I'm happy for you . . .

In the movie ‘Midnight in Paris’, Hemingway tells Gill, the young novelist, 

“You don’t want the opinion of another writer about your novel.  If is bad, I’ll hate it.  If it’s good, I’ll be envious and hate it even more.”

There’s a large element of truth there.  I pretend happiness in the success of other writers, but I’m seldom truly glad for them.  For the exact reason Hemingway mentions.  

Writers are notorious for possessing that inner child prone to tantrums.  

“Me, me, me.  What about me?  I’m just as good a writer as they are.” 

And, truthfully, if I don’t know you and read about your success as a writer, I’ll be a teeny tiny bit happy for you but mostly I’ll be jealous as a three year old at her sister’s birthday party.

Except, right in the muddled-middle of my tiny, selfish life, a funny thing has happened. I find myself with a group of increasingly successful writer friends for whom I am genuinely, joyously happy. 

And here’s the surprise, my life is richer, my joys are multiplied.  Their success really does feel like my success and I know they share in my joys as well.

Ain’t life grand?

Life Is Chock Full of Characters

This week The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pan answered questions about where writers get their characters.  The answers were insightful and entertaining, but in my experience, when someone other than another writer asks this question, they mean something entirely different. http://sisterhoodofthetravelingpen.wordpress.com/

When Redneck Goddess was published, the first question men friends who bought and read the book asked was some variation of:

“Where’d you get the idea for the stud your ‘main character’ couldn’t keep her hands off?”

By which they meant,

 “I know I’m the stud and the book is your public confession of your long time and barely concealed hots for me.”

Many of these men, bless their hearts, weigh well over three hundred pounds, are bald and have never heard of a nose hair clipper.  Okay, I made that part up, but, seriously, the love interest in Redneck Goddess is a hot young Latino with the personality of a sexy saint.  Come on guys, really?

Women, always more subtle, whispered some variation of:

“I don’t appreciate something I told you in confidence being put out there in black and white for the whole world to read."

Here’s the thing, the protagonist is a hot twenty-eight year old with flaming red hair and legs all the way to her ass.  I’m not sure why you think the book is about you and the waiter at the Mexican café who poured an extra shot of Padron in your margarita when you tipped him a Franklin on Cinco de Mayo? 

You get the idea. The need for friends and family to define the book by their influence on you just seems universal.  It’s the same conundrum as that old query, “Is this not the carpenter’s son? Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

It is difficult for friends and family to look past ME to see the book, the message.  I don’t know why that surprises me.  

 For twenty years didn’t I hear the surprised exclamation, “Wow, your boys are really smart?  Is their dad a major brain?”

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pen

Writing is a solitary addiction.

Because of my craving for writing time and solitude, I’ve never been a person to have many friends.  I held people at a distance, my emotional force field protected the real me. Like any addict, my addiction was my life.  

So, imagine my surprise when I found, not one, but four women to share my writing journey.  From agonizing over plot, through the publication process and the challenge of marketing, these four ‘sisters’ have eased my pain, sharpened my skills and just generally made my life more joyful.

A few months back, we officially became The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pen. Our first speaking engagement was yesterday at the NW Arkansas Writers Workshop Conference.  Our hope was to get our message across AND to entertain.  I think we accomplished our goal.  

Ruth Weeks started us off by acting the part of a humble, frightened writer trying to pitch her work to a snooty agent.  Thirty seconds in, she flung off her jacket and revealed more bling than Liberace.  And cowboy boots.  Hot damn, those boots of hers.  Ruth strutted a demonstration of stepping out, believing in yourself, and making the magic happen in your writing career.  I mean, the woman showed us how it was done.

Once Ruth had folks fired up, it was my turn.  

I pointed to my tiara. Yes, you read that right. Touched the giant, gold star hanging around my neck, whirled my feathery pink boa.  I held my book over my head danced and yelled, I’ve been published!  My sisters yelled and stamped their feet and threw confetti. The celebration lasted approximately thirty seconds when Ruth, holding a sign that said Reality Check stepped up and, foot tapping, demanded my lovely glittery crown and my adorable star.  The bitch even took back my lovely pink boa. I spoke on the reality of having a book published and likened the experience to running a small business.

