THE LAST CHRISTMAS

It's Christmastime which makes me think of Daddy.

The other day one of my sisters called and told me that she and her kids had gone out and bought a real Christmas tree. Hallelujah and Amen!

You see, for years they had been using an artificial one. Now, if you have an artificial tree, please don't take offense, but me - I'm a real tree kind of a gal. She was so happy about it, and it smelled so good, and the kids had so much fun at the tree lot helping to pick it out - and all the things which I, too, cherish about a real Christmas tree.

Then we began to reminisce about Daddy and how he used to go with us to the tree lot. Daddy was very particular about picking out the tree. We would take it home and Daddy would make a fresh cut on the bottom and put it in the stand and make sure the water was done just right. Then we decorated that thing with lights and ornaments and tinsel - the works. It was a blast. It was a blast because it was a family activity. We were together.

Then I said "Remember that last Christmas we had? Remember that tree?" Which led to more reminisces and the two of us crying on the phone.

The three of us girls were all moved out of the house and living on our own. I had moved to Dallas and was working in The Big Law Firm. I used to drive home (Austin) from time to time and visit (it's 200 miles and it's The Most Boring Drive in Texas). I drove home every year for Thanksgiving, and then I would come home again for about 3 days at Christmas.

Mama got some hare brained idea that she didn't need to get a big tree and do Christmas with the same flourish anymore (because we girls weren't living at home anymore). Don't know how she came across this idea, but I never liked it. I rolled with it because I didn't live there and she was the one doing the decorating. She started buying these "table top" trees. They were real trees, but they were dinky. It just didn't have the wonder and majesty of our childhood trees.

Mostly, though, there was no family decorating going on. It was just this little tree where she hung some of those lifeless, meaningless, satin colored balls on it. That was it. No lights. The tree ceremony (family time) wasn't there.

One year, not too long after the "table top" tree era began, I had all I could stand and I insisted to my mother that we have a big tree, decorate it with all the lights and ornaments and put up all the other decorations, too. I said I would help with the putting up and the taking down. She wasn't too game for this suggestion. I pushed. My two sisters gave their second and third to the motion, and at last, it carried.

So at Thanksgiving time, we went to the tree lot, Daddy helped us pick it out and put it up. Three of our cousins popped in that night because they were in town, and their mother (my Dad's sister) wanted to drop something by the house. So, there we all were, Mom, Dad, me and my two sisters, my aunt and three cousins. We were all decorating the tree, drinking apple cider and hot chocolate, laughing and talking. It was awesome!

I came back at Christmas and it was so great to see that tree there, and all the other decorations. We were having one of the best Christmases we had in a long time. It wasn't just the tree, of course, it was what putting up that tree had represented for us - our Christmas spirit and the joy of all that wonderful Family Time.

On Christmas day, we opened presents, and later in the day I drove us all down to San Antonio and we went to this cool old historic place in Castroville, and then drove around some more and back to Austin. Daddy loved that driving tour. My grandfather had lived in San Antonio at the end of his life (there were more Greeks down there), and so the driving tour was filled with Daddy's memories of things Granpa said and did.

The day after Christmas I stood in the driveway getting ready to drive back to Big D. I had to be back at work in the sweat shop (that's just law firm life). Daddy asked when I would be back next. I told him maybe in January, but definitely for his birthday (mid-February). He said okay.

He said, with a big smile "Well, it sure was fun!" He'd had a great Christmas, and so had we all. I gave him a big hug and said "It was fun, Daddy." Then I said, "I'll see you next time."

We waved at each other, and I drove away.

Three weeks later my father got out of the shower, had a massive heart attack and died.

That great Christmas was my last Christmas with him.

More importantly, it was his last Christmas - ever.

Thank God we had made it so special. Thank God I was there. Thank God I had that time with him.

Thank God I have no regrets - because you can never unring those bells.

My Grandfather was a Greek from the old country and he said "Family is number one."

My friends, family is everything.

For me, the day after Christmas is always the last day I ever saw my Dad in person. I remember it in a special way every year. I remember what I said to him before I drove away.

"I'll see you next time."

