The idea for Meg and Daniel’s story came from a coworker at Planned Parenthood over 30 years ago. Her adult daughter’s dog had been intentionally injured by an ex-boyfriend who was stalking her. She’d explained that relatives had advised her daughter to purchase and learn to use a handgun for self-protection.

Through tears, she’d said, “But he’s sick. She would never be able to use it against him.”

About 23 years old at the time, I remember thinking that her daughter must have been non-violent to the point of lacking self-preservation. Later I wondered if perhaps her daughter still loved this man. What would it be like to love someone whose untreated or unmanaged mental illness caused increasingly dangerous behavior? What if your family, friends, and the police insisted you sever ties with that person? Or, in Meg’s case, move away and file a restraining order?

Despite agreeing to these things, Meg never stops loving Daniel. His descent into psychosis is excruciating for her. They were teenagers when she first noticed his symptoms and for years, she held onto hope that he would get better, that he would “become whole again.” Instead, he grew worse, walking the streets of their hometown, searching for her.

I couldn’t write from Daniel’s point of view. I don’t have the experience or the education to effectively convey how he might have felt. I cheated by having Meg read his letters. I tried to imagine how complicated her emotions, her love for him must be. She blames herself for his suffering, believing that she abandoned him and “…whatever happened next would come from this severance.” What follows for Daniel is tragic and Meg may be unsure of when she lost him, but can finally see that it was long ago.

Thanks to The MacGuffin for publishing Severance.

                                                            ***

No current writing news, except the boring and predictable bit about many weeks of writer’s block. I wouldn’t expect you to endure my telling of that. But, fingers crossed and throwing salt over my left shoulder, the words have returned. Besides the superstitious garbage, reading tons of fiction and complaining a lot to my writer friends has helped.

Onward.

Thanks for coming along,

Heather

I don’t miss Upstate NY winters. I send love and fortitude to my friends and family who live or often visit that tundra. My filtered memory feels certain that in the land of my childhood, winter lasts for five months.

Grace, the main character in Travelers, drives snow and ice-covered roads to her job as a housekeeper. She was my friend Jer Long’s idea. In our fiction-writing class (led by Elizabeth Ferris), Jer provided Grace with a few personality traits—rigid, unwilling to accept change—and handed her to me. My great-aunt and uncles’ home in Binghamton inspired Grace’s beloved Mr. Marino’s house. Their driveway’s incline—in my memory— has become near-vertical.

The way my memory exaggerates and distorts might be similar to how Grace recalls the old neighborhood and her employment with Mr. Marino. Her perception of their relationship and her ensuing dedication to him led her to believe that she was an integral part of his life.

Her attachment to how things once were in the neighborhood and within Mr. Marino’s house won’t allow her acceptance of his nursing assistants or Mr. Marino’s daughter-in-law’s authority in his home. Grace views him and his house as her territory. She disparages the neighborhood’s new landlords and their tenants. She can’t help but criticize the college students’ appearance as they do their best to help her.  

Though seriously injured, she can only focus on the impossibility of her not being notified of Mr. Marino’s death. The story closes with the ambulance siren. Maybe she’s hopeful, or at least relieved, for rescue. Or perhaps, for the more cynical, her fall combined with the loss of Mr. Marino, is the beginning of the end for Grace.

Thanks to El Portal for publishing Travelers.

***

I wish I had news of agent interest in my novel, Degrees of Forgiving. I don’t. I am, however, making excruciatingly slow progress on the current draft of my new novel. I keep getting stuck on plot. Dialogue comes easier and is a lot of fun to write. However, I’m told by all the important writers and readers, besides my characters talking to one another, something must happen.

Happy New Year. Here’s to making things happen.

He’ll do countless things not terrible enough.