Next, Jan Morrill acted out a skit she’d written about how, while the rest of The Sisters took that fork in the road marked Small Press and skipped happily to publication, she choose the road to New York Publication and spend a year waiting for the phone to ring.  This presentation came complete with the song Let it please be him. It must be him.  It must be him bursting forth into the conference room to demonstrate her reaction each time the phone rang while she waited and waited to hear from her agent.  My favorite part was when she skipped down the path to stardom in her sunglasses, the frames of which were in the shape of glittery gold stars. 

In stained chenille robe, pajama bottoms and soft, fluffy slippers one of her dogs may have chewed, Claire Croxton demonstrated what happens when you sit down to write, but first, just for a minute, you check your email and your favorite blogs.  Social Networking is vital to building a platform after all!  As Ruth moved the hands of a giant clock, Claire tapped on her laptop, commented on blogs and just networked her little heart out until the clock showed eight hours had passed and she hadn’t written a word on her new novel.  Claire spoke on managing your time.

Linda Apple stepped up with a rubber snake around her neck which, like Marlin Perkins with the giant Anaconda, she successfully wrestled into submission.  Her opening line was “Most people would rather wrestle a poisonous snake than speak in public.” She then beautifully demonstrated how to speak in front of an audience with ease and grace.  Linda spoke on the importance of building your platform as a writer.  

Lord, did we have fun.  Who’d have thought that a lifetime of living in my own solitary little world, mainlining words and struggling to reveal the truth through fiction–who would have even suspected that this would bring me into the glorious company of a sisterhood like this?

More -- On the Road with Chesty and Rocca

We left off this story having landed in Panama City.

   Unfortunately, we need to clear customs before we can leave the building. This is expedited for us when the veterinarian comes to greet us as we wait in line. We are easy to spot. We’re the people with the crowd of giggling porters surrounding us wanting to see the two big dogs that we’ve actually brought in the passenger section of the plane with us. The vet and his assistant introduce themselves and take us to the front of the customs line. This seems unfair to those other folks waiting, but we let it pass.

   We are now in possession of two big, active dogs who have had no exercise and no opportunity to pee for fourteen hours. Chesty is absolutely goofy with pent up energy. He’s bouncing along beside Jack looking at the people, his tail in constant circular motion. Rocca is walking stiff-legged, plotting her revenge on Chesty who she is intent on blaming for all the difficulties of her long hard day. Gee, I wonder where she gets that from?

   Jack and I are being careful to keep our own bodies in between the two dogs as neither of us trust Rocca not to tear into Chesty or Chesty not to provoke her just to get some action going. At this point the vet tells Jack to leave the dogs with me. Jack must go with three officials to fill out paperwork and pay the money needed to get us the hell out of the airport.

   Here’s the thing. I can control one of these dogs, but not both of them if they decide to act up. And they’ve already decided to act up. Rocca is doing a near constant low rumble and Chesty’s eyes are round and sparkling and he’s just waiting for a chance to play.

   I put Rocca in a sit and tie Chesty to a steel rail that is bolted into the marble floor of the terminal. I move slightly away from Chesty and, making sure I’m in between the two dogs, tell the boy to sit. He looks at me like he’s never heard that particular command before. Could I maybe say it again, or better yet, bring that rumbly girl dog over here a little closer while I make him do what I’ve told him to do. I ignore him in the hopes that he’ll settle down, pray Jack won’t be gone long.

   A porter is escorting our luggage through customs. The inspectors open the largest bag and discover the dog food, dog toys, and other assorted doggie paraphernalia. This causes the officials to call over all the other inspectors. The checkout line comes to a stand-still while five men in uniform peer down into our luggage. Are they going to tell me that we can’t bring dog food into the country? No. They’ve just never actually seen anyone stupid enough to bring a giant bag of dog food into the country and figure it has to be seen to be believed.

