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Marie at 1 Write Way

  • A Thrilling Ride as Well as a Short Course in Psychopathology #bookreview

    September 22nd, 2022

    Recently I was the lucky recipient of a free AUDIO version of Fatal Rounds, Carrie Rubin’s latest novel. Y’all know how much I enjoy audiobooks. Although I disdain multitasking, audiobooks are what get me through hours of housecleaning, walking, and knitting. So when I learned there was a raffle for a free audiobook, I got as many raffles as I could. And, yay, I won!

    Fatal Rounds is the first in what appears to be a series (well, part of the title is Liza Larkin Book 1 … heh heh). Larkin is an odd character, although you don’t know that right away. She’s a new pathology resident at her second-choice hospital, second-choice not because her first choice turned her down, but because the second choice is where her stalker works. Yes, Larkin has a stalker and she’s decided to stalk him in order to find out why he is stalking her. This is all in chapter one. Talk about hitting the ground running.

    The decision to stalk her stalker is the reader’s first clue that Larkin is not your average pathology resident. She’s different, and Rubin carefully and with great sensitivity teases out Larkin’s issues. First, her mother has schizophrenia, exacerbated by the untimely death of her husband. Second, Larkin herself has schizoid personality disorder. Her diagnosis is not interchangeable with her mom’s, and it’s a complicated diagnosis. Some labels fit her, and some don’t. What keeps her together is recalling her father’s words: “You are not a list of symptoms, Lisa. You are not a diagnosis. You are you, you are special, and you are wicked smart. Most importantly, you have a good heart.”

    That Rubin includes all this info in the first couple of chapters is so important. Larkin and her mother are not stereotypes lifted out of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. That is made clear right away, as is the fact that people, even those who are well-meaning, will revert to labeling when they feel afraid, threatened, or just confused. That’s why I consider this novel a kind of short course on psychopathology. Not only does Larkin struggle with her own anti-social tendencies and anger management issues, but she also has to help manage the ebb and flow of her mother’s psychosis. The reader learns a lot about the fine lines some people like Larkin have to walk. 

    Off the bat, the reader is sympathetic to Larkin. She’s honest about her issues and protective of her mother. You don’t blame her for wanting to figure out why the stalker–Dr. Sam Donovan, trauma surgeon extraordinaire–seems to have an interest in her. But, also because of her issues, as she takes risks to follow Donovan, snoop on him, and build a case against him, you start to wonder whether she is imagining things. At least I did. 

    I started doubting Larkin’s mental stability, but, as if Rubin knew that would happen, Donovan started showing his ugly side, the cracks in his otherwise perfectly polished armor. Rubin’s timing in this novel is perfect, and the boxing metaphors that Larkin uses to describe her challenges with Donovan are well done.

    Larkin goes so far as to risk her residency, ultimately her career, when Donovan wins a few rounds. Before Larkin realizes it, a lot more than her residency is at stake. Donovan knows that losing her residency won’t stop her from trying to prove he’s guilty of murdering former patients. So he goes after those closest to her, the few people in her corner.

    Whoa. While I didn’t listen to the audiobook in one sitting, I did do about five hours of housework listening to it. And, believe me, only a riveting thriller such as Fatal Rounds could get me to do five hours of housework. 

    The story didn’t end when I thought it would end, and at first, I wondered, what more needed to be said? As it turns out, plenty needed to be said. There were the usual loose ends that needed to be tied up, but I really appreciated the final chapter. The reader, at least this reader, needed to sit with Larkin in her psychiatrist’s office and consider the questions he poses to her. Were there alternatives to the choices Larkin made in her pursuit of Donovan? Did she have to take the risks she took? You tell me after you’ve read Fatal Rounds. 


    You can get Fatal Rounds in the usual places:

    Bookshop (my favorite place to buy books)

    Amazon

    Barnes & Noble

    Kobo

    Google

    Apple

     

     

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  • What Day Is It? And Does It Matter?

