One is a wanderer

We live in a ranch-style house, four bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, about 2600 square feet. Having grown up in a cracker box of possibly 1100 square feet, this is plenty big for me and my family, with one exception.

I have no office.

When we moved in, I didn't need an office. I worked at Raytheon. Dale and I had a bedroom, Marcus had one, we had a guest bedroom, and we had something we call "The Computer Room." This is a misnomer. It's actually the Computer Graveyard, where all computers go to die. It's also where stray paperwork piles up, along with horse show clothes, boxes of books, and things we don't know what to do with but can't yet discard.

It is not an office. 

So where do I write? In the living room, at the antique table. In the dining room. At the kitchen table. On the living room couch. In the recliner in the family room. I'm all over the place. 

Maybe that's just the way it's going to be. Perhaps my muse likes to be on the move. "Come along, Gayle," she snaps. "We're in the living room today."

My muse does not purr. She's a barking drill instructor.

Today, I decided I would spend more time at the dining room table. I put some motivational hangings on the wall, where I could look at them and try harder. These were presents, from my son at Christmas, and from my gal pal Tameri for my birthday. I hung them around the shelf with my homemade angel and my Welsh wedding spoon. 

Not a bad grouping, eh?

For Christmas, Marcus spent a goodly amount of time pulling all of my four- and five-star reviews for FREEZER BURN and arranging them, in a colorful display. Then he framed it. I'm not sure what I love more, the constant reminder that I wrote something people like, or the constant reminder that my son crafted me a gift from love.

These two are from Tameri. I love them because they speak to me of bravery and friendship. I've never felt particularly brave, but people tell me I am. Mostly, I think I'm just stubborn. Perhaps I confuse the two, courage and hard-headedness. 

And when I'm not brave, it's nice to know I have a tribe of friends who've got my back.

Counting blessings

I was talking to my hubby the other day about one of our friends. This friend has a lovely family, a good job, a home, and plenty of interests to keep them entertained. And yet, they complain constantly. They make an interesting character study, actually, because I don't think they can help themselves. Some people have this internal scale that is never in balance. Fairness is a goal they keep reaching for and falling short.

While we were talking, it dawned on me how blessed I am. Yes, I am naturally optimistic, and although I remember being a young child and expecting life to be fair, I grew out of that. Life isn't fair. It isn't unfair. It just is. But even with my tendency toward the sunny side of the street, when I think of how many blessings are in my life, I can hardly contain my joy.

First, there's my husband. On one hand, he's supremely honest and will not praise me if he doesn't think I deserve it. On the other hand, he supports everything I do and is quick to point out the positive side of anything I kvetch about. Someone once questioned him about something he was going to do for me (I don't even remember what it was), and implied that he was an idiot for going along with me.

Dale's the one on the left.

"If Gayle's happy, then I'm happy," he said. That settled that.

Second, there's our son. I grew up thinking I would not have children. I saw them as a huge responsibility and felt too insecure to bear that burden for all those years. When I turned 35, I said "maybe." When I started dating Dale, I said, "yes."

Let's be serious. Having a child at 38 makes you The Older Mom. The one with the old eggs. Fertility specialists act like your ova have a shelf life and things get ugly when they're past their expiration date.

But we got lucky. Marcus could have been born with tons of problems, but he wasn't. If anything, it was barely like raising a child. He was reasonable. He was easy to get along with. Yes, he was a picky eater, and took forever to pick up some basic tasks, but I don't know how I could be prouder of him.



Third, I have an a-MAZ-ing support system of friends. They give me advice without an agenda, a shoulder to cry on without judgment, and even a smack on the head (followed by a hug) without conditions. Somehow I've been able to pull people close to me that I can trust, and let the ones go that were pulling me into their own insecurities.

Sylvia and Tameri, just two of my wonderful tribe.

I may never be a bestselling author, or an expert horse rider, or be a stand-out at ANYTHING, but it doesn't matter. At least for this moment, I'm a winner.

What are some of your blessings? I'd love to know what you're thankful for.

My aching head

I've been writing as much as I can for the past week, and managed to get over 5,000 words written. Pretty good words, too. I was kind of set to add more today, once I got my housecleaning finished.


The problem is I have a fairly splitting headache, which is keeping the story from leaping out of my cranium. I absolutely hate to let the day be a waste, however, so I did a little marketing/promotional work for the bird in my hand. In other words, I made a new trailer for Hit or Missus.







What do you think?