proud of the 14 finishers medals (which somehow survived the flooding from Hurricane Ian) hanging from a small bulletin board in our home. They are still a point of pride in my perseverance beginning at the age of 60 when I decided to leave behind the life of a couch potato.

However, even though the Garmin has had considerably less work to do as age reduces my athletic endeavors, it can no longer summon the energy to allow its battery be recharged. Enter the Apple watch, my Christmas present to myself.

At this point in my life, I dread steep learning curves, especially if they’re coming wrapped in technology that is new to me. However, I talked myself into believing that this new device would reawaken my motivation to back away from my computer and start to push my heartrate (and my waistline) to healthier numbers.

For those few of you who don’t already have this little marvel, I can only say that, so far, in order to meet the goals it demanded I set, I find myself leaping to my feet at its command to stand every hour and move around the house for at least a minute to meet its requirements of hourly movement. If my morning walk with my dog falls short of my daily exercise goal, I hop on the treadmill and make sure I last long enough feel my watch vibrate and congratulate me on closing the exercise ring.

Ah, yes. Those brightly colored rings which gradually close as you reach the day’s goals, or which remain open to remind you of your failure. I’m hoping it’s not only the novelty that keeps me marching to this insistent drummer. What I really need is a way to shame myself into fulfilling my recurrent New Year’s resolution to write and submit at least one new short mystery story a month. Alas, right now, I’m more focused on my exercise rings than on submission deadlines.

But there’s always next year.

For now, I wish all of you a joyful, healthy, peaceful new year.