    September 2nd, 2022

    I thought Wednesday was Saturday but I knew Thursday was Thursday and, so far, I’m confident that today is Friday (and my calendar says so too). Tomorrow should be Saturday and I just hope I don’t think it’s Wednesday because I have a couple of appointments and getting my days wrong would really screw things up.

    I’m still backsliding on blogging and keeping up with blogs (as in, I’m not keeping up with blogs), but I have been writing a bit. Most of my writing has been on Medium mainly because I submit to publications there. I don’t crow about these publications because, although some of them do offer some good reading, I frankly don’t equate getting published in a Medium publication with getting published in a mainstream literary journal. The truth is, I’m always suspicious when my writing is accepted generally as-is, with perhaps only minor reformatting or editing. But maybe my writing is that good. What do I know?

    In any case, here are a few of my most recent essays and stories. The following are “friend” links meaning you do not have to be a paid subscriber to Medium to read them, although you will probably have to open a Medium account if you don’t already have one: 

    • In The Memoirist: Open My Heart Like a Tin Can
    • In Crow’s Feet: To Wear a Bra or Not Wear a Bra and How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Aging Body
    • In The Lark: Johnny Walker: A tale of two sisters and Diane in Her Glory (these are both short stories)

    I also started my own publication on Medium but it’s only for my writing. It’s called “One Sister’s Journey Through Grief,” and I’ll be using it to share my journey of learning to live with my grief over losing my sister. So far, I’ve published two essays there:

    • Why Am I Doing This?
    • A Love Story That Began Almost 60 Years Ago Will Never End

    I’ve been toying with the thought of also using Substack for my writing. I follow a few writers on Substack, and I’ve only seen one writer (so far) who has the same readers on both Substack and Medium … but she writes about Medium so that’s probably why. Anyway, the idea is to expand my “audience” so to speak. And, while I’m used to WordPress and have had this blog here for a gazillion years, the platform can be clunky and temperamental. Life is getting shorter. I like going with the flow but feel I have less time for the ebb.

    Meanwhile … 

    I’ve joined the SmokeLong Fitness Community Workshop which started on September 1 (that was Thursday). You can read about it in detail here: SmokeLong Fitness Community Workshop. Basically, I pay a monthly fee to be part of a small group online workshop. Every week we’ll be given a writing prompt, and we’re expected to provide feedback on each other’s writing. SmokeLong Fitness also includes monthly webinars, discounts on intensive workshops, and “surprises.” It’s only been a couple of days but I’m feeling psyched (and anxious) about writing and reading in a small group. I still have my novel to work on, but I’m hoping that being prompted to write flash [fill in the blank] will oil my writing gears and get me back on track.

    Meanwhile … 

    I’m knitting.

    The beginning of a cardigan!

    We decided to get out of town for a couple of days and at the last minute, I grabbed a kit for a knitted cardigan to take with me. That was Tuesday, August 23. Today is Friday, September 2, and I’ve completed the back, left and right front panels, and one sleeve. Woo-hoo! At least I’m on a roll with my knitting. This might be the fastest I’ve ever knitted a cardigan. The key thing for me is to keep momentum and not stall when all the pieces have been knitted and it’s time to stitch them together. Finishing a project (much like editing a novel) is my least favorite part of the process.

    Did I mention that I now take two Excedrin first thing in the morning, followed by a caffeinated drink? Caffeine is this writer’s little helper.

    I close this post with one of my favorite photos of my sister Shirley (courtesy of my niece-in-law).

    Miss you, Shirley

     

     

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  • Lens-Artists Challenge #211: What’s your photographic groove?

    August 9th, 2022

    Anne Sandler from Slow Shutter Speed leads this week’s photography challenge with “what’s your photographic groove?” What a great question!