   Eventually the other passengers have left the terminal and the porters entertain themselves by teasing the dogs. These playful gentlemen challenge each other to see who’s brave enough to get close to Chesty who is wagging that abbreviated tail in tight circles and itching for an opportunity to play. This little game of chicken ends abruptly when one of the porters gets too close, Chesty lunges and the steel rail to which I’ve tied him comes unbolted from the tile floor. Before it can come completely loose, bringing to fruition my nightmare of my dog running amuck in the airport terminal knocking people over and having a slobbery good old time while the police come to haul us all away, I manage to grab the leash. I have visions of having to pay for the broken rail, but the feeling seems to be that this is a hilarious happening and why don’t I tie him up again so they can return to their fun game.

   Now I have both dogs on leashes, one in each hand. Rocca, thank you Jesus, has decided that Chesty is too stupid for the likes of her to even bother to interact with and she is behaving wonderfully. Chesty, on the other hand, is bursting with excitement and energy. Another plane has arrived, bringing a whole new group of passengers as well as two crated dogs. The crates are placed directly in front of me and my two dogs.

   You know that old saying about how two brothers fight, but when a cousin shows up, it’s the two brothers against the cousin. And when a neighbor shows up, it’s the two brothers and the cousin against the neighbor. Well, it works that way with dogs too.

   The two dogs in the crates are yellow labs. No sweeter, more clueless dog exists. They bark a greeting to Chesty and Rocca.

   “Hey! What are you doing here? How come you’re not in a little doggie jail like us?”

   Chesty, nearly vibrating with joy, answers, “Wanna play? Do ya? Huh? Huh?”

   Rocca, giant head up, stiff with annoyance comes in with, “Don’t you come near me. I’ll tear you a new one if you so much as look at me.”

   The yellow labs are now frantic to interact and they have a chorus of, “Let us out! Let us out! Let us out!” going nonstop.

   Chesty is lunging toward the crates and I am using an old dog trainer trick of which I’m not proud but that is effective in situations just like this. I lift him straight up off the ground by his collar, causing him to have to choose between lunging or breathing. He chooses breathing. But, remember, he was named after a marine, and he forgets the lesson basically one breath after I set him down. So we repeat the experience a dozen or so times as I back him and Rocca slowly away from the yellow labs.

   By the time Jack returns with all the paperwork stamped, signed and approved, I have both dogs across the terminal, Chesty is doing one of his loud whines and Rocca is rumbling like a volcano about to spew molten lava on everything in its path. All the passengers from the last flight of the night have been processed through and are gone. My arms and shoulders feel as though I’ve climbed Mt. Everest. Plus I have to pee again.

On the Move with Chesty and Rocca - We land in Panama

   As we walk the covered ramp to enter the second plane of the day, the flight that will take us out of the country and to our new home in the country of Panama, I am at that stage of exhaustion and anxiety known as walking comatose.

   Again, I take the window seat with Rocca. I put her in a sit and physically hold her head against my chest so she can’t turn and look at Chesty as he, happy as the proverbial clam, backs into his spot and eases himself down. Convincing Rocca to lie down with her rump resting cockeyed up on top of Chesty is a challenge. She’s done this before and didn’t enjoy the procedure in the least. Putting my dog in position without her or the ever-playful Chesty turning their heads to make eye contact, leaves me shaking and twitching, but we eventually get both dogs adjusted with a couple of airplane blankets under Rocca’s head to even out her position a little. Jack and I each throw one leg over the necks of our dogs so as to prevent them turning and, God forbid, looking at each other.

   Rocca is already rumbling in the knowledge that Chesty is, sure enough, trying his hardest to twist around to see what kind of reaction he can get out of her. I bend over with her head held tightly against my chest and whisper to her what we’ll do to both males once we’re on the ground and safe somewhere. She and I stay that way, making our plans, until the plane is in the air. I don’t tell my furry girl that I have no idea when we’ll be anywhere that resembles safety.

   Once the plane is in the air, Jack leans over to me and says, “We’re home free now. What are they gonna do? Throw us off the plane?”

