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’M AT THE BEACH ALONE. I have the day off and Stella’s at the groomers. I miss her presence when I run without her. I imagine Stella now, see the sides of her belly expanding and contracting when she pants, her pink tongue. Even though Stella’s short-haired, her coat becomes gritty with sand. She begins to smell sour and briny from the ocean water. Larkin, the owner of the grooming salon, clips her nails too. I’m afraid, fearful I’ll cut too deep.

I like Larkin. Her hair is long and dark on top. She uses some kind of product to make it swirl up, then dip, just slightly, over her forehead. The sides are shaved and dyed a celestial blue, the color of her eyes. Her lips are fleshy and plump, and her smile reveals gardenia white teeth. A diamond stud punctuates the side of her nose. I want to be like her. Confident enough to dye my hair blue, brave enough to hold a paw in my hand and find just the right place to sever the nail. I like her name too. I asked once if she knew the meaning. And she’d said, “Yeah, actually it means ‘fierce.’”

The sky is glowing umber and gold, the sun an orange disc. The sky is always just itself, no matter if it’s filled with color, or gray and flat as hammered tin. It doesn’t depend on pleasing others.

I didn’t wear my contact lenses today. Instead wore my old round wire frames I’ve had for years. The glasses sit on top of my unopened book. Grains of sand are scattered across the cover, like spilled sugar on a countertop. Could the spectacles be a symbol, a metaphor of some sort? Perhaps if I look hard enough through the lenses, I’ll see what I’m supposed to do, get a glimpse of my future, find the pathway that will lead me to the geography of my longings.

I’m not sure what I long for. I wonder if my dreams are clues. I had another dream last night. I saw a fan, the kind you might hang on a wall if you opened it all the way, its black lacquered sides acting as a frame. In my dream I saw the glossy finish of the black sides, but the fan was only partially unfolded. I couldn’t see the scene embossed between the pleats. I sensed, though, the picture would be something I’d like. I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted to go on dreaming to see what the fan would depict.

I told Marvel, about the “fan” dream. She wonders if the dream might insinuate a new beginning. Marvel collects quotes and says when we talk on the phone, “Hang on, let me get the quote I wrote down just the other day. It’s by John O’ Donohue from his book, To Bless the Space Between Us.” I can hear the pages flip as she hunts for the quote. I can almost picture her bending over the notebook, stopping to press an index finger to her tongue, then touching the paper to separate the thin pages. “I found it,” she says, then clears her throat to read. Her voice contains a slight tremor, but is fierce too. An older version of Larkin. We are never as alone in our beginnings as it might seem at the time. A beginning is ultimately an invitation to open toward the gifts and growth that are stored up for us. To refuse to begin can be an act of great self-neglect.

“Marvel, am I refusing to begin or reluctant to go on?”