I’ve been taking time this summer to catch up on my reading, which is a fancy way of saying that I’m reading those books that I’m embarrassed to say I never read when they came out or, in the case of a bunch of dead white men, when I was in college.  I’m picking out books with titles known to just about everyone.

Reviewers are prone to lot of literary fallacies—the main character is really the author, the entire novel is autobiographical, the hero is the author’s cousin who got into drugs in exactly the same way, and on and on. These reviews can spoil the book for some of us, me, for instance, by messing up how I see the entanglements. I’m glad to not read the reviews, and go by nothing more than the familiarity of the title. Who hasn’t heard of Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying, or John Updike’s Couples? Both gave rise to hours of juicy gossip and, just as likely, a lot of ill will. I’m glad to ignore the warnings, which are also suggestions on “how to read” the book. I don’t need to be told where the story blossoms into personal truth.

Often when I’m reading I come to a passage that stops me, holds me from riding forward on the narrative river. There is something in the tone, the detail, the feeling that tells me this really happened. This is real, this is the truth. It could be lines in the dialogue, a setting and how the main character, or a secondary character, reacts to it; it could be a surprise, a reversal, in behavior, a character stepping out of character. But the sense that I’ve come to something out of the author’s life is compelling and convincing—the feeling conveyed reaches me. The passage may go on for several pages, or no more than a few paragraphs, but it does come to an end, and the story flows on as before.

I occasionally recognize the same quality in nonfiction, when the author comes to a moment of truth, as it were, and her struggle with it is revealed on the page. It may or may not be the issue that is the focus of the work, and may not be resolved, but it’s there for the reader to recognize and dwell on. I found this in Sister Helen Prejean’s Dead Man Walking, and have wondered if she returned to it later.

Occasionally a reader will ask me if a certain passage is real, or, more likely if it’s another writer, she’ll say, that really happened. And in most cases she would be right. When we’re writing, we’re pulling things out of ourselves to make sense on the page, and after doing this for a while, a few minutes or an hour, we may be so deep into the excavation, touching things set aside, that we don’t record in our own mind that this is different from the surrounding passages. 

Choosing a setting because it’s real and readers will recognize it is not the same thing. Using a real politician as a character because he is known to readers isn’t the same thing either. The passage that stands out is something whose meaning and experience is known only to the writer, but when it is shared, it is recognized and felt as special by the reader.

For me, as both writer and reader, this is the best part of the entire experience because I know I’ve come to a passage that is true and unique, lived and remembered and shared. 

Happy Summer, Ladies ~ I wanted to start by thanking all of you who reached out during my sister Lori’s illness, and to let you know she passed away on June 2^nd.

My sister, fourteen months younger than me, always challenged me to be a good big sister.

Lori loved tossing her baby bottle from her crib and squealing until someone would retrieve it. Our single mom, Rita, would be busy cooking, cleaning, or getting ready for one of her three jobs, so I would toddle over and hand my baby sister her bottle. Lori would enjoy it until she wanted attention again and then toss it overboard again.

Lori challenged me to be my sister’s keeper when we were little girls. My job was to hold her hand, ensuring she stayed out of trouble when Mom took us shopping or to visit our grandparents’ small mom-and-pop store. On one exciting trip to Sears to shop for new summer sandals, I let go of Lori’s hand, and she wandered off.

“Where’s your sister?” Mom asked, frantically looking around the store. I shrugged and looked around, too.

My mother shrieked and raced toward a display of bathroom toilets, where my little sister sat perched on an avocado green throne.

“I go big girl potty, Mommy.” Lori beamed despite Mom snatching her from the toilet. She pulled up my sister’s panties and smoothed her sundress. Before leading her away from the display, my mother made the mistake of looking in the bowl where Lori had left a tiny brown deposit.

Needless to say, we didn’t go back to Sears for a few years.

As teenagers, Lori challenged me to be a less stuffy older sister. I was prone to wearing turtlenecks and loose-fitting Levi’s, while Lori preferred a hipper wardrobe of scoop-neck T-shirts and tight bellbottoms. One day, she and I went to the Medford Center to do a little shopping. Even though enough time had passed and we could have shopped at Sears, we decided on JC Penny’s. Lori stuck me in a dressing room and brought me clothes to try on.

I wore one of my new outfits to school the next day: a yellow blouse with cap sleeves and dark blue denim bellbottoms. I finally got my first compliment from a boy I liked when he said, “Nice jeans.”

As adults, Lori became an unwavering source of support when my son, Derrick, was diagnosed with autism, and I found myself a divorced mother of two. She watched my boys. She encouraged me to date. She taught me how to dance.

Despite her helpfulness, my relationship with my sister was also difficult. Sometimes I wanted to walk away from her instead of trying to mend whatever bridge she’d burned. So, as I said at the beginning, my sister Lori was challenging, and I share this story because I believe our relationship taught me how to shape characters for my books.

Whether I’m writing a Hero, a Heroine, or a Villain, I know I infuse my characters with some of Lori’s personality traits.

Clara in “Peril in Paradise” has Lori’s indomitable determination to find revenge for her daughter. In “Redneck Ranch,” Harley and Busy’s best friend relationship is a take-off of mine and Lori’s sisterhood. In “Vanished in Vallarta,” Jade is on a mission to find her missing little sister.

My female or male villains reflect some of her flaws, too, such as her unreasonable jealousy or sense of entitlement. Though Lori wasn’t necessarily evil, she did have a mean streak that, at times, she directed at me.

Over the last seven months, Lori challenged me to be a better writer. A better storyteller. A better editor.