    At heart, I’m a minimalist … although if you saw my bedroom/workroom, such a thought would have you laughing your arse off. By minimalist, I mean I don’t like having a lot of gear, which is why I really regret attending the going-out-of-business sales of a local quilting shop several years ago. I still have a lot of that stuff! But back to photography …

    I still play around with a Canon Rebel T3i that I bought over ten years ago. My husband (who does love gear) provides me with nice macro and zoom lenses, and I can neatly fit the camera with the two lenses in a small case … which then weighs a ton. I fantasize about taking the camera and lenses with me on my morning walks, but I always have an excuse not to. One excuse is that it might be picking-up-litter morning, in which case I’ll also be carrying my gripper and a 13-gallon bag, which, in all likelihood, will be full by the time I get home. Another excuse–the more common one–is that I have my phone if I feel compelled to take photos. Besides, isn’t it more important to enjoy the sights and sounds of nature without always trying to “capture” it?

    I try to do both.

    Here’s where we get to my groove. My iPhone 8 Plus suits my minimalist nature. While I might have gotten better photos with my Canon, I feel satisfied for now with what my iPhone can capture. Case in point: the Pleated Inkcap (Parasola plicatilis), a fungus I found on a recent morning walk.

    For scale, here’s my left index finger pointing to a Pleated Inkcap.

    Dainty little things, aren’t they? One of the things I enjoy about photography in general and macro photography, in particular, is that I “see” more. These fungi sit close to the ground, and there was just one bunch of them. Still, to my delight, my eye caught them. 

    Don’t they look like dainty little flowers or parasols?
    My iPhone was almost flat on the ground in order to get this photo.
    This should give you some perspective on how low to the ground these fungi are.

    So I guess my photographic groove is macro with an iPhone 8 Plus. For now, anyway. I’ve heard that the iPhone 14 is supposed to break new ground in iPhone photography. We’ll see …


    If you want to participate in this challenge, please link to Anne’s original post (click here) and use the Lens Artists tag. As the LAPC team resumes rotation, Patti will present next week’s challenge. Be looking for her post. In the meantime have fun and stay safe.

    If you would like to participate weekly in our Lens-Artists Challenge, just click this link and join us: https://photobyjohnbo.wordpress.com/about-lens-artists/

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  • August’s freebie: Yesterday Road

    August 8th, 2022

    Yesterday Road is my all-time favorite novel by Kevin Brennan. This week the Kindle version is free. Here’s a snippet of the review I wrote: “Yesterday Road is a humorous, poignant, action-filled, meditative literary novel. To describe it with these adjectives makes me feel like I’m contradicting myself, but I’m not. Brennan has managed to write a novel that is as much a page-turner as a thoughtful exposition on memory.” You can read the whole review at https://1writeway.wordpress.com/2013/10/22/a-traditional-kind-of-book-review-yesterday-road/. But I’d prefer it if you read the novel itself. Click here.

    Kevin Brennan's avatarWHAT THE HELL

    Time for another Summer Reading freebie, and this month it’s my second novel (and first indie), Yesterday Road.

    I have a special place in my heart for this book because it brings together three of my favorite characters: Jack Peckham, the octogenarian who just wants to find his way home; Ida Pevely, the diner waitress with a heart of gold who’s called into service to help two wayward innocents; and Joe Easterday, a young man with Down syndrome on the adventure of his life. I really came to love all these guys in the writing of this one.

    Here’s the blurb, in case you’ve forgotten:

    In this “coming-of-old-age” tale, Jack Peckham finds himself on a journey into his distant past, helped along the way by Joe Easterday, a young man with Down syndrome, and Ida Pevely, a middle-aged waitress with her own mountain of regrets. Jack has…

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  • The Birthday Card I Will Never Send

    August 2nd, 2022

    August 2 is my sister Shirley’s birthday. She would have been 76 today. Here’s the birthday card I bought for her a couple of months ago.

    I think she would have gotten a kick out of it. 

    During the viewing and funeral in early July, many people came up to me and said I looked just like Shirley, that I could be her twin. Growing up, I never really saw the resemblance. 

    The sisters in 2007. Shirley is on the left, me on the right. Note that in this photo I have 20% less hair and 20% more body fat than I do now. Just saying …

    I was blinded by our age gap. Now when I see photos of her, especially those from when she was in her 20s, I’m stunned by how much I looked like her when I was the same age. It makes me both happy and sad. I’m happy that when people see me, they see her too. I’m sad that I only came to know this now.

