Investing In Myself, or Delusional?

• A Short Note from Shelley

• March Art

• March Pappus: Investing In Myself, or Delusional?

• March Fiction: The first segment of The Peony Hotel

Dear Friendly Reader,

You know that feeling when you are driving down a two-lane road at dusk and the road is a series of distinct but gentle hills and the person driving the car speeds up as you climb the hill and releases the gas peddle at the crest and your stomach does that little lag, weightless suspension inside your torso thing just before you race back down the other side?

Raise your hand if you love that feeling. (I see you there, you amusement park rollercoaster junkies.)

Lately life for me feels like this road. A goal rises ahead. I press on the gas pedal, hold my breath, belt out some old Pat Benatar anthem, and race to the top. For one brief second, I hang there at the apex, suspended in time, task completed, holding that long high note with my heart drumming the background rhythm, feeling euphoric. Seconds later (it seems) I’m cruising down the backslope. After another brief moment in the shadowy valley, I’m climbing again, chugging toward that next goal, the next challenge, the next birthday, the next career step. It. Never. Ends.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Is that pause at the top is so very delicious? Why do we keep driving? More important, when do we know when we’ve arrived or when it’s time to pull over to the side of the road and park?

For over a year I worked on my 100-page novella Strawberry Moon Mystery. It consumed my writing life. YOU already know this if you’ve been following along with these newsletters. At the end of January, I finally released her into the world. I enjoyed the euphoria and weightlessness for maybe a day and raced down the back side of that hill screaming out the rolled-down windows, “Book for sale! Book for sale! Wheeeee!”

Well, here I am a mere month later, and the novella’s behind me. I hope you enjoyed it if you read it. If you did, would you mind leaving a review either on Goodreads or Amazon? It helps other readers decide whether or not to read it. And good news . . .

I’m starting up the slope of my next project, Liv #3, the third book in the Olivia Lively series. I’m about 5K words in already with a prologue and the first chapter drafted. My intent is to write this one in record time. Six weeks. Maybe eight. That’s a stretch for me. Plus, as you’ll read in the pappus essay, I will have homework of a different sort to finish, as well.

In this month’s Pink Dandy, I’m going to talk about an educational journey I’m about to take (yes, while writing the book) that may be a smart investment in myself or complete delusion. I really have no idea how it’s going to turn out.

I’ll also share what will be a new, regular, monthly segment, The Peony Resort Hotel. This is the Guam story, people. I’m going to use it as a vehicle to share my experience of being halfway around the world, far from family and friends, but exploring with ever more interest the life and culture here.

Look for descriptions of tropical beaches, palm trees, resort hotels, Japanese tourists, and good food. Follow along with a mid-life woman going through a late-stage coming of age and starting over after a divorce. I’m going to just write little scenes and vignettes. Maybe someday they will turn into a book. Maybe not. But you’ll read it here first.

So, that’s what you’ll find in this issue. Read on . . .

I’ve been neglecting my art. Today I grabbed a magazine, found a picture of a female model, quickly sketched the model’s POSE but not the details, and used art markers to create this dark-haired lady gazing over her shoulder. I think she looks skeptical.

Also, it seems I’m back to drawing crazy-eyed woman characters.

(Is this some outward manifestation of my inner shadow self? Who knows.)

Anyhoo, I like her. I’ll call her Janice. She’s a little harsh. A bit hardened by life. Her husband left her for a neighbor ten years ago and now she only dates younger men with mommy issues. She reads Tolstoy and Emily Henry with equal pleasure, volunteers as a dog-walker at the local no-kill shelter, and can whip up a perfect brie and mushroom omelette with just an iron skillet and a fork. She’ll serve you the omelette with a nice, cold white wine from the Loire Valley, her favorite brand that she orders in by the case, and she’ll play some Nat King Cole while you eat. Lilacs are her favorite flowers.

I think she’s going to become the best friend of my Guam character, Stephanie.

Dear Reader, I’ve done a thing.

