Last week I wrote about the trials and tribulations of my immediate family. I’d love to brag about how much better things are this week, but…eh…not so much.

While we were contending with my mother going from a hospital to a skilled nursing facility, we had some more news about COVID-19. My first thought was that COVID really is the gift that keeps on giving, but that seemed irreverent and insensitive. So I’ve amended it to “the reaper that keeps on reaping.” And of course, living in southwest Florida, which once again has high COVID levels, practically guarantees that the pandemic will go on and on.

My lovely wife and I have managed to avoid infection over these past two years by a combination of wearing masks, social distancing, and outright avoiding socializing. 

In short, I didn’t want to take a chance on getting COVID and passing it on to Mom, especially since she has multiple co-morbidities like asthma and chronic bronchitis.

But this week I found out that the skilled nursing facility where she’s been less than two weeks has a COVID outbreak. First six patients, then nine.

And during the same time frame, my wife got word that both her parents and her 11-month-old niece tested positive, literally on the other side of the world. Fortunately, they’re vaccinated, except for the baby—who fought it off immediately. Hooray for young immune systems.

I visited Mom today, masked and trying to stay five feet away from staff. Of course, anyone bed bound and in need of skilled care isn’t wearing a mask, but I doubt she’d get COVID and still be around…vaccine or no vaccine. This virus, as a friend of mine says, is one nasty so-and-so.

And there we have the update for the week—still on a bit of a caregiver treadmill, still navigating our complex healthcare system, and still surprised neither my wife nor I have gotten sick. We’re doing what we can to stay healthy. As I often tell her, “If you don’t take care of yourself, you won’t be able to do anything for anyone else.”

Stay safe, friends!

Mother’s Day has always been kind of a tough holiday in my family. Mom’s got an early May birthday, so it seems like there’s virtually no breathing room between her birthday and Mother’s Day. It’s kind of like if your parent was born shortly before Christmas. You get the idea.

This year, however, it was much worse than a regular Mother’s Day: my mother fell at her ALF right after her birthday, and had to be hospitalized for the second time in two months, once in April, then again in May. She’d already fractured a couple vertebrae, and the birthday fall worsened those fractures.

My wife and I visited my Mom on Mother’s Day. She was considerably worse off than she’d been just a couple weeks before—in and out of consciousness, barely talking. She couldn’t hold her own Mother’s Day card, so my wife held it up in front of her so she could read it.

When we left the hospital, my wife cried.

Yeah, that’s how it’s going this year so far.

Mom’s in a skilled nursing facility now. It’s going to be a long haul. She’s lost not only her independence, but now it looks like she’ll be too weak to make it back home to her ALF.

I saw her today, and she was marginally better—at about 25% as opposed to 10%, that is.

So, worst Mother’s Day ever? No doubt other people have had worse, but this was my toughest one yet. I didn’t plan on blogging about it. However, I’ve got nothing else in the tank today. I’m exhausted, trudging along doing what I can for her, while taking the best care of myself and my wife that I can.

And I know this isn’t an uplifting or helpful blog post. People, I got nothing more to give today. Tomorrow (and next Monday) is another day.

Recently, I’ve been writing quite a bit about writing, providing some explanations about why I write what I write. I’ve even got an upcoming podcast appearance talking a lot about my background and history in relation to my works of fiction.

In the case of my short story collection Rides From Strangers, I usually talk about why I wrote what I wrote. When an author writes a short story, it sometimes requires personal experience. Not to say that these works of mine are autobiographical by any means, but there are certain things I have either done, or at least felt, that inform the work.

In Rides From Strangers, the stories are all different, but they have some common themes. The main themes that run through these pieces are the human need for fulfillment through relationships, and how people often get burned even as they seek solace from others. Regardless, that need for connection leads people to keep trying—whether through sex, marriage, friendship, or some other relationship.

The Need for Connection

Trying to put myself into the POV of these characters was easy, because, like any writer, I’ve had to spend a lot of time alone. But, unlike some people, my experiences with loneliness haven’t come from that, they’ve come in the middle of crowds. For me, the need for connection has always meant a search for kindred spirits. And like most novelists, I don’t find that many of them out there.

Thankfully, they are out there, and I have a great life with great friends and an even more amazing and loving wife. She’s supportive of my fiction habit, and understands I can’t stand to only “write for others.” This short story collection, Rides From Strangers, was all written for me, but I felt compelled to give it to the world. So sign up for my email list, and you can get the entire collection free…no obligation. If you unsubscribe after you download, no harm, no foul. I’m just happy to share it.

I’ve had a pretty good run the last five or six weeks: last week’s blog post, entitled What Books Cost Their Authors: A Tale of Blood, Sweat & Tears, had the best “headline quality score” I’ve ever attained (yes, I run my headlines through an analyzer for SEO, to make sure I get both impressions and engagement). In the weeks before that, I managed to eke out a post every Monday, with topics ranging from argumentative internet knuckleheads to getting back on track with a WIP.

And then there’s today.

I am behind the proverbial eight-ball: having spent hours cranking out an article for a big client, I’ve got to get going on another project for another client. It’s not like you really need to know this stuff, but I’ve been working all day, except for meal breaks, and haven’t even caught time for a shower or shave yet. 

