Memories and Fiction

Good Sunday morning! Sun full up when I arrive on the porch this morning. It paints the tops of the pecan trees and the pasture beyond the drive a happy, hopeful yellow. Crickets singing…oh, and there start the cicadas. The air is lovely now, a pleasant 73*, but the forecast is for 90, and the cicadas are calling the news. There’s the funniest sounding bird making a scolding sound. Miss Kitty slips past, eye on me, then runs, because since Friday and a vet visit, I’ve been grabbing her to put ointment in her ears and a pill down her throat. Punk is unconcerned. He’s the sort who weathers all.

We’ve had a grand visit with my brother and sister-in-law the past four days. They leave today, but a fixed computer, knowledge of fun online puzzles, laughter and sharing and memories remain.

I’ve learned that we get to choose the memories we hold on to. Best to hold on to the good ones and let go the painful, sort of like sorting out gems, I guess. Keep the priceless, let go of the worthless, and you become rich. And yes, it can all go in a book, and very often does in mine.

My novels really do come from my life. The events do not look the same, but the writing comes out of the feelings I’ve experienced in the events of my own life. I still recall a telephone call from a neighbor who was reading my novel, Driving Lessons. Through sobs she related how her father had left the family in the same way Charlene’s husband had left in the novel. She thanked me for writing, because after all these years, she was able to remember her feelings, look at them, grieve and let go. She was at the time in her 70s. The novel writing is a way for me to see things and figure out my own life, and through the mystery of connection other people can do the same.

Have a blessed day!