When I graduated with my undergraduate English Education degree way back in 1990, I considered whether or not I should apply to go to gradate school. I even took the GREs and scored very high in the verbal, above average in the logic, and “barely respectable” in math (and was happy it wasn’t worse!)

I probably could have gotten accepted into an English Lit or MFA program or maybe a Masters in Library Science, but at that point I couldn’t see investing more money into my education without any guarantee that I’d get a better job and a decent return on investment. Instead, I took a series of jobs—not teaching, ironicly—and worked on my writing the old-fashioned way. By writing.

This went on for years, and occasionally I’d daydream about applying for a low-residency MFA program. Oddly, though, graduate school never got any cheaper (she says sarcastically).

My decision to work rather than take on more education debt made sense to me at the time, and even now I think I made the right choice, although sometimes I do wonder how my writing style would be different if I’d gone the MFA route. Other opportunities have come and gone, and I’ve always made what I considered to be the frugal and responsible decision NOT to pump (a ton of) money into my literary dreams.

(Aside: What about Library Science? Library work, I discovered after a nine-week job at a circulation desk, wasn’t for me. I love libraries. I adore librarians. I would chain myself to a shelf if necessary to save the books from imminent destruction by some rampaging band of book banning religious zealots. But I don’t want to scan books out or put stickers on the spines of DVDs for hours every day. This sticker thing is real. Tiny round stickers in different colors and placed in exactly the one spot on the spine depending on the type of film. Sorry. I just couldn’t with the attention to detail. Love you, librarians. You do the work of the gods. Mwahhhh. Big kiss.)

Anyway, you get the picture. I’m frugal. I figured I could learn what I needed to learn on my own. That’s what writing magazines, online webinars, books like Stephen King’s On Writing and Shawn Coyne’s Story Grid Method and Anne Lamotte’s Bird by Bird were for.

See, part of my identity over the years has been “helpful stay-home spouse” making choices that saved our family money rather than earning it. Yes, I did work sometimes at various out-of-home employment when I needed/wanted to make some cash, but overall my economic philosophy was/is “Make less. Spend less. They can’t tax you on what you DON’T earn or spend.”

I may be delusional, but I’ve just done something so out of character, I can only think it’s either gonna be the smartest thing I ever did for myself or the stupidest. After forty years of autodidactic literary study, I signed up for a one-on-one writing mentorship program that will eat up the last bit of writing money I’ve earned and hoarded over the years, using it all in one last big spend.

I feel like I’m blowing on dice at the craps table at Ceasar’s Palace and hoping for sixes. Hey, it can happen.

What do I want to get out of this experience? Well, for one, I’m finally going to get some honest, professional feedback from a developmental editor trained in a system I find extremely cool and satisfyingly complex. I’m HOPING this feedback enables me to crank my writing up to the “next level.”

My goal is to write books that are so emotionally compelling and beautifully-written that readers stay up all night finishing them, can’t wait for the next one to come out, and tell all their friends about them. I want to write stories that delight a small but mighty group of dedicated and intelligent and thoughtful readers. And I want a publishing contract with an imprint big enough to pay me a decent advance and/or with a marketing budget that helps grow this readership further than I’ve been able to do for myself.

This mentorship should help me get there, if getting there is possible for me.

It’s very possible.

I could spend this money, take this mentorship, work my butt off, and still end up a little nobody in the wide world of literature. This is my last-ditch effort. This is what I’m telling myself and you, my readers. You’ve stood by me. You’ve encouraged me to keep going. You’ve told me my work is good, my books fun to read. You’ve told me I’m not writing in vain.

I am doing this because you believe in me, and I need to believe in myself enough to invest in myself and my craft. It’s kind of now or never.

I hope this doesn’t make me sound pathetic. That’s my fear. I’m opening myself up to ridicule and pity, and it makes me feel very vulnerable to share all this with you.

However, I hope my vulnerability encourages you, if you need encouraging. (Otherwise, enjoy the schadenfreude. I’m here to please.)