    In any case … 


    Happy Birthday, Shirley! I love you and miss you bunches.

     

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  • I’m Running Out of July

    July 27th, 2022

    I’ve got only a couple of days before the month of July is over … to which I say, Good riddance, July! For those of you new to my blog, let me start with the painful acknowledgment of my sister’s death late on July 1. For context, I have three siblings and our birth order is as follows: oldest sister (C), Shirley, brother (G), and, finally, me. Shirley is (and always will be) my second sister, separated in age by just over 11 years. As I was growing up, she was probably more of a babysitter than a sister to me, an authoritative but protective figure; hence, my primal scream when I learned of her death.

    We went to the viewing, the funeral, and the burial with my 98-year-old mother in tow. Admittedly, I was initially surprised that my mom wanted to go at all. The grief etched on her face was often difficult to bear. No parent should outlive their child, and the anguish in her open-mouthed but silent howl broke our hearts many times over. After the burial, when I thought for sure she’d head for her bed, she sat in her chair and asked, “So what’s next? Where are we going?”

    “To the Auspelmyer’s [my sister’s home]. There will be food. Do you want to come?”

    “Well, yeah. I don’t want to miss anything.”

    I think I found the secret to my mother’s longevity: She doesn’t want to miss anything.

    I want to share this memorial card. I think it was my oldest nephew who selected the poem. It’s perfect. It’s how I want to think of Shirley. Not gone, but always with us, in our hearts.

    Here also is a link to her obituary: Shirley Auspelmyer. If you have time, a lovely 9-minute video is also on the website.


    Shirley and I started to become close after I left home and crashed my way into adulthood. With every passing year, we missed each other more. When both of us started showing gray hair, the difference between us of 11 years became irrelevant. It didn’t matter that we were a bit like night and day. Shirley had embraced the life of a traditional wife, marrying at 19 and embarking on her sole mission in life: raising a family. She wanted children and grandchildren. She especially loved babies.

    I didn’t marry until I was 32 and after I had made sure I’d never have children. I like kids well enough, and I always had fun playing with my grandniece and grandnephews when I visited home. But I didn’t have a mission in life, a desire to propagate unless you consider raising a herd of cats a mission. Although we had our differences, and maybe because of those differences, my sister knew me better than I often knew myself.

    For my 30th birthday, she sent me a book of poems. Does anyone recognize this book? I’ve kept it now for 35 years. The pages are brittle but still intact.

    Shirley attached a note with the book, and I’ve opened the book to a poem that reminds me of my sister.

    The “Ted” she refers to was our neighbor who treated us as if we were his own children. Growing up, Saturdays were shopping days with Ted. He’d buy us anything we wanted. As we got older, Shirley and I became less interested in what Ted might buy us and more satisfied just being with him.


    I miss my sister. I won’t ever stop missing her, but I know I need to resume my life. I’m taking baby steps. I’m in no hurry.

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  • I Could Have Been a Better Sister #grief

    July 2nd, 2022

    I could have been a better sister.

    I was only nine and you were nineteen when you married and left the family home.
    As you took your vows, I sat in the pew, steeling myself to be quiet,
    voiceless cries whirling in my head: “Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”

    I was only nine and, although you left, you didn’t leave me.
    Instead, you gave me
    the gift of a strong, silent, and steadfast brother in your husband,
    the gift of three tall, handsome, and intelligent nephews,
    the gift of eight beautiful and gifted grandnieces and grandnephews.

    You never left me. You never let me go.

    I was the one who left, who packed up my few things and moved across the country,
    first to the West, then to the South, never back to the North.

    You never let me go. Your letters followed me everywhere.

    If only I had thought to tell you that I kept all the letters and cards you sent me.
    Over thirty years of missives about the weather, the farm, the boys, your work, your life.

    If only I had thought to remind you of your funny stories,
    like that time in a hotel when you got locked inside a bathroom
    and it took four men and how long to get you out
    while you sat on the toilet and patiently waited.