   He then strikes up a conversation with the three men in Hawaiian shirts across the aisle who are flying down to Panama for their yearly month-long fishing trip. These guys seem to know more about the gentlemen’s clubs in the city than they do about sailfish or dorado, but perhaps they’ve only heard rumors about such things. Jack tells them about his plans to raise guard dogs in Panama. I, on the other hand, spend most of the flight worrying about getting through customs once we land and don’t completely believe the pilot will not turn the plane around in a swooping U and carry Jack and me and the dogs back to the land of Federal Marshalls until the stewardess tells us we’re over half-way in our flight. Then I concentrate all my anxiety on the ordeal of getting the dogs through customs and out of the a

   As we walk the covered ramp to enter the second plane of the day, the flight that will take us out of the country and to our new home in the country of Panama, I am at that stage of exhaustion and anxiety known as walking comatose.

   Again, I take the window seat with Rocca. I put her in a sit and physically hold her head against my chest so she can’t turn and look at Chesty as he, happy as the proverbial clam, backs into his spot and eases himself down. Convincing Rocca to lie down with her rump resting cockeyed up on top of Chesty is a challenge. She’s done this before and didn’t enjoy the procedure in the least. Putting my dog in position without her or the ever-playful Chesty turning their heads to make eye contact, leaves me shaking and twitching, but we eventually get both dogs adjusted with a couple of airplane blankets under Rocca’s head to even out her position a little. Jack and I each throw one leg over the necks of our dogs so as to prevent them turning and, God forbid, looking at each other.

   Rocca is already rumbling in the knowledge that Chesty is, sure enough, trying his hardest to twist around to see what kind of reaction he can get out of her. I bend over with her head held tightly against my chest and whisper to her what we’ll do to both males once we’re on the ground and safe somewhere. She and I stay that way, making our plans, until the plane is in the air. I don’t tell my furry girl that I have no idea when we’ll be anywhere that resembles safety.

   Once the plane is in the air, Jack leans over to me and says, “We’re home free now. What are they gonna do? Throw us off the plane?”

   He then strikes up a conversation with the three men in Hawaiian shirts across the aisle who are flying down to Panama for their yearly month-long fishing trip. These guys seem to know more about the gentlemen’s clubs in the city than they do about sailfish or dorado, but perhaps they’ve only heard rumors about such things. Jack tells them about his plans to raise guard dogs in Panama. I, on the other hand, spend most of the flight worrying about getting through customs once we land and don’t completely believe the pilot will not turn the plane around in a swooping U and carry Jack and me and the dogs back to the land of Federal Marshalls until the stewardess tells us we’re over half-way in our flight. Then I concentrate all my anxiety on the ordeal of getting the dogs through customs and out of the airport.

   As we walk the covered ramp to enter the second plane of the day, the flight that will take us out of the country and to our new home in the country of Panama, I am at that stage of exhaustion and anxiety known as walking comatose.

   Again, I take the window seat with Rocca. I put her in a sit and physically hold her head against my chest so she can’t turn and look at Chesty as he, happy as the proverbial clam, backs into his spot and eases himself down. Convincing Rocca to lie down with her rump resting cockeyed up on top of Chesty is a challenge. She’s done this before and didn’t enjoy the procedure in the least. Putting my dog in position without her or the ever-playful Chesty turning their heads to make eye contact, leaves me shaking and twitching, but we eventually get both dogs adjusted with a couple of airplane blankets under Rocca’s head to even out her position a little. Jack and I each throw one leg over the necks of our dogs so as to prevent them turning and, God forbid, looking at each other.

   Rocca is already rumbling in the knowledge that Chesty is, sure enough, trying his hardest to twist around to see what kind of reaction he can get out of her. I bend over with her head held tightly against my chest and whisper to her what we’ll do to both males once we’re on the ground and safe somewhere. She and I stay that way, making our plans, until the plane is in the air. I don’t tell my furry girl that I have no idea when we’ll be anywhere that resembles safety.

   Once the plane is in the air, Jack leans over to me and says, “We’re home free now. What are they gonna do? Throw us off the plane?”