And I will - someday.
                                               
Have a great Family Christmas like it's the last one you'll ever have. Make Christmas like that every year. Hug every single member of your family, because we only have now. We only have today. You don't know when "next time" will be.

Merry Christmas!!!

Polla filia,
J.F.

SOLITARY

In case you’ve ever wondered, this whole writing novels thing isn’t for sissies. It’s hours of time in solitary, scratching away on a notepad with a pencil or pen, banging away on the keyboard of a computer, agonizing over some damn scene that will not cooperate, pacing around the house trying to get your blood flowing again, only to sit down and go back to the same agony in hopes that you have a breakthrough, and the thing begins to move better (which it does - eventually).

Then there are the dreams (as in the ones you have while sleeping) - the ones that solve some writing problem, and the ones that replay your agony in your sleep. I like the first kind - surprise, surprise.

I am, as if you couldn’t tell, in the depths of writing agony right now. It won’t last and I know that. I’m an old hand at this. I just wish to hell it would shorten its run. I’m ready for the light at the end of this particular tunnel.

I was published once before and it worked out okay (from a sales perspective), but then some bad things happened in my personal life (involving the death of my mother) and some other bad things happened with my then agent (which actually only came about because of the break I took because of my mother’s illness and death).

So, here I am, in the desert once again, agent-less.

Make no mistake, the agent-less status is my doing - I let my old agent go.

No, you don’t do that because you had a bad day. You don’t even do that because you think you got a slightly bad deal on the last book. Not even.

You only do that, ever, as the absolute, last resort of all last resorts. You only do that after you have thought everything through rationally, reasonably, patiently, weighing all your options - while you’re sober. You only do that when you’ve tried everything and nothing else works. You only do that when not having an agent will be no worse than having your current one. That’s the *only* time you ever do that. So, don’t do that unless *all* of the above has occurred to you.

Why?

Because agents are too hard to get.

No, it is not easier to get an agent once you’ve been published. It just isn’t.

Is.

Not.

So, for all the aspiring writers out there, don’t delude yourselves into thinking that the previously published have some easier deal than you. Unless your name is something like John Grisham, Nora Roberts or Janet Evanovich (or others in the same galaxy of stars). If you live in that galaxy, then and only then can you call your own shots; but, it isn’t easier for the rest of us.

So, I must finish this manuscript first and foremost, and it must be wonderful (and it will be, by God). Then I will go out and query and do my best to find that agent who loves my work.

Before you Google the name on this blog - no, I was not published under this name before, and I’m not telling you what that name was. I’m not telling because I left that behind me. I’m writing something different now and it doesn’t need to be associated with the life I had before tragic circumstances re-routed my universe.

Being a person who believes in her dreams, I wasn’t about to give up on mine just because the world temporarily got the better of me. It was temporary after all. As Vincent Gardenia says in “Moonstruck” (playing the role of Cosmo Castorini) - “Everything is temporary!” [Writer credit: John Patrick Shanley].

The writing dream lives, and I work through all the solitary, crap days of sitting on my bum and pounding this keyboard and honing those passages until I just can’t stand it anymore.

And sometimes on nights like these, I take a break, put on a little Joni Mitchell “Night Ride Home” and pour myself a glass of Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban (neat), and wait for the edge to wear off.

Maybe I’ll write some more tonight, or maybe I’ll just *be* for a while, let my mind drift and unwind.

Then tomorrow I can start fresh. Maybe find that breakthrough. See the light at the end of this particular tunnel.

Take me home, Joni.

Bottoms up!

Polla filia,
J.F.

I HAVE ONLY MY DREAMS

"But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."
 - W.B. Yeats "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven"

Of late, I have noticed (again) how many people have no idea what most writers go through along the path to their dreams.

First of all, most of us never make a living with this work. Most of us have day jobs to pay the mortgage and put food on the table. The lucky ones reach a day where they can quit the day job and live off of their words. They are in an elite minority. More elite still are those who make it big. Yet, so many people think only of the ones who make it big.

In spite of not making our primary living off of our work, those of us who are published at least once (in my case) and who do make some money from it - we are professional writers. Some of us are card-carrying voting members of the Author's Guild (like me).