    Or how you used to joke about wanting to experience an empty nest as
    your two oldest sons cycled through your house as they cycled into adulthood,
    first one and then the other,
    rinse and repeat,
    testing your patience but never your love.

    You were always there for your sons,
    for your husband,
    for our father,
    our neighbor,
    your friends,
    our mother,
    our siblings.

    For me.

    Family was your mission in life.

    I could have been a better sister.
    I am afraid of life without you.

    I wanted to take for granted that you would always be here for me,
    that you would never leave me.

    When your husband called to say you were in the hospital again,
    I felt that nine-year-old girl uncurl in my heart,
    her hot fingers clenched as this time she screamed the words, “Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”

    You are gone. Not from my heart, not from my memory, but from my future.

    I could have been a better sister.
    But I could never have been a better sister than you were for me.

    In memory of Shirley Marie (Bailey) Auspelmyer
    August 2, 1946–July 1, 2022

    My sister Shirley circa 1992.

     

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  • I’m Not Okay But I’ll Be All Right #grief

    June 30th, 2022

    I am going to take a hiatus from blogging and writing online. Not that I’ve been doing much of either lately but why not make it official.

    Here’s the deal: my sister Shirley is dying. The sister with Parkinson’s. The sister who has been dodging health curveballs most of her adult life. The only one of us four who went on to have her own family: three sons and eight grandchildren. The sister who wrote letters to me after I left home. Long letters that I’ve collected in a box for over thirty years.

    We visited my family in May for a few days. I hadn’t seen Shirley in almost seven years and wasn’t prepared for how Parkinson’s had altered her. Cognitively, she was still with it. We had conversations, cracked jokes. Still, I was terrified watching her walk about because she was a fall risk. I’d hover, sometimes holding my breath until she sat down and was, in my view, safe.

    A few weeks ago, she was admitted to a local hospital for a UTI. Then she was discharged. Then she was readmitted because the antibiotics hadn’t worked. And it has just gone downhill from there. One week ago, we were all worried about her having an antibiotic-resistant infection. The doctors proposed sending her to an infectious disease center. Before they could do that, they had to do a couple more tests to determine if anything else was causing the infection.

    They found a large mass in her abdomen; a biopsy confirmed it was cancer.

    Here’s where the rage kicks in. Shirley has been under the care of SEVERAL doctors for SEVERAL years and yet this large mass just appeared? The attending doctor suggested that it might have been growing in her abdomen for at least a year. Seriously?! 

    But it’s too late for rage. The mass is there, it’s malignant, and treatment is not recommended because of her condition. She hasn’t been responsive for a while so her husband and sons have to make all the decisions. She’ll receive hospice care at the hospital. 

    I don’t want her to go, but I know we have no choice. I only hope that someday I’ll have the strength to write about her and share my memories of her. 

    I’ve been inspired and comforted by this essay by Eileen Vorbach Collins: My Grief Goes On: A Letter to My Late Daughter. I can and will grieve for Shirley as long as I’m alive. Just like I still grieve for so many other friends, family members, and furred children that I’ve lost. I haven’t lost the memories, though. The memories are my comfort.

    Comments are closed because I need to step away for now. I can imagine what you all would say, though, and, believe me, I appreciate it. 

    So now, find a loved one–whether furred or hairless or both–and hug them tight.

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  • River Ghosts by Merril D. Smith #bookreview #poetry

    June 20th, 2022

    I always feel apprehensive when reviewing poetry, maybe more so than when I’m writing the poetry myself. Some time ago, I took an online writing course, and the instructor mentioned in passing that she liked writing poetry because you didn’t need to explain poetry like you would explain a story or an essay. While that idea frees me to write poetry, it definitely makes it more difficult to review poetry.

    Poetry is like music, like art. You can admire the technique, the skill in putting words (or notes or paints) together in a pleasing way. But the poetry I’m attracted to does more than please me. It lifts me out of myself and sets me to ponder ideas and feelings I either hadn’t considered or had been afraid to acknowledge. So ends my long introduction to this review of Merril D. Smith’s book, River Ghosts.