Gross! (Don’t worry: I’m home alone).

For My Subscribers

I shouldn’t feel bad about any of this—after all, better to have a lot of work than not enough—but I’ve recently had conversations with a couple of subscribers, including a “how-do-I-subscribe-to-your-blog” conversation. I even had the site revamped with a nice handy Subscribe button right on the ol’ blog page. All you have to do is enter your email, click away, and that should do it. (Fingers crossed.)

And then there’s today.

All I can say is, I’m sorry. I know you’re not paying me for these posts, but still…based on past performance, you could expect better from me on a Monday.

Well, there’s always next week. But it was a pretty good run, no?

Okay, I’ve got to go jump in the shower. As always, thanks for stopping by. See ya!

…”Books that cost more to write than their sales ever could repay.”

 – Alan Paton

Lately I’ve had my nose in a couple of books. One is a history book on the JFK years, the other, Alan Paton’s most famous novel, Cry, the Beloved Country. 

I have a curious, even weird history with Paton. In high school, one of my English teachers assigned a lesser-known Paton novel called Too Late the Phalarope. A phalarope is a type of shorebird, and I feel confident stating that none of us kids had ever even heard of a phalarope before. Presumably, there were some jokes among us male students comparing the word to phallus.

In all the years since, I’d never read Paton’s masterpiece, though I bought a copy years ago at a used bookstore during a going-out-of-business sale. It remained in my TBR (to-be-read) pile until last week.

What Do Books Cost Authors?

The quote above about “books that cost more to write than their sales ever could repay” got me thinking. I’ve written about costs like cover design, interior design, and marketing. You can find links to some of my other posts on authorship here, here, and here.

But I don’t think these costs were what Paton was talking about. I think his words refer to what it costs the author in emotional, physical, and even spiritual terms to wring words out of painful experiences, and put into a novel all the heart, soul, and sweat a novelist can as he or she creates a work of art.

Of course, I’ve never suffered through anything like apartheid, slavery, anti-Semitism, or any of the hundreds of indignities visited upon fellow human beings in the ongoing tale of man’s inhumanity to man.

I’ve taken my share of hits, though. And in one of my posts, I wrote, “writing a novel is like scaling Mt. Everest alone with nothing but a spoon for climbing gear.” It’s true. Like boxing or any other sport where you leave a piece of yourself behind, it has a cost.

And it has its rewards, too. That’s why I’m still writing novels, and probably always will.

Back around 1990, I heard one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard a husband say about talking to his wife.

I was sitting in a 12-step meeting and the man explained that certain conversations with his spouse sounded like she was trying to bait him into an argument. He said he would hold up one finger, and she’d say, “What’s that supposed to mean?” And he would reply, “There’s only one person talking, and if you want to argue, you’re going to be arguing with yourself.” Then he’d stand up and walk out of the room. Mic drop!

In retrospect, as an old married guy myself today, I suspect that wasn’t the wonderful piece of wisdom I then imagined it. In fact, it probably went over like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl. But I was young and single, and the laughter in the room convinced me it was a brilliant, effective witticism.

Fast-Forward to the Social Media Era

Thirty years later, when the comments section of nearly every YouTube video devolves into a series of personal attacks, I’m starting to love the “I’m not going to argue with you” strategy. And I’ve learned I need to employ it more than ever.

I rarely seek controversy in my ongoing writing efforts, but every once in a while, I’ll write a blog post with a leading question, or something with either/or thinking. Why? To stimulate a response. To get more readers. To have some conversations.

About 80% of the responses are great: readers, many of them fellow writers, share my posts on social media, offer engaging comments, and even thank me.

Hey, you’re welcome!

Unfortunately, there’s the other 20%. They’re usually guys, and they want a debate.

Now, I have no problem defending any stance I take. Furthermore, I have little desire to convert anyone to my point-of-view. You believe what you believe, and I’m fine with that.

The Knucklehead Contingent

The problem is that some people—and again, they’re usually other guys—want to begin their first conversation with me by contradicting or criticizing me. And honestly, whether the person trying that is a man or a woman, he/she/they are in for an unpleasant surprise: I don’t put up with that crap.

You want to start a disagreement with me, a complete stranger? You’d best not begin with sarcasm, condescension, or venom. In fact, I’d recommend a “hat in hand” approach.

I read with interest your article about XYZ. You made some interesting points. However, have you considered ABC point of view about this one particular aspect? In my experience…

Like that. Today I had another knucklehead come at me with snotty phrases like “true believer” and slangy disagreement cues like “ummmmmm.” Some of the tweets in our conversation featured misspelled words, lack of punctuation…maybe they were voice texts, who knows?

The point is, I engaged this knucklehead for only a short time—then I clicked “Unfollow.”

So…if you’re reading this, and you don’t agree…try engaging nicely about it. If you submit a snippy comment here, I will not approve it. If you come at me on social media like I’m your inferior, or anything other than a respected colleague….you’re done. And I do not care a bit. You’d be amazed how little I care.

Oh, and if said knucklehead happens to be a subscriber to this blog..please unsubscribe. Really. Buh-bye!