If you are wondering whether or not you are worth investing money and time and continuing education into, if YOU have a dream you’d like to pursue, I hope I’m a positive example of someone daring to take one last chance on herself.

If I can do it, so can you.

I’m not telling you that your dream is doable and you should go for it. That’s not my call. Of course, be responsible. Of course, weigh the pros and cons. Of course, be smart. But I’m not sure being TOTALLY RATIONAL is the way to go here, either. Sometimes we have to go big or go home.

Only you can decide that for yourself. As for me, I’m going all in.

If it doesn’t work, I will retire. I will close up shop and write as a hobby until the day I die. Wish me luck, dear friends, and know that I’m here for you, too. I’m a really good cheerleader. I’ll give you encouragement if that’s what you need. I’ll listen and mirror back if that’s what you need at the moment. I want us to succeed in our goals. And I want us to not hate the way we get there.

Having fellow travelers along the way eases the burden. Let’s be delusional (or maybe genius!) together.

SPRINKLES IN PARADISE

On her first morning in her new apartment at the Peony Resort Hotel overlooking Guam’s Hagåtña Bay, fifty-five year old Stephanie Hardy-Swett carried a steaming mug of coffee to her balcony, surveyed her beautiful surroundings, and wondered if she’d made a horrible mistake.

Below her to the left, a thin brown crescent of beach lined the curl of the bay. From a jungle-covered volcanic cliff, the resort rose like an ancient temple, large and pink and geometric. Two wings, ten floors each and constructed to look like steps, spread at light wide sheltering arms around walking paths, flowering trees, and expansive and shallow decorative pools of aquamarine water bubbling with fountains. The first-floor open-air terrace overlooked a swimming pool, spa pool, tiled patio dining area, and a bar. Stephanie gaze was drawn, however, to the turquoise water of the bay, a color so vibrant it was like viewing the world through a filter.

Movement near the strip of beach caught her attention. A pod of jet skis plowed lacy white ruffles in the bright shallows. Further out, curved and amorphous dark shapes lay under the water. These, Stephanie realized, were coral reefs protecting the bay from the deeper and darker blue water of the open ocean beyond.

Taking another sip of her coffee, sweetened with canned coconut milk she’d picked up the previous afternoon at the big K-Mart on North Marine Drive, Stephanie pictured Guam as it appeared on Google Map. It was a tiny speck in a vast ocean halfway around the world from family and friends and her old life in Maine, USA., visible on the map only if you really zoomed in.

The idea of all that water surrounding the island filled her with a sudden existential dread.

Feeling dizzy, she sank down a shabby rattan chair and pushed all thoughts from her head. Instead she calmly drank her coffee and focused her attention on small details. Swift white birds chasing each other in loops against the cloud-dotted sky. Palm fronts waving like many-fingered hands in a breeze so soft and warm it felt like a caress on her skin. Some kind of rampant, pink flowering vine draped over the tangled green jungle of the empty lot next door.

The Peony rose from this verdant promontory like a pink ziggurat. Her one-bedroom suite came “fully furnished” with decor from the late 1980s. She actually liked the pink-tiled bathroom and odd, ornate gold chandelier hanging in the small entryway, but she’d need to replace the faded duvet cover and pillow shams as well as find blankets or covers to throw over the ratty couch and chair in the living/dining area. Nothing could be done about the ugly yellow kitchen cabinets, she supposed, but maybe with some lamps and rugs and artwork in the other rooms, the miniscule kitchen would fade into a mustard-colored backdrop.

So back to the 80s, a snarky voice in her head whispered. Is this really what you wanted?

****

She’d run here with no definite return date. She’d made reservations, packed three gigantic suitcases, closed up the house in Maine, and gotten on a plane. Well, three planes. Boston to Los Angeles. L.A. to Honolulu. Honolulu to Guam.