Those of us who do it sacrifice a lot for it. We work insanely hard to do what we love.

It is not a hobby. Please do not insult a working writer by treating them as if their work is some hobby.

It is about the love not the money. It is about living our dream.

Make no mistake, my goal is to make enough money to do this full-time - and to be paid very well for it. I will work my touchie off to get there, because to be able to write full-time would be the ultimate. Again, the main thrust of the dream is about the creative work itself. The money is a means to that end. To that end, I will never give up. I will never quit. For now, though, it does not support me financially.

My Dream began as far back as I can remember - at least when I was the age of five - maybe before that. I always deeply desired to write books. When it burns in you at that young age - before thoughts of guile, or before ego has you in its grip, it's a calling as true as any.

When I was 15 I worked in the Austin Public Library shelving books at night after school and on weekends - for FREE. The City could not pay someone under the age of 16 for that work. So I volunteered. I did it because as soon as I turned 16, I wanted to be first in line for a paying job as a page. The job was so important to me that I did it for free for a year. It was a good investment - I got the paying job when I turned 16. I worked in that job all through high school at nights and on weekends for part-time minimum wage.

In case you're wondering, it's mind numbing to shelve books. What isn't mind numbing is keeping up with all the authors, being exposed to all those books, knowing what they are all about, seeing which ones are being read most often, and all the other things I learned working in the library. Better still, I was making money I desperately needed and I was doing it in a world of BOOKS!! It was a writer's heaven!

It was also difficult with all my school work I had to do and keep up with - especially when my friends were out doing "fun" things because they did their school work and then didn't have a job. Still, I made good grades and worked in the Austin Public Library because it was part of the road to My Dream.

I have for the last several years sacrificed relaxing "vacations" for research trips, outings with friends and family for blocks of writing time at home, and innumerable other "fun" things in order to find the blocks of time I need to write while holding down a full-time job. There is my day job, my writing, my workouts and sleep. There is time for little else. I covet the "extra" hours I get to write - all those nights, weekends and all the vacation time which I parlay into time to "work" on writing. Admittedly, I cheat sleep for more writing time far too much.

It is what you do to reach your goals - to attain The Dream. It is a sacrifice, and there are so many days when I want a break from the demands of it all, and from the fatigue; but, I never want to jettison the writing. My frustration always manifests itself in wanting to be rid of the day job! HA! It is both the thing which allows me to write (by keeping me in food with a roof over my head), and the biggest obstacle to the fullness of My Dream.

Paradox.

In spite of it all, my writing time is always joy to me, no matter how compressed it must be, no matter how dog tired I am. To me it is to live within My Dream even if I can only live there for a few hours.

Polla Filia,
J.F.

FITNESS AND STRENGTH

This is a slight deviation from my usual, but nevertheless a subject close to my heart.

There was a period in my life when I only worked out sporadically, I gained weight and got out of shape. I didn't feel terrible, but I didn't feel good either. This period of my life was an anomaly in the overall scope of my life. It was basically the period between the day my father dropped dead from a massive heart attack (he was a smoker) and the day my mother died from a terminal illness. The process of orphanhood is a bitch.

So, I took care of my Dad's post mortem issues and I took care of my Mom's issues. I made a lot of hard decisions, but I did the right thing for both of them all the way down the line.

What I didn't do was the right thing for ME. I was overwhelmed by a time I didn't expect, and one which hit me hard. I let myself go downhill, and I never will again.

As a child growing up in Austin, Texas I was a tomboy and super athletic. I ran, roller skated, cycled, swung on a trapeze in our backyard, climbed trees - you get the picture. As a teen, I ran track and was a super fast sprinter, and I played two-below tag football in the street with the boys. I was a tomboy, but I loved guys then and now, and I knew the best places to be with boys were in the street playing ball, and working on cars in my Dad's garage. :)

As a sprinter in track, power is all important (not endurance so much). This means strength (read:  "muscle"). You have to come off the line at full throttle and keep pedal to the metal all the way across the finish line; or, in a relay, pace yourself in the box until the baton slaps into your palm and then take off like a jet rocket. So, I was powerful for a girl, because that brought me success on the track.

