EVERY SPARE MINUTE

Some of you know I lost my son, Derrick, to a sudden heart attack. The seventh anniversary of his death is coming up on May 11^th, a day I now dread. Luckily, I have family and friends who invite me to various activities in an attempt to distract me from the heartache of that day.

My favorite distraction since Derrick’s death has been writing and crafting my books. I currently have seven published books between my two series, including the recently published, “Whispering Willows.” By the end of May, I will have published my eighth novel, “Willow’s Woods.” Yes, working with two double W-titles was a tad bit confusing.

While I love my México Mayhem Series, my heart longs to live in Stoneybrook where Derrick is a fictional deputy sheriff. But regardless of whether I’m writing about an exotic adventure in México or creating a mysterious quest from Stoneybrook to the Oregon coast, I can’t wait to see the story flow from my fingertips.

Recently someone asked me, “If it takes John Grisham two to three years to write a book, how can you write two in one year?”

My first thought was, “Wow! She’s comparing me to John Grisham.” Of course, I came to my senses, realizing this person hasn’t read my books so a Grisham comparison would be silly. My next thought was concerning. “Is she’s implying there’s no way I can write one, let alone two, good books in a year.”

Hmmmm???? My reply was …

“Well,” I smiled, “Grisham’s books are usually very intricate legal thrillers, which isn’t what I write.” I sipped some red wine. “I think, despite writing two books in one year, my books are good. Maybe not John Grisham good, but enjoyable according to the positive reviews I’m receiving.”

Her next question was, “How do you find the time?”

I contemplated our exchange so far, then told her the truth. “I don’t know how much time I have left.” Tears pricked my eyes. “If my time on earth ends sooner than I’d like, I’ll have all these untold stories wishing they’d been written. So, I spend every spare minute writing, or editing, or listening, to the book I’m creating.” This time a much larger sip of wine. “After Derrick died I had two choices,” I continued, “I could slide slowly down the rabbit hole of grief, or I could immerse myself in a passion that brings me joy.”

In the seven years since Derrick died, I’ve lost other family and friends. Counseled parents who’ve lost children. Sat with wives whose husbands have passed away. Being a wordsmith, I feel blessed to offer comfort, always finding the right sentiment to share.

As I approach an anniversary I wish had never been created, I also draw closer to my sixty-seventh birthday. Celebrating Derrick on the eleventh will be both difficult and joyful. I love weaving in his autistic idiosyncrasies into his fictional alter ego and often find myself laughing at one of his favorite sayings or smiling at the memory of his famous belly laugh.

While I’d rather be turning “29” again … I’m thankful to be turning sixty-seven. Thankful I get to take another trip around the sun and spend every spare minute writing stories just waiting to be told.

Happy Writing, Ladies!