Memoirous

I’ve blogged here before about my regular/irregular morning routine . Post-election I’ve needed to come up with new strategies in order to save my sanity. I’m not simply going to be able to jump on my bike and ride across the country and lose myself in endless pedaling. At least not for four years. Before going to bed I organize my thoughts by listing things to do the next day/reminders/etc. A bit of a road map for when I wake up. Some of this list is aspirational, intended to keep something in front of me to work toward. For instance, it took me TWO days in a row to move stuff to the shed. I’ve listed clean and organize shed two weeks in a row and yesterday finally got to doing it. I ALWAYS write down write—even if the morning or day won’t allow for it. I do this because I’m a writer and try to remind myself daily to do the thing—even if just to blog/work on posts, even if, in some cases, it feels too hard. Lately, many things feel too hard. Before the election I’d write at the to...

  Here is a Christmas Day excerpt from  Beyond Paradise  my book ready now for a download. Louise and her mother and several members of the mission are in an internment camp in the Philippines. available in digital format, eBook from Amazon, Nook, Apple, everywhere!) Christmas Day arrived—my second in the Philippines, my first in captivity. It came without store-bought presents, without Papa, Julie, or mother. Mother mostly lay in bed except for when I took her by the hand and led her to the shower, the toilet, or to meals. She had hardly spoken a word since her outburst about the wedding album. As I looked into her vacant face, I often wondered what she thought about. Was she thinking of Papa? Without Papa she was missing her other half, the part of her that said she fixed good meals, thanked her for being a good wife, held her hand, and smoothed her hair at the dinner table. It was hard watching her crumble a little bit more each day. *** I thought long and hard about w...

We could use a little paradise--here is an excerpt from my YA novel (available in digital format, eBook from Amazon, Nook, Apple, everywhere!). It is Christmas 1941--after the attack on Pearl Harbor the Philippines were targeted and the Japanese invaded the islands, slowly working their way down from Manila which capitulated (not the case at the end of the war where Filipinos and Americans  fought corner to corner against the Japanese. The city was heavily damaged. and the civilian population paid in many casualties). Anyway Louise's father was in the capital city when it fell and there are questions of when, if ever, he might be able to reunite with the family on the island of Panay. Christmas excerpt  Beyond Paradise Mother volunteered to make a Christmas Eve dinner for the Fletchers. By combining pantries on the compound everyone got a little bit of everything. We received a canned ham plus several cans of green beans, creamed corn, peas, yams, and baked beans. The compound...

  Another Thanksgiving excerpt from my YA novel, Beyond Paradise On the eve of WWII Louise Keller and her family moved to the Philippine Islands. When the war broke out her father was away picking up the missionary school teacher in Manila and ended up separated from his family. Louise and her mother are eventually rounded up by the Japanese and placed into Allied internment camps for civilians. They are in one such camp—at a former university St. Tomas in Manila where this excerpt takes place. Louise has not seen her father for two years —since the war started—and has no idea where he is. Peter a young man the family met on the boat coming over is also interned at St. Tomas and is in possession of an illegal radio. Thanksgiving in St. Tomas I’ve heard it said that when a cup is mended it is actually strongest where the glue holds it together. Mother was like that—strong, but still fragile in places. We learned to lean on each other. Peter brought us news of victories in the Solomo...

  Thanksgiving Behind the Bamboo Fence A million years ago I wrote a book. I send the manuscript to an editor. It was pulled from the slush pile and said editor called me. She liked it! There were changes. First it needed to go from a diary format to a prose narrative. That took re-working. After that I waited. Then MY editor sent a 10-page editorial letter with all kinds of comments and suggestions. Of course. I re-worked the novel. Then there were more changes. I waited. Finally, we had a book. I was so excited when I saw the cover. Then I saw galleys. Then there were advanced copies! After that I got a carton of books shipped to me. I was an author! Reviews came in. They were pretty good. I did readings and signed copies at bookstores. Then a bigger publishing house bought my publisher, and 6 months after the book was launched it was remaindered. But for some reason the house never optioned electronic rights and those reverted to me. Here is an excerpt from my historical YA nove...

