Tag: book

The Culmination of a Journey

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Three weeks ago, I arrived home to find a box tossed just inside my gate. (the beasties—my two Staffordshire Bull Terriers—can make a fuss if they spot a delivery man). I hadn’t ordered anything, it had to be for my body shop neighbor; it happens. I hefted up the box, headed down the street, and stopped. The box was addressed to me. From She Writes Press.  My book Loveyoubye: Holding Fast, Letting Go, and Then There’s the Dog, in print: Advance Reading Copies—ARCs as they’re called—for me to send out to local bookstores, reviewers, etc. Twenty of them. Twenty bright and shiny real books, all the stages finally put together.

With one eye peeled for errors, along with a mixture of butterflies, and a feeling I can only describe as out-of-body, I flipped through the pages. I created this thing, this chronicle of my journey into the core of my being as I tried to come to terms with my husband’s disappearing acts, a dreaded journey home to Africa to help my mentally impaired brother, and the worsening ill health of my beloved dog. I needed to give voice to my experience, to articulate my feelings, to let off steam, to “see” what I thought. With each of these words I found power and mobilization. And then it was done.

Two months after signing with SWP (you can read about my journey to publication here), I wondered what the hell I was doing. Sure, I had to write the book, an imperative, but did I really have to publish it? Did I really have to lay myself bare and vulnerable for all to witness? But then would I be satisfied to stuff an account that had changed my life, that had also become an homage to my brother and to my cherished pet into a drawer and forget about it? For three months I anguished, ready to pull the book, especially after a bad night. But then something began to settle deep inside of me, a feeling that I needed to finish what I started. I needed to complete my journey out into the light of day, to claim it and set it free.

I continued to flip through the book, coming upon one photo after another: me as a sixteen-year-old, me carrying my baby brother, him as an adult, my dad and me, my ex and me, and my beloved dog. I’d worried about putting my hokey little photos in the book, but now it felt right, it felt complete. A new journey begins.

Something To Celebrate

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It’s Celebrate The Small Things Day. Something I’ve achieved each week, no matter how small. If you’re interested in doing the same thing sign up here at Vicki’s blog.

So I finally sent that essay to L.A. Times Affairs, a first-person column in the Los Angeles Times chronicling romance and relationships. They want stories grounded in the present with a strong sense of place, rooted in Southern California.

I crafted the essay from my memoir, Loveyoubye. It’s a big scene, one I’ve been working on for awhile. The only thing is, it’s kind of a mixed bag sending it now instead of after Loveyoubye is published, which would allow me to give interested readers a link to buy the book. But according to my editor it’s a good idea to build interest before the book comes out as well. So I’m going with that and holding my thumbs that my piece gets published. My American friends, if you would cross your fingers for me, I would truly appreciate it.

Old Post Resurrection Hop: The Things You Remember

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I’m re-posting this blog I wrote in March 12, 2012 as part of  Old Post Resurrection Hop.

My dad also wrote a book.  What I remember is a chaotic heap of papers, pockmarked with cigarette burns that seemed to grow every time we moved.  I never caught him at it.

The first time I saw this pile was when we moved to Rustenburg, frontier post of the Kalahari Desert and unpacked this one big old trunk that belonged to my dad’s parents. I was seven.  My dad was back doing shift work on the mines, platinum this time.  We’d just spent two years in Zimbabwe where he’d managed a sisal plantation (a species of aloe used to make rope and mats).  We might’ve stayed longer if there hadn’t been an African uprising over wages when I almost died from eating bread the rebels had laced with strychnine.  By then my dad’s stack of paper was as high as a small end table, ratty as hell and tied with string.

The thing is my dad had a lot to write about.  He would’ve made a good David Livingstone, that intrepid Scotsman who became the first European to explore the central and southern parts of Africa, famous for discovering the Victoria Falls.  By the time my dad married my mother, who at first refused his offer of marriage—he’d already been engaged three times—he’d traveled the length and breadth of South Africa at a time when it was mostly dirt roads and wild animals were still plentiful.  He even tried to make it up to the Congo by himself in a banged up 1930’s Model A Ford.  He didn’t make it.  No roads to speak of.

I bring this up now because I’m doing a final on my memoir, Loveyoubye, and it just hit me that he’d written a book.  How could I have forgotten that?  I can’t ask him or my mother what it was about.  They both on passed years ago.  I’ll never know.  It’s been quite the wild ride writing this memoir.

(Note: my memoir was completed a few months after I wrote this blog and is now being considered for publication.)

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The Things You Remember

Posted on by Admin

My dad also wrote a book.  What I remember is a chaotic heap of papers, pockmarked with cigarette burns that seemed to grow every time we moved.  I never caught him at it.

The first time I saw this pile was when we moved to Rustenburg, frontier post of the Kalahari Desert and unpacked this one big old trunk that belonged to my dad’s parents. I was seven.  My dad was back doing shift work on the mines, platinum this time.  We’d just spent two years in Zimbabwe where he managed a sisal plantation (a species of aloe used to make rope and mats).  We might’ve stayed longer if there hadn’t been an African uprising over wages when I almost died from eating bread the rebels had laced with strychnine.  By then my dad’s stack of paper was as high as a small end table, ratty as hell and tied with string.

The thing is my dad had a lot to write about.  He would’ve made a good David Livingstone, that intrepid Scotsman who became the first European to explore the central and southern parts of Africa, famous for discovering the Victoria Falls.  By the time my dad married my mother, who at first refused his offer of marriage—he’d already been engaged three times—he’d traveled the length and breadth of South Africa at a time when it was mostly dirt roads and wild animals were still plentiful.  He even tried to make it up to the Congo by himself in a banged up 1930’s Model A Ford.  He didn’t make it.  No roads to speak of.

I bring this up now because I’m doing a final on my memoir, Loveyoubye, and it just hit me that he’d written a book.  How could I have forgotten that?  I can’t ask him or my mother what it was about.  They both on passed years ago.  I’ll never know.  It’s been quite the wild ride writing this memoir.