What we run from pursues us. What we face transforms us.~David Kessler

I started writing books in 2005. Writing was a way to face my life and losses, my gains and wins. Writing became a bridge to healing, an unexpected and loyal companion. 

Over the last two years I've written another novel. I'm now working on refurbishing the rough draft. The work is intense, and the satisfaction the creative process brings me, practically scandalous. I love to write.

In my second novel, I stick with the topic that interests me. Grief and loss. The possibility of hope to transcend the darkness. I continue to practice one of the fundamental principles I follow in my writing. Write about what intrigues and interests me. What I notice. There are a million books about grief and loss, but none from my perspective. I don't let the volumes already written deter me.

I share an excerpt with you in this post. My protagonist is named Alexandra. Alex for short. She has run from her pain and lives alone on the Oregon coast with her dog, Stella. She has consistent phone contact with her grandmother, Marvel. Alex has been having many dreams in the night watches. She doesn't know what to make of them. Perhaps you'll be able to discover the title of the book as you read. (Let me know if you'd like to take guess about what it is.) Surely, you'll be able to understand where the image and the title I chose for the post comes from after you read the excerpt.

Thank you for your continued interest to read what I write. There is no greater gift.

I had become proficient in the poetry of acceptance.~Rebecca Woolf (From All Of This)

My sister and niece arrived during a rainstorm. I picked them up at the airport, and rushed to quickly hug them, our faces moist with raindrops and joy to see each other once again. The whole of their visit was marked with platinum skies and unseasonably cool temperatures for March in Charleston. Yet we did not let the weather mar our time. We basked in the fellowship of one another, gathered around the table, burning a candle and feasting on good food and sweet companionship. We talked and laughed, bound by our history and love. And their kind hearts of grace toward me caused me to think of all the sweet acoustics of life that are poured out by God, like that spring rain that wet our faces and...

~Driving down a road with the ocean a stripe of cobalt on the left.

~When someone you love gets well.

~Sunlight streaming in my window and glancing off the purple orchid.

~Sitting on the porch in the early morning, birds chirping, a fresh breeze on my face, the sky smudged with pink. 

~That good feeling after a workout, sweat trickling down the back.

~Toast spread with Nutella.

~Notebooks with lines and those without.

~The scent of jasmine and giant hedges of pink and coral azaleas.

~The ability to keep doing the mundane tasks of everyday living, grateful I can move and hear and bound up the steps.

~Riding on the back of a motorcycle, my arms around my husband's waist, the Lake of Garda spangled with sunlight.

~The poetry of the Psalms.

Butterflies in winter often chase away the losses.~Phrase a character heard in a dream from my book, Missing God.

Last week a former colleague of mine died. She was young. It felt impossible to imagine that she was gone from this world. I think this feeling fits the word empty. I felt empty. Her absence like someone snatching something precious out of my heart. How could she be gone just like that? I wasn't prepared. No, I wasn't ready for this reality.

And then the truth began to sink in. I couldn't deny (though I wanted to, my brain wanted to) that she was absent from this earth--her absence like a sad presence.

I loved the sound of our two typewriters; it felt like we were in a band, making a strange kind of music.~Lily King (From Euphoria)

The other day I checked out of the Dollar Tree with glass cleaner for my car. Pollen now coats most everything in Charleston that's left outside. The saffron-colored dust is a beast. I bought a pack of beef jerky, too, as a reward for the effort it would take to wipe down my car windows. As I placed the items in my cloth bag, the cashier asked, "What does your shirt say?" I'd forgotten what I was wearing and looked down. "Oh, it says Dream Chasers." "I like it," she said. I like the t-shirt too. A good friend gave it to me. We both love the slogan. While I cleaned my car, I thought about the dream I'd had the night before. I wondered if the term Dream Chasers might contain some synchronicity with what I thought the dream could symbolize.

In the dream, I rode on a train that meandered through lush green hills. I noted on the horizon a snow-capped mountain range, clouds wreathing the slopes. I thought that I'd like to go explore the mountains, find a path upward. Yet I didn't make an effort to get off at the stop that would take me the mountains. I thought there may be another stop along the way. Instead, the last and final stop was at an amusement park. Initially, I felt curious about the attractions and rides. But then realized I couldn't get back to the train that might drop me off at the location where I could explore the mountains. I was stuck amidst the distractions of the midway. I felt adrift.

...and how I love your handwriting, that running shadow of your voice.~Vladimir Nabokov (From Letters To Vera)

There's a corner in my living room where I like to sit. While there, I can see out my east-facing window. A stand of trees is a backdrop for the sky. This morning I'm in my chair before dawn and I am restless. My mind races with the list of things I've assigned myself for the day. I don't feel like doing any of the tasks. I ask myself why I am restless. I realize that I often put myself under critical scrutiny. You must be productive, always about getting things done. You actually should have done more for______. The blank space is heavy with guilt for loved ones and people in need I could do more for, love better. I realize, too, that I am restless because I feel lonely. Bored even. Checking off lists and following a pathway of "shoulds" is backbreaking, my self-effort unreliable. There's always one more thing that can be done. Always one more chore that calls. But flurries of activity often lead me to procrastinate. I just can't do it all, I lament. No. I can't.

I rise from my chair to heat my cold cup of coffee in the microwave. While I wait for the coffee to warm, I open a drawer to get out my notepad. I spy an old grocery list my husband wrote weeks ago, maybe months ago. The items on the list don't change much. I note the rounded letters, the little slashes he places at the top of his "ones," the marks in the middle of his "sevens," some items written in Italian, others in English. Seeing his script makes me glad. It's almost like he's walked in the room seeing that familiar script, that running shadow of his voice.