Then the day came when I won an all-important relay race in a meet. My foot caught on a grass runner in my lane (dirt track) and I started to fall right *after* I crossed the finish line in first.

If the baton goes down in a relay race you DQ (disqualify). Would it be a DQ if I dropped it right after crossing the finish?

No, but you and I just had time to think about it, and at that time, I didn't. I was falling at a very high speed, and I was competitive as hell. So, I did the only thing a real competitor would do:  I protected the baton to protect the win. Winning that race was going to win the meet for us - and there were socio-economic politics at play as well (we were blue collar kids, and the other girls weren't).

I pulled my right arm up into the air as I fell and the left one instinctively went with it - totally counter-intuitive to what you do when falling. I hit the dirt with both knee caps at speed, and then dragged both elbows through the hard dirt. I still have a scar on my right elbow from that fall.

The baton remained in the air the entire time, and when two of the other contending teams tried to claim I DQ'd, the ref just shook her head and smiled, and told them that not only had I already crossed the finish line before I began to fall, but the baton was still in the air as I lay on the ground.

It was a hard belly flop to take, and I paid with battered knees and an ultimate loss of a half second off my times afterward (that's a death sentence to a sprinter - a half second might as well be an hour). So, my track "career" in high school was effectively dead; but my love of fitness and athletics wasn't.

I was still a physically active teen, and into my early twenties I got even more into cycling and weight lifting. I was lean and fit, and very healthy.

Then my Dad died, my Mom began to give up, and it all went quickly to Hell in the proverbial hand basket.

I was the same person I had always been on the inside, but I was trapped in a physique I never thought I would have - an unhealthy one. Oh, I wasn't sick and dying, but I couldn't continue that way, or I would have been.

Then after my Mom died, I snapped out of it - big time. I wasn't going to drop dead like my Dad did, or give up and get sick and die like my Mom. I'm an athlete in my heart, and I was going to be an athlete in my actions again.

Forget about will power, diets, quick fixes or anything else. If you want to be fit and healthy you have to decide to be - deep down, in your heart of all hearts. It's a decision you have to make every day - and it's not hard to do that. In fact, you can revel in it and it will elevate you day in and day out. It is a decision that will make you proud of yourself over and over again.

It means making changes to your habits:  eating habits and exercise habits. Not eating like a truck driver (in terms of portions) and most of all - not lying to yourself about your food or your exercise. The best way to be honest with you is to journal what you eat (and how much) and journal your exercise.  This is the most effective way to make and keep lifestyle changes, and it isn't hard or time consuming. There are inexpensive websites to help you do that journaling. I use calorieking.com. Again, it can make you proud of you every day. What a feeling that is!!

This doesn't mean you have to "give up" things. It does mean eating healthily overall and maybe relegating the chocolate cake to a special occasion (or eating a small piece of it very slowly for maximum enjoyment).

To paraphrase someone else (and mine is a much better quote, I think):  *Nothing* tastes or feels as good as being fit feels. Everything else that is great about life is so much better when you are FIT.

Notice I said "fit" - because if you have fitness, you'll have health, and you'll be trim and you'll look your best. Period. This is why I hate "diets" and "programs" where the goal is to lose weight or have a "bikini body". Pfff. Too many of those people are skinny, shapeless and FLABBY (and not healthy). No thanks!

Finally, I have this to say:  strength training is essential to health. This can be weight lifting like I do, or it can be Pilates, or resistance band training, or yoga - BUT, you must do something to build muscle. Cardio is essential, too; but, too many people do that ONLY. Not good. Cardio conditions your heart and lungs, but strength training does also, and it does so much more. I do both, and you should, too.

You can do sufficient cardio in 20 minutes a day of interval sprints on a bike (or something similar) and be done. Strength training can be done in a compact full-body workout only 3 times a week and you're golden. What both of those things will do for you can save your life - both in terms of length and QUALITY.

Here are the benefits of strength training:

•    Boosts production of human growth hormone by 3-4 times to SLOW THE AGING PROCESS.