She wanted to help me edit my current novel, “Chaos in Cabo.” I set her up with chapters, blue and red pens, and the nine things I look for in each chapter. The senses: Sight, Smell, Sound, Taste, Touch. And the nuances, I think, bring realism to my story: Accessories, Clothing, Eyes, Hair.

Lori valiantly tried to read each chapter and mark these items off the list, but she had a hard time focusing on the story. However, she did ask good questions, so the end result for me was that I was able to explain my editing process to another writer who asked if I would edit her novel.

My sister Lori was a challenge to the end. She died on June 2^nd, my son Derrick’s birthday.

We had a lovely family day on June 1st, her son’s birthday. We played games, ate pizza, and enjoyed an ice cream cake. I spent the night at her house, and we stayed up late talking and laughing.

The next morning, Lori seemed a little tired but otherwise fine. She commented about not being able to get into heaven if you weren’t always a good person. I told her that if she wanted forgiveness, all she had to do was ask God. She got quiet for a few minutes and closed her eyes. Then she said, “I feel bad that I get to see Derrick before you.”

My phone pinged because someone liked my Facebook birthday post for Derrick, and I showed Lori his picture.

She grabbed my hand, and my sister, who never asked me to pray with her before, said, “Can we say a prayer for Derrick’s birthday?”

I nodded and said, “Happy Birthday, Derrick. We hope you’re having a great day in heaven. Aunt Lori and I are laughing about Grandma Rita and Grandma Betty arguing over who gets to bake you a cake. I love and miss you, big guy! Aunt Lori wants to say something.”

Eyes closed, she squeezed my hand and said, “Happy birthday, Derrick. I miss you so much. And I want you to know I’m coming to see you soon.”

Lori drifted off to sleep and seemed fine throughout the morning. Then, just after noon, her breathing became labored, and she appeared to be in a coma. Her husband called the Hospice nurse, who was running late, and she said she would be there as soon as possible.

Keith and I took turns holding Lori’s hand and making her comfortable. Neither of us was in denial that her time was near, but neither of us was ready for her to go.

My challenging little sister went to heaven at 1:50 pm on Monday, June 2, 2025.

Several people said to me after Lori passed away that they were sorry she died on Derrick’s birthday, to which I replied:

“I’m not because I believe my loving son reached his strong hand down from the heavens and said, ‘Come on, Aunt Lori … it’s time.’”

Over the rainbow and from heaven, my little sister challenged me to lean into my faith and share her peaceful passing with others.

Hug your family members, Sisters!

                                           

Several years ago, as I was struggling to find my place in the writing world, my neighbor found out I was writing. She told me, “I’ve always wanted to write a children’s book.”

“There’s no time like the present. Start writing,” I said.

She had all the same excuses I had. Her kids were still home and taking up a lot of her time. She helped out in their orchard and did the books for the farm. I encouraged her to start writing a little every day.

The next time I saw her she said, “I’m writing a book.” She was so pleased, and I was happy for her. She did everything right. She joined a critique group, and worked hard on her books, writing and rewriting them. She was patient and when someone would suggest a change in her manuscript, she would painstakingly go through it. Because she didn’t like to drive, I drove her to Eugene so she could use the college library for research. (This was before Google!)

Even though I wrote mysteries and she wrote children’s adventure books, we loved talking about writing together. I read some of her early work and encouraged her to keep writing. She was such a good writer. I knew she’d make it someday and her books would be out in the world for children to enjoy and learn from.

I don’t know how many manuscripts she finished, but she worked hard on one and when it was done, she asked me to read it. Her critique group had read it and liked it, but she wanted another set of eyes on it before she started shopping it around.  I was happy to and blown away by how professional it was. It was polished, and I couldn’t wait to tell her how much I enjoyed it and that I felt it was ready to be sent out to agents or publishers.

I remember going to her house that day. She sat in her recliner looking like she always did. I had no premonition of what she was about to tell me. After we talked a bit, I told her I thought her book was great. There were a couple of little things I thought she could change, but I knew it was ready for publication.

She smiled at me. “Lana, I just found out I have cancer.”

My heart sank. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. But you can beat it. And while you’re recovering, you can work on getting this book to agents. I’ll help you all I can.”

“No,” she said, still smiling at me, “You don’t understand. They gave me six weeks.”

I’m sure in that instant my heart stopped beating for a moment. I couldn’t accept it. I had no words to say to her. I just kept repeating, “I’m so sorry,” over and over. Then she said, “I really thought I’d have twenty more years to write.” She had just turned sixty.

I hugged her and asked what I could do for her, and she shook her head. “There’s nothing anyone can do.” I told her I’d be back to see her and if she needed anything to let me know. I said all the things you say during times like that. Things that make you feel better when you know there really isn’t anything you can do.

Then I went home and cried.

A few days later, I went back to check on her. Her husband and daughter were outside, and I asked if I could see her. Her husband got tears in his eyes and her daughter said, “Mom passed this morning.”

I couldn’t believe it. This bright, beautiful woman who had so much potential, who’d worked so hard to put her work out there for others to enjoy had passed before she had time to get her book out to the world. I know if she had lived, she would’ve had many books out by now.

My own journey has taken several more years. I didn’t take my own advice very well until I reached a certain age and thought, “I’ve got to get these books out there!”  If I could leave you with anything, it’s that there is no time like the present. If you want to write, you have to start. You have to make it a priority. Because no one knows how long they may have.

And one of the great things about writing is that there is no mandatory retirement age. You can write as long as you want. You can write one very long book—think War and Peace or Gone with the Wind—or many shorter books. But you won’t have any written if you don’t start writing now.

Go! Why are you still here reading this? Go work on your book!