   He then strikes up a conversation with the three men in Hawaiian shirts across the aisle who are flying down to Panama for their yearly month-long fishing trip. These guys seem to know more about the gentlemen’s clubs in the city than they do about sailfish or dorado, but perhaps they’ve only heard rumors about such things. Jack tells them about his plans to raise guard dogs in Panama. I, on the other hand, spend most of the flight worrying about getting through customs once we land and don’t completely believe the pilot will not turn the plane around in a swooping U and carry Jack and me and the dogs back to the land of Federal Marshalls until the stewardess tells us we’re over half-way in our flight. Then I concentrate all my anxiety on the ordeal of getting the dogs through customs and out of the airport.

The requirements for entering The Republic of Panama with an animal are complicated. You need an international health certificate. We were lucky and our veternarian on Fort Huachuca was familiar with this document and actually had them on hand along with the official stamp that is required. Once in our possession, this piece of paper had to be Overnight FedExed to the Panamanian consulate in Houston for their official stamp and signature. This all had to be done so that the dates of the stamps were no more than fifteen days or less than ten days from the time of our arrival in the country. We did all that. Those papers are in my day-pack.

   On arrival we will need to have the government veterinarian approve all this paperwork, examine the dogs and sign off before we’ll be allowed to leave the airport with the dogs. Our flight arrives in Panama at 7:45p.m. The vet works 8 to 5. However, he has been contacted by our realtor and asked to stay until after he checks us through customs because we refuse to leave our dogs overnight in the airport. The vet has reportedly agreed to stay and examine the dogs for the low, low price of $50. Which we gladly agreed to pay.

   There is supposed to be someone meeting us when we arrive. Here’s how that happened. We sold our house through our local ReMax company. The realtor in Arizona asked if we wanted a referral to a ReMax agent in the area where we were relocating.

   I jokingly said, “Sure, fix that up for us. We’re moving to the Republic of Panama.”

   Turns out there is a ReMax office in Panama and our agent hooked us up with a nice unsuspecting young man named Arie. This poor guy has been our contact person ever since. He’s the one who talked to the veterinarian at the airport and he’s the one who begged a friend at a hotel to rent a room to us and our two giant service dogs.

   We hope he’s done all this. We’ve only spoken with him on the phone and I can already tell we’re making him half-crazy with our weird requests and questions. He’s been gallant and accommodating, but for all I know, we’ll never see him once we land and nothing has actually been pre-arranged at the airport or the hotel.

   Well, you can see that I entertain myself with lovely, rosy thoughts on the three and a half hour flight from Houston to Panama City. I do supplement these images of impending disaster with holding Rocca’s head when Chesty’s wagging tail sets off her rumblings. I also break the monotony by digging my fingers into Jack’s arm, making little squeaking moans and sayings things like:

   “What if the vet’s not there?”

   “Do you know the name of the hotel where we’re supposed to be staying?”

   “Watch your dog! He’s looking at mine!”

   “If the vet’s not there, I’m not leaving my dogs!”

   “I have to pee but there’s no way I can leave Rocca and make my way to the bathroom.”

   “I hope Arie is there to meet us.”

   “Chesty’s looking at Rocca!”

   “If Arie’s not there, how are we going to even get to the hotel?”

   “Where is this hotel in relation to the airport?”

   “I really have to pee.”

   Jack’s response to all of this is predictable.

   “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. There won’t be any problems that we can’t handle. Did you hear what the guy said about the $50 lunch special at the gentleman’s club?”

   I have gone now, out beyond comatose and into the altered state of consciousness where the mantra, “One breath at a time. One breath at a time,” has brought me to place where peace and calm are attempting to beat the crap out of a crazed lunatic that seems to be lodged somewhere at about the level of my gut.

   Flying into Panama City at night, skyscrapers light a black curve of bay and the bridge of the Americas over the canal is strung with lights like colored jewels. Low clouds race in the wind and create the illusion that the plane is standing still and the city itself is moving, flowing along in another world down below us. I relax a little. Maybe our new home is going to be okay. Maybe Jack’s right and everything really will be fine. Maybe pigs really can sprout wings and fly.

   Once on the ground, while everyone else is racing for the custom’s line, I walk Rocca, both of us stiff-legged, to the nearest bathroom. By the time we leave the facilities, I’m feeling much better, but Rocca has still not been outside to pee since we left Tucson this morning before dawn. Getting both dogs outside has become a priority.