•    Training your largest muscles (butt and legs) in particular (squats, lunges or equivalent exercises) stimulates your body to release hormones that build muscle strength everywhere else. This gives you tremendous stamina and very strong bones to stand on.

•    Every pound of muscle you gain BURNS AN EXTRA 50 CALORIES PER DAY. By the way, a pound of muscle is about 1/3 the size of a pound of fat - this means you might weigh more on the scale, but actually be trimmer (think skinny jeans, girls). Don't just look at the scale, get out your tape measure!

•    The loss of lean muscle as we age can be HALTED AND REVERSED with strength training. This muscle loss begins at age 30!! You can stop it and turn it around.

•    Strength training REDUCES ABDOMINAL FAT, and you don't even have to train your abs to do that - all strength training accomplishes this.

•    Strength training elevates your Resting Metabolic Rate (RMR) - the amount of calories your metabolism burns off while you do nothing, including sleeping - elevates it PERMANENTLY as long as you continue to make strength training part of your weekly schedule. The RMR accounts for 60-70% OF DAILY CALORIE BURN. Burn fat 24 hours a day!

•    Muscle burns up to 25 times more energy than fat does (AND it takes up less space - what a deal!)

•    Strength training reduces blood pressure. This is in part due to the fact that all the muscles in our body assist our heart in pumping blood back from our extremities to our heart. You can think of all your muscles as "little hearts" working away to pump that blood. Stronger muscles do more work, which means your heart can do less, and your blood pressure will ease off. Your resting pulse rate will also slow to something much more healthy.

•    Strength training strengthens bones, tendons and ligaments. Strong muscle, tendons and ligaments means fewer injuries, and better agility and stability. Strong bones means you can kiss osteoporosis in old age GOODBYE!

•    Strength training boosts the immune system.

Yes, folks, all of the above is true.

I restored my health, and am still in the process of restoring it. I made a decision to do that. It isn't about will power, or pills, or programs, or diets.

It is about:  i) the proper type and amount of fuel you put into your body (along with treats from time to time for the enjoyment of things); ii) challenging your body to do the work it was built to do - both in terms of cardio and strength; and, iii) making the decision for all these things because you really do want it.

I decided I wanted it. I hope you decide that, too.

Here's to your health!!

Polla Filia,
J.F.

THE HONOR OF BEING LOUIE’S KID

“Every day I remind myself of all that I have been given.”
-- Luciano Pavarotti

Yesterday was the day after Christmas. Great day for sales, and to spend more time with family.

For me, it is and always will be the anniversary of the last time I ever saw my father. I was living in Dallas at the time, and my parents lived in Austin where I was born. I had driven home for Christmas. I was working at a big blue-chip law firm in Big D, and I had to leave the day after Christmas and drive back to the big city to get back to work. No rest for the wicked (or weary, depending on who you talk to).

I stood with my Dad next to the driveway of my childhood home (which is no more). We had discussed when I would come home again, and I told him I thought I would come back in mid-February for his birthday. I hugged my Mom and said bye, and then I hugged my Dad and said “I’ll see you next time.” Who knew next time would be on the other side of life?

I drove away and never saw him face to face again. Three weeks later he suffered a major heart attack and died instantly. I had spoken to him on the phone only two hours before. His back was hurting and he was going to take a hot shower. When he got out of the shower, he had the heart attack and it was over.

I don’t morbidly remember this day each year. I remember it with joy and gratitude. Joy at the great, close and wonderful relationship I had with my Dad, and I remember it with gratitude for having such a father.

All men should strive to be the kind of father my father was. Here was a mechanic and machinest working physically hard for a living every day. He came home from a hard day's work, read the newspaper, had dinner at the kitchen table with his wife and kids, and asked us about what we did that day. He had three daughters, and all of them loved and idolized him.