Twenty-seven hours after she’d left Maine, she arrived at Won Pat International Airport, grateful for her first class sleeping pod and a prescribed sedative. After struggling to get her luggage onto a cart and clearing customs, she summoned a taxi and arrived at the Tsubaki Hotel in Tumon. After taking a shower and closing the blackout curtains, she’d popped another pill and slept for twelve hours. After another shower, a change into one of her new caftans, and a quick swipe of lipstick, she’d wandered down to the lobby bar for a cocktail with a pink flower floating in it and fish tacos.

She spent two weeks at the Tsubaki while looking for a permanent residence on island with a local real estate broker named Cynthia. Meanwhile, Stephanie’s literary agent, Dana, texted several times a day asking how she was doing and if she’d started working on the O’Halloran project yet.

Her middle child, Andie, phoned every morning, complaining about the fourteen-hour time difference and asking if Stephanie had come to her senses yet. “I think Daddy broke your mind,” she said one morning.

“Daddy didn’t break my mind,” Stephanie said. “He broke my heart, but I’m getting over it. This isn’t about your father. It’s about me and needing a change of scenery.”

“You call abandoning your home and family and moving halfway around the globe with just the clothes on your back a change of scenery?”

“Laptop.”

“What?” Andie sounded distracted. Something beeped loudly in the background.

“Not just my clothes. I brought my computer. And some books. And notepads. I’m here to write, remember?”

“Ghost-write, you mean.” Andie sighed. “Come on, Mom. This can’t really be something you want to do.”

“Why not?”

“Because you should be writing your own books, not that Faith or Charity or whats-her-name’s autobiography. She’s Evangelical for god’s sake. You are an atheist!”

“Hope.”

Silence. “You hope what?” Andie snapped.

“My client’s name is Hope. Not Charity. And I’m not writing her autobiography. I’m writing a young adult historical series that Hope will publish under her own name. It’s going to be fun. Better yet, she’s going to pay me a ludicrous sum of money to do it.”

“I don’t freakin’ care what her name is, Mom!” Andie’s voice rose. “I want you go come home where you belong and stop acting crazy.”

Stephanie felt a pang of motherly guilt. “I’m sorry this is disturbing you, baby. You know I love you. You know I’d do anything for you if I thought you really needed me. I’d be home on the next flight. But, Andrea, I don’t have to remind you that you live in D.C., not Maine. The last few years, you hardly ever came up to Pelham to visit.”

“So you’re punishing me for being busy with my career?”

This child is her father’s daughter, Stephanie thought. “Of course I’m not. I know it’s not convenient for you with your work schedule, and you should be concentrating on your career right now. My point is, whether I’m in Maine or Guam, it’s not that much of a difference for you. It’s just a matter of a few extra hours on a plane. Come visit! It’s gorgeous. Sun. Sand. Palm trees. I’ll cook your favorite meals every day, and we’ll explore the island and check out all the fancy hotel bars.”

“That sounds wondrous, but I’m too busy right now. My caseload is nuts, and I’m trying to date, but these apps are all so sketch, and ugh. I just get so tired.” Andie’s voice sounded teary. “I miss you, Mom.”

“I know baby. I miss you, too. It’s all gonna work out. This is how it’s supposed to be right now.”

Andie sniffed. “Okay, but promise me you’ll think about moving to D.C. when you’re done with that book.”

“Series.”

“Series. Whatever.”

Stephanie smiled. “ I promise I’ll think about it.”

****

Finishing her coffee and surveying her new tropical island surroundings, Stephanie wondered if Andie was right. Had she gone a little insane after Randy’s affair and the yoga studio prostitute ring scandal that followed?

Possibly. Who could blame her? She’d needed to escape. To land someplace soft and easy where no one knew her. Where no one she ran into in the market asked her how she was doing with pity in their eyes. Where women at the library didn’t abruptly stop whispering when she glanced in their direction. So she’d fled to the first place that caught her attention while skimming articles on the best places for Americans to live abroad, a place she’d barely heard of and couldn’t find on a map without computer assistance.