At work our DEI person was moderating a book study using The Good Ally by Nova Reid. From the cover: A guided anti-racism journey from bystander to changemaker. As if social media is not fraught enough—it drove me crazy during the pandemic and the George Floyd protests all the grandstanding by white people. I get it, I wanted to see things change too, yes, it was all so horrible and senseless—but I didn’t feel the need to put everything out there online. I was busy holding doors for people. Sort of a lie. I was busy riding my bike through Iowa on my cross-country bike trip. Politics and the politics of living/dying had compelled me to hop on my bike and embark on a 43-day, 2,400-mile bike trip. I needed to excise the pain out of my body and head. When Kamala lost I had the same sensation. The need to get n my bike. I rode to a bridge on the Lansing River trail where I met Lillian, where we cried and ate stale cookies. Back to being an ally. I’m not even sure what this word mean...

Rodham Curtis Sittenfeld Random House, 2020 My first introduction to Curtis Sittenfeld and their work was at the Festival of Faith & Writing at Calvin University in April. There are times I wish I could turn back the clock—before this year’s election. Sittenfeld’s novel does just that—providing a parallel universe in which to dwell, if only in our dreams. Again, in this sideways/circular moment in history, Rodham can perhaps be read as satire, a mesmerizing what-if. The premise of the book is that Hillary Rodham never marries Bill Clinton. The first third of the novel is devoted to Hillary meeting Bill Clinton at Yale Law School and their early courtship and sex life. A bit of this reads rather cringey—but I think that might have been intentional. I filed it under Too Much Information—at the same time trying to keep in mind this is all a made up story. But it’s hard to separate fact from fiction in this first part. Then comes their break up. Bill eventually marries, divo...

It is early days—of what? We don’t know. My soul senses some impending doom. It hovers above the migraine and my twitching eye. I have no words, it seems, as I continue to write, type, fill up the page. First there was the build up to Halloween, trick or treat night, then baby’s birthday—now 1 year old—then my birthday, 66 (I’ll be 70 the next presidential election). And the aftermath of this election. The trees are mostly bare. First there were the colors, latent and sparing this year, then the latter rain (after a dry September and October), then the wind, which brought down the last of the leaves. After the hype, the string of busyness, the frenetic running here to there—is over; we tuck into shorter days, longer nights, and learn to love . . . these November days.   Fall, leaves, fall Emily Brontë   Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile...

It is strange this time around. My circumstances have changed. I live in a tiny house in a different state. A state of being and the state of Michigan. There’s no going back, but yet history seems to circle, around and around, and I shake my head at the irony and wonder: Will things ever change. Back to the darkness. It comes early—especially these last couple of days with low clouds and dreary skies.   When I leave work, I walk home in beneath street lights and the occasional light from someone’s window, past the little playground, the spooky abandoned house, and the weird triangle bordered by towering pines. There is a stretch with no lights at all—yet home is not so far. Tonight I’ll remember to put my headlamp into my bag. And, when I get home to my tiny house, I’ll switch on the overhead and flip a button on the kettle and light a candle in my window and sit in a warmish glow of my own making, and welcome in my November guest. My November Guest Robert Frost   ...

All my energy spent. The build up, the roar, the wind passes over. I remember how miserable I felt eight years ago, on the eve of a new presidency—and, now, new trepidation. The feeling of not being safe. The nerves leading to my brain, neck, shoulders overloaded and prickly—the kind of thing an animal feels when hunted. Flight or fight. But, it’s not 2016. In 2024 I live in a tiny house next to my daughter, next to the garden under a bed of dry leaves, next to the garage that holds my bike and the bike with the kid trailer that I pull out to ride my grandson around, where, also he leans his balance bike against the plywood wall. He brings me a book. Across the deck, to my front door and knocks and hollers, “Hey, Grandma!” I open up and he climbs into my lap and we study the pages of a toddler graphic novel about an adventurous frog on a bike that winds his way through a dark woods and meets a dragon—but also males friends and learns he can be very brave, if only he continues to ...