He wasn’t all syrupy and mushy, though. He was a tough guy - a man’s man; but, he was loving and giving to his kids. He would praise us often for doing well in school, or in some other effort. He didn’t spank or yell, but if you dis-obeyed the rules you would be grounded - and you DID NOT ask for early reprieve on a grounding. There were no bicycling privileges when you were grounded. You needed to spend your time only in your yard, and in contemplation of how you would improve yourself and amend your ways. Consequently, we followed Dad’s rules. I was the worst of the three of us, getting a two-week grounding (with the bicycle put up on high hooks in the garage). I had ridden said bike outside of the approved area for riding my bike without an adult (I rode it all the way down to the creek and was riding it through a culvert when Dad came looking for me - I had been gone a long time). This rule was (of course) one for my own safety. I never did it again.

Think about it - this man disciplined his children without threats, spanking or yelling. He was firm and consistent, and he showed love and praise often. I never argued with him, or questioned him - not out of fear, but out of admiration and respect.

After regular work hours, my Dad restored old American vehicles for himself and for others, and he did repair work on their older cars, too. From the time I was a teen, I worked in the garage with Daddy on these cars. I continued doing this after I was grown and moved away to Dallas. I would come home on a weekend, and Daddy and I would be in the garage on a Saturday up to our respective elbows in grease. I had my own creeper for rolling under the jacked up cars. I would roll in from one side and Daddy from the other and we would get to work. In work under the hood, both our heads would be hovering over the engine while we collaborated on the repairs.

Once the work was done, it was time for a cold brew. I would go inside and get two bottles and bring them out to the garage. The two of us would lean back against the workbench with our refreshment and feel the relief which can only come from cold beer after a hard day’s work. Then the family would all get dressed and we’d go out for Mexican food. Daddy and I would frequently go play pool afterward. We were notorious for playing until three in the morning. My pool playing is rusty now, but I’m resolved to practice and get my skills back. I used to run the table, so watch out! :)

You can see why I would have a feeling of gratitude for a fabulous Dad such as this! I’m also grateful I got to speak with him one last time before he died. I’m grateful my Dad never suffered or knew what hit him. He was gone before he even had time to think about it.

I am most overwhelmed and grateful for having a Dad who was also a man of remarkable character and ethics. Streams of people consistently remarked on this at his funeral - and it was standing room only that day. A man such as this compels people to come and pay respect.

There isn’t enough gratitude for being the daughter of such a man.


So I remember December the 26th with joy and gratitude. I am honored to be Louie’s Kid.

Polla Filia,
J.F.

HOMAGE TO DADDY

Yeah, I know, *Sunday* was Father’s Day, but I don’t give particular attention to Father’s Day on the *day* anymore. Not because of any disrespect, but because everyday is Father’s Day for me now.

My Dad died some years back. He got out of the shower one night, had a massive heart attack and that was it. As bad as it was (and for me it was a great darkness), I still say that’s the way to go - so fast you don’t know what hit you.

Everyday is Father’s Day for me now, because there isn’t a single day that goes by that I don’t think about my Dad. Not in a morose, mopey way, but in all the best ways - the ways of remembering what he has given me. It may be some fleeting thought, but it is there every, single day. I can’t even get behind the wheel of a car without thinking of him. I don’t think like I do, or do what I do in life without remembering so much of it is owed to him.

My Dad was a mechanic and a machinest. He did the machinest thing as his main livelihood (the man could fix or fabricate *anything*), and he did the auto-mechanicin’ at night and on the weekends. When I was a kid, he raced go-karts. Before my time, he raced other stuff. All of it was just local - in Texas; but, I grew up with cars on my mind, and racing as my favorite sport to watch.


When I got old enough to hold a wrench (or any other tool), I was out in the garage learning from Dad, and when I got old enough to know what I was doing (about 15), I was actually working on cars with my Dad. He didn’t work on new cars - he restored and worked on old American cars (you know, the kind before they put computers in them). I was right there with him, up to my elbows in grease. It was great! Yes, I’m a chick, and I love to go shopping at Neiman Marcus, and take a nice, long day at the spa; but, I know what a gap-setter looks like, and I know how to use it! ;)

While hanging out with my Dad, I was learning a lot more than just cool stuff about cars and racing. I was learning about work ethic, integrity, the importance of approaching a project with organization, focus and the right state of mind. My Dad was a high-school dropout who later got his GED, but the man was wicked smart. He was an autodidact. He read anything and everything, and absorbed it like a sponge. He had a red-neck Texas accent, but you’d be a fool to think he wasn’t smart. He made straight A’s in high school English before he dropped out. He could speak perfect English if he wanted to, and he could discuss physics with you if you were smart enough to keep up. It was from this Renaissance man that I learned to value the acquisition of knowledge, and to strive for constant improvement of myself.

