Refuge

It’s Friday night and poetically enough, it’s raining.  The street below my window is quite, as is often the case when it rains.  The gagle of homeless men who frequent my street have gone.  Probably to the shelter a few blocks from here. 

Refuge.

We could all use a little.

The kids went out.  Josh and Haley to hang out with friends. Katie to Puerto Rico for Spring Break.  So tonight, I’m getting a little peace.  A little refuge.

I wrote a little earlier.  So far I’ve got 310 pages of a novel that I’m still not sure of.  Corinthian’s story is tough to nail.  Sometimes, like the homeless men I pass on the street, it’s hard to see myself in her shoes.  She’s dead, the story goes.  And I’m writing the story in her voice, from the time she’s murder until she finds redemption. Refuge. 

Corinthian could use some. 

For the record, Come Sunday is my third novel.  And for so many reasons, it has been harder to write than the others.  There is so much pain, so much heartache.  Corinthian, a 19 year old heroine addict, left a lot in her wake.  She touched the world in ways she’s only know beginning to understand.  Even I, as her guardian angel, don’t always understand.  That’s what first drafts are for.

With any luck, I will finish in a few days.  I will give Corinthian the refuge she’s looking for.  And then maybe, I will find some for myself.

Losing Donnie

Pub dates are a much anticipated, though anticlimatic events.  Still I am excited to tell you that The January Girl was released today. I’ve spent the last few years with Thandy, the main character, trying to figure out why she just won’t up and leave Jack.  In so many ways, her story reminded me of my own.  ”All good fiction is non fiction,” somebody famous (not me) once said. 

Books are like babies.  They start off with promise, disappoint you in the middle, and then turn out just fine.  When you’re finished writing (after you second guess yourself), you marvel at what it does.  I honestly never thought this book would get this far.  I wrote it in 45 days.  Most of the time was spent in a hospital ICU waiting room while my brother Donnie was on life support.  When he died, I stopped writing.  A few days passed.  After the funeral, I had a dream.  Donnie said, “finish.”  So I did.

I can’t help but to believe he would be proud of his little sister.  He wasn’t one for reading novels, or anything else for that matter, but he was my big brother.  Some of my grieving was spilled out over the pages of the book.  When I finished, it was like closing a chapter.  Losing Donnie was hard, though I tried not to show it at the time.  I wanted to be strong.  You know, for my mom.  But when it was all said and done, losing your brother is just plain hard.  

It’s been two years now.  And somehow, I know he’s smiling down at me tonight.  He’s glad I finished the book.  Me too, Donnie.  Me too. 

Sunday Morning

Deciding to write a blog is one thing.  Deciding to strip yourself naked and dump all your goodies onto the world is another.  I promised myself if I did this I would be honest.  So, that quickly became rule number one.  The second rule is that while I can spread my own life out here like a picnic blanket and invite the whole world to come sip wine and enjoy the assorted fruits and cheeses, others deserve their privacy.  So other than the names of my children– Katie, Josh and Haley– all other have been changed.  Even Cornelius, my best friend.  I hope he likes his new name.  It’s the best I could come up with at the hour.  The third and final rule is that I will respect you enough to try to say something interesting. 

This really isn’t a good day to start a daily diary.  Oh, and that reminds me.  Rule number four:  I will post frequently.  If we’re going to have a conversation, I have to show up.  You bring the wine.  Pinot grigio is my favorite.  Anything buttery will do.  But really, this isn’t a good day.  No matter what Cornelius says.

“Happy Sunday,” Cornelius would say.  Execept very little is happy about this Sunday.  It’s raining out, another dreary day in Atlanta.  My kids are still sleeping like rocks.  Their rooms look like Bosnia before peace broke out. I haven’t had my coffee.  Matt Lauer didn’t wake me up (it is Sunday after all). They don’t deliver the New York Times to my neighborhood (or at least my mid-rise apartment building). Did I mention my car is in the shop? Again.  Two days, no phone call.  It must be bad news.  A pile of Spanish language CDs is sitting across the table from me, waiting for me to pop one in and go about the impossible task of teaching myself to learn a new language at 39 1/2.  And for the record, I am sticking with the 1/2.  My 40th birthday is this summer, and while I might otherwise embrace a birthday, it is 40 afterall.  40 is 40, not the new 30.  Heck, when I was 40 I was 30!  So, I guess that means… well, nevermind.  My back hurts like I’ve been busting rocks rather than starting a new workout, which I did last week with all the eagerness of six year old after the last red freeze pop. 

Now, I am paying for it in spades.  But I am determined to shed a few pounds.  For the record, I am NOT fat.  I just don’t want to ever be 150 pounds and 5 feet tall.  But for now, I’m just working on my “rootbeer belly,”  that small patch of tummy every mother of three gets and almost never gets rid of.  Every morning, as I get out of the shower and dry off, I walk over to the mirror to confront the little beast.  “You are leaving here,” I say sternly, pointing my finger at the offending party.  “You cannot stay!” I guess I will have to lay off the “Mama Burgers” Cornelius is so fond of.  He likes them plain.  Ketchup only.  Plenty of Ketchup. 

I dress, write my morning pages, see the kids off to school, then head to the gym.  Same sequence, every morning.  Right around the time I finish up (or busting rocks as it were), Cornelius calls.  ”Good merning,” he charms.  “Merning you,” I say.  And so it continues, the longest running conversation in history.  We talk every morning, nearly every day at lunch and always on the ride home.  Best friend forever…

So anyway, that’s what this diary is about.  Starting another running conversation with new friends. 

There is one upside to this Sunday.  My second novel, The January Girl, went on sale today. I even got an e-mail from a “fan” this morning, telling me how much she enjoyed it and hoped there would be a sequel. Oh and Steve the Wonder Guy is working on my new website.  Check it out at www.goldietaylor.net tomorrow.

For now, I’m going to pop a mouthful of Advil, go get my own New York Times on foot, grab some coffee, and open the French doors. There really is nothing like the sound of spring rain in Atlanta.  I’ll practice my Spanish first and then… and then, I will forget myself in the pages of the Grey Lady, try to be glad 40 is coming and celebrate my new book.  And I will let the kids sleep all afternoon, if they want, guaranteeing myself some peace and quite.  Afterall, it is a Happy Sunday.