    Cover art by Jay Smith

    But before I begin my review: Just look at that cover! River Ghosts is published by Nightingale & Sparrow, and what a gorgeous book to hold in my hands. When I first saw the cover on Smith’s blog, I knew I had to have a printed copy. I have not been disappointed. In fact, when I wasn’t reading Smith’s lovely poetry, I had her book displayed on a bookshelf so I could enjoy seeing the cover.

    The first poem in this collection–“River Ghosts”–sets up the reader for a journey into the past and present, into if and when, with “echoes / over the river.” The reader is invited to “Observe again.” but also to “Now solve the problem.” And that’s just in the first two poems. Smith might not intend for the reader to “solve the problem” presented in all the poems, but she definitely intends (in my humble opinion) for the reader to observe again and again, whether she is observing “a train to hell,” a first love or dark matter. Like a river, these poems meander–at turns edging toward grief (“our mother stopped eating before she died, / now I hear her ghost-laugh in my dreams”), then sisterly fun (“we rubbed the laughing Buddha’s belly for good luck”), but always listing toward the mysteries of the universe, encompassing life and death:

    Once some brilliant star breathed time
    in the after-wake of explosion and danced across a universe
    exploring eternity

    The poems were compiled after Smith’s mother died of COVID-19 in April 2020, and so a number of the poems feature her mother in her youth and old age. She (and others long-deceased) also features as a ghost; not a scary, haunted ghost, but:

    Not living,
    no longer here,
    yet not completely gone.

    In her poem “Family Ghosts,” Smith makes clear her calling and intent:

    Subsisting, existing
    their ghost voices sing to me
    I hear them
    I feel them–ancestors calling me,
    this is what we do, generate, create the songs of our hearts forever.

    These are poems I will be turning to often as I seek comfort when my own family members become “not living, / no longer here.” I will find comfort in knowing that they are “not completely gone.” Smith demonstrates how a writer could (and, perhaps, should) allow ancestors to speak through her, echoing through the years, so we always remember not just when but if.

    River Ghosts is available on Amazon at this link.

    Here are links to two more reviews of River Ghosts as well as an interview with Merril D. Smith:

    • Review by Luanne Castle
    • Review by Elizabeth Gauffreau (In her review, Liz includes a wonderful video of Smith’s river photographs)
    • Interview with Curtis Smith

    And if you’re not already a reader of Smith’s blog Yesterday and today: Merril’s historical musings, then please visit her here and sign up.

    Thank you for reading!

    Busy bee on my lavender Penta.

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  • All the Words

    June 5th, 2022

    Merril posted a random word list this morning. You can read it here: Merril’s Random Word List

    When I saw the list of words, I started putting them together. Of course, adding in a few of my own. I believe I’ve managed to include all the words in the list. I don’t know what you would call the following (if anything), but it was fun to do. It’s also quite rough, but I suppose that’s obvious.

    All.The.Words.

    I need some fast material
    To copy, detach, and vanish
    Into a glorious seed sack
    Made out of my beggar skirt.

    Don’t imitate my voiceless polish.
    Conspire, instead, conclude some tasty paint.
    Add general onerous hobbies that scab and construe.

    I am capable although I appear to deprive.
    It’s in my walk, offset and misty,
    A simple, illustrious ornament from my youthful but elderly mother

    She doesn’t wear a nappy but she’s cagey.
    She preset the celery to a paltry stew.
    I stimulate the waggish ink unit in exchange for something tasteful.

    I offer a shiver of hope that will hit the tree,
    Leave the correct but tasteless and spooky indent.

    Useless. So useless.

    I emit an aberrant and callous hush,
    Spy a stereotyped representative, his knee sturdy, cloudy, and square.
    I hinder his needy hose with paste,
    Satisfy his hate,
    Disobey and encroach on the stone where a mean flash of a friend lies tired but exuberant.

    I measure my mother.
    She makes a soup of a questionable cut.
    I infuse and injure it with a full absurd and icky taboo.

    I suck and
    Produce a heartbreaking recess of robust reading.

    I’m not sure Junior and Raji approve of this “poem.”

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