He also had a great sense of humor, and a terrific laugh. He was, and still is, the best Dad a girl could ever have. He was Louie - Father, Teacher, Friend and Hero.

He is with me still - every day. So, on a day that is *not* Father’s Day, I’m writing about him. I wish you could have known my Dad, because you would have been like every friend I ever had who knew him. You would have said “Your Dad is soooo COOL!” Yes, he was. Totally.

He was Louie, and I am lucky enough to be Louie’s Kid.

Every race I watch on TV, or go to live, I know he’s right there sitting next to me enjoying every second. I know he’s in my corner no matter what I’m doing. He’s ready to whisper advice in my ear and remind me about the right way to do things - anything. He stands by my side to be my champion when I’m brought low. His spirit will always be near me, because he’s there, and because he left so much a part of himself in *my* spirit.

He’s out there driving down Heaven’s roads, winding through Elysian fields, golden sun shining down, wind across his face, laughter in his wake.

Drive on, Daddy, drive on!

Polla Filia,
J.F.

SAYING GOODBYE - THE TALE OF A FREE SPIRIT

My mother died last year. No sympathy, please - that’s not why I’m telling you that. Hang in here with me for a bit. I’m trying to go somewhere with this.

A few years back my Dad (who was a great friend of mine - we used to work on cars, drink beer and play pool together - oh yeah!) - anyway, my Dad got out of the shower, had a huge heart attack and died. The good news is he never knew what hit him.

My mom really wasn’t ever the same after that. She was a person who just didn’t know how to be alone. She never had been really, and I don’t think she wanted to start learning how. As she gave up, her health began to decline, and the more it did that, the faster it did that. She finally developed something terminal and that was all she wrote. I had to sell my childhood home to help pay for her care (insurance just didn’t cover all the care she required in those last months).

My dog is buried in the backyard at that house, and the bastards who bought the house tore down Daddy’s garage (that’s okay, Daddy’ll haunt ‘em! Booooeeewaaaah!) I did all my growing up in that house, theoretically speaking. Although, there are many who will debate whether I have done any “growing up”. Ever. Anywhere.

Saying goodbye, and letting go of people you love, and of a place as grounding as my childhood home, was an abrupt and difficult experience. I’ve always been a bit of a free spirit, but I think my love for going my own way came in part from always knowing there was somewhere to which, and someone to whom I could go back - at any time. Now, that’s not the case. Dad isn’t there. Mom isn’t there. "There" isn’t even there anymore.

It puts a whole new complexion on that “free spirit” thing, doesn’t it? “Untethered” is how I describe the feeling. Being untethered can either feel really free and good, or really scary and adrift - and most of the time I think it feels like both simultaneously (maybe that’s kind of what walking in space is like - free, exhilarating and beautiful, but geez, if you’re “too” free how do you get back down there where all the oxygen is?).

The road is calling me again now - actually more like the friendly skies than the road, and more like shouting, not calling. Alas, I have a day job (grrrrrrrr) - and I need the damn day job to fund the writing dream. The writing dream is everything. Nothing stands in the way of that. So, the day job must stay for now. I do get a paid vacation every year, and this year (for the first time in 2 years - because Mom got sick) - this year I’m taking TWO WEEKS OFF! In August, I’m going to the City by the Bay. San Fran. The City of the Golden Gate.

I have my airline tickets. I have my hotel reservations. I will have a car. I will be doing some exploring. I will be having me some fun! Or, as my awesome and wonderful Daddy would have said to me, “Go blow the roof off the dump, kiddo.”

You got it, Dad. Oh, and Dad, I’m gonna see me some great auto racing while I’m there. Zoom, zoom, baby!!

Polla Filia,
J.F.