Guam. An island in the Marianas. Not far from the Philippines. Way far away.

The cotillion of jet skis danced circles in the bay and then headed for shore. Stephanie set her mug onto the mosaic tile top of the patio table and stood at the railing for an even better view. A light breeze stirred her hair, swirled the calf-length skirt of her old-fashioned white cotton and eyelet nightgown against her legs.

She’d had a long obsession with pretty Eilleen Fisher cotton nighties, and now she wondered if maybe she’d ditched them for something silky and French-laced and sexy, Randy wouldn’t have strayed.

She preferred L.L. Bean to Versace. Gardening and knitting to yoga and pilates. Over the years, she’d taken to wearing her hair in a messy knot, perching a set of reading glasses on her nose, and pounding out her next novel on her keyboard.

Perhaps she should have been pounding Randy.

Looking at her marriage from a distance (of 8,000 miles), she considered that some of the blame for the dissolution of her marriage could be hers. Maybe if she’d put a bit more spice into their sex life years ago, she never would have ended up disgraced and divorced and demoralized at mid-life.

So now she’d pivoted. She’d come to live in a new, exotic locale where nobody knew her, to work on a new project as a ghost-writer, and to figure out who she was if she wasn’t a wife, a literary novelist, and a mother. She’d given herself a chance to start over. She could become someone new. Someone adventurous and free. Unencumbered.

A wild feeling spiraled through her, flowing up from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. Without thinking, she grabbed handfuls of her nightgown and drew it over her head and off her body. Letting the gown fall to her feet, she threw her head back, felt the soft air swirl over her naked body, ran her hands in gleeful abandon over her slightly saggy breasts, rounded stomach, and widening hips.

Her shoulder length hair stirred in the breeze as she inhaled a deep, cleansing breath and let it out again, slowly, absorbing positive energy from the very air around her.

You could be an atheist and still believe in positive energy, right? She’d needed a change, and she’d taken change when it was presented to her. Yes, she felt cut off from everything she’d ever known–her kids, her old friends, her pretty New England town, her home, and even her past.

Sure, she might be a little untethered at the moment. Was that so terrible? What, she wondered, was the difference between untethered and unencumbered?

Attitude. The word came to her from some deep self dredged up from her subconscious, the voice of someone older, wiser, and waiting for her time in the sun. The only difference between untethered and unencumbered was attitude.

A drop of coolness fell on her arm. Naked and alone,she looked up at the sky and saw a small, dark cloud skudding quickly across the otherwise clear sky. It dropped rain as it sailed, a sprinkling of water, like a baptism just for her. She lifted her arms above her head, turned in a circle, let the sprinkles fall on her nakedness, and laughed out loud.

The rain stopped as quickly as it began. Still smiling, she looked down instead of up. Staring back at her from the poolside patio was a large group of Japanese tourists. They were waiting, she realized in that shocking moment, for the Peony’s daily 7-10:30 AM outdoor breakfast buffet. One older woman put her hand over the eyes of a young child at her side. Older men grinned. Some of the younger women looked pointedly away, but at least one had her phone out, taking shots of the crazy naked lady on the fifth-floor balcony.

Yelping, Stephanie grabbed her nightie and held it in front of her body. She reached behind her with the other hand, wrenching her shoulder as she tried to open the sliding door. When it finally opened wide enough, she slid into the safe, dim, air-conditioned interior of her furnished, one-bedroom apartment and wondered when the management would knock on her door and politely invite her to leave.

That’s it for March. I hope you enjoyed the newsletter and the first of what I hope will be many Peony Hotel vignettes. Next month, look for my interview with Kirstie Brote, an artist, writer, personal trainer, and new Etsy shop owner and purveyor of vintage costume jewelry. Because we can’t live by books alone. Sometimes we need fashion.

Also, I’ll report on how the letter-writing project, Paper & Ink is going. Hint: good so far!

And I’ll update you, of course, on my progress on Liv #3.

Cheers!

Shelley