FEAR AND DREAMS

"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing."
Helen Keller

I have a fear of deep water. "Deep" would be defined as any water that, when I’m standing in it, comes up above my shoulders - and I get a little anxiety ridden once it passes my waistline. Yes, I can swim. I took swimming lessons at the "Y" when I was a kid, and I took them again as an adult at one of the Dallas Community Colleges. I swim quite well, in fact - in 3 feet of water. Get me in anything too much deeper and watch the metamorphosis. It’s like an out of body experience. I want to enjoy the water, but some dark mist creeps up and tells me to panic! I’m working on it - and making progress, I might add.

Some fears can be a good thing. They give you a healthy warning when something is not right - like someone following you home in the dark at night and you can "feel" them behind you. That’s a good kind of fear to have.

We all have fears - some are not so healthy. In the past few years, I’ve begun to recognize some stupid and very unhealthy fears I’ve had (beyond my aquaphobia), and I’ve started to shake them off. Something as seemingly mild as worrying far too much about what someone thinks about something I say or do. At some point, you have to find a way to trust yourself.

Sometimes you just have to push through a fear to start to beat it. In fact, there isn’t a better way to beat a fear than to face it. Go toe to toe. Get in that fear’s face. Bring it!

Some years ago, I had no agent and I had never been published (I have now been published once under another name). I had sent query after query after query to one agent after another. I had gotten close several times - but nothing. I had entered a manuscript contest and gotten some real interest from agent judges, and even some big editor judges - but still, nothing concrete.

There was a certain writer’s conference that I heard all about. The conference provided opportunity for pitching and face-to-face meetings with big agents and editors, and lots of writers with whom I could network. A lot of successes came out of that conference. I knew I could sell my work if I could just get 10 minutes of someone’s time. There was only one problem - it was the Maui Writer’s Conference, which is in (you guessed it) Maui.

Wow! Beautiful location, you might say. Wonderful trip to a lovely island to pitch your work. Pitch all day, drink mai tais all night. Awesome! Except for one thing - the largest body of water on the planet stood between me and that conference - the primordial sea - the great Pacific. I was already a nervous flyer (not phobic, but mildly nervous), and I would have to fly across the Pacific. No, I wouldn’t have to be in it (I hoped), but flying over it would be more than nerve-wracking for an aquaphobe like me. How could I do that?

Then I’d have more than my work cut out for me once I got there - cold pitching to folks I met at the conference, and reserved pitch sessions I paid for; but, I believed this was the way to get my work in front of the right people. I knew I had to try.

So, I booked my flight, reserved my room, paid for the conference and did a lot of deep breathing meditation before getting on that plane at LAX. I pulled the shade down on the airplane window and I didn’t look out when we took off. Once we got up to 30,000 feet (or whatever altitude) I discovered something interesting - you can’t tell the difference between the horizon and ocean - it’s all a big blue blur; but, I didn’t look out the window much after that. I watched the movie they had on the plane. I read. I wrote in a journal. It was 5 hours of me diverting myself from the thoughts of what was below me (about 30,000 feet below me).

I made it. The plane landed in Maui, no sweat. I took a little bus to the hotel, checked in, and I studied and practiced my pitch again and again. The next day I was ready. I went at it for 4 days - pitching to agents and editors. There was a lot of nice interest in my book; but, one agent in particular seemed to really "get" my work. I felt a connection with her (which I couldn’t have done through the usual query process). She wanted more pages. A month and a half later, she offered me representation and she’s been my agent ever since.

I flew across the biggest ocean on the planet, because I was determined not to be afraid - of the water, of rejection, of making a complete idiot out of myself in front of strangers, of failure, of anything. There was nothing about that trip that was easy. I was damn near broke from the expense, and I had to face my biggest fear and a lot of my smaller ones, too; but I got an agent - a really good one.

You can do it - whatever it is you dream of - you can do it. Take a deep breath, focus on the goal and don’t think about the depth of that ocean underneath you. The plane will land just fine - no sweat. Never give up on your dreams. If nothing else, you can be proud of your guts and determination. Remember: "Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing."

Polla Filia,
J.F.