Photo (I’ve been looking at this tiny glass photo frame of my parents and I for as long as I can remember. How fitting for this blog post.)

I’m in the final weeks of publishing my book. Just typing that sentence has opened the floodgates; the tears are streaming down my cheeks one minute in. Yikes. 

My dad is somewhere in the heavens smiling down and crying right along with me. As I’ve mentioned, he gave me these crying genes. My mom wasn’t a crier, but she’s nonetheless wearing a smile.

When my dad died, my parents lived in Petaluma. My first husband Ron and I traveled up to Petaluma to bring my mom down to the funeral in the Bay Area. It was a somber journey. We had my dad’s burial suit hanging on the hook in the back seat on the passenger’s side. Ron and I were sitting in the front, my mom in the backseat. 

As we drove through Marin toward the Golden Gate Bridge, I felt something brush against the back of my head/neck. My eyes were closed, and I thought it was Ron reaching over to console me. I appreciated the gesture. 

As I opened my eyes, I could see that Ron’s hands were on the steering wheel. When I turned around, I found that it was the sleeve of my dad’s suit jacket flipping forward, blowing in the wind. To this day, I’m not even sure how that could happen with the front window open, but it did. And I didn’t really need or want to make sense of it. 

On that day, and ever since, I understood it was my dad reaching out one last time physically. I closed my eyes and embraced the connection. 

As I’ve said in probably hundreds of words at this point, we were such a flawed little family, the three of us, and I’ve omitted more than I’ve included in that regard. But the one thing we had on our side was love. While I wished my parents had not suffered from their individual demons, I never doubted for one moment how much they each loved me. And love at the end of the day can be the saving grace.

My mother wasn’t much of a reader. She didn’t have the luxury of being able to attend college. Her family was so poor that she likely just barely got through high school. But she was a determined hard working woman and became a beautician. She was always able to make a living even during the depression when her first husband could not find work. She wasn’t one for teaching me how to dream, but she was the person who taught me how to work hard and finish a project no matter how difficult it was.

My dad, on the other hand, had the means to attend college. He probably was one of the most avid readers I’ve ever known. I know they would both be proud of me, but for different reasons.

I am sending this post out to the heavens letting my parents know that it’s time for a celebration. In a few weeks, your girl will be a published author. Whatever we all did wrong, we did a few things right. I wouldn’t be here at this juncture without every single thing (good and bad) that you both taught me.

Love you both from here to the moon. I’ll be looking for that comet streaking over our house soon to commemorate my book’s publishing.

I’m sitting at my desk, which at this point feels like an old friend. I’m staring at the Kinko’s actual size gloss print of my cover, listening to Annie Lennox. And lastly, I’m waiting for Tara my designer to return the second proof. There weren’t too many changes/corrections in the first one, so I anticipate that it will arrive soon. She would probably be shaking her head if she read this, thinking “What??? A third of the friggin’ pages had corrections. Are you kidding me?”

(Let’s not get caught up in the negatives, Tara. Bygones…)

But I jest, Tara is calm. I’d be the last to know if she really did harbor any ill feelings. She’s done an excellent job. I never tire of looking at my cover, love what she’s doing with the inside pages, and am so thankful to have been referred to her. 

We’ve been playing Bopzee for so many years that it no longer exists in downloads, so we weren’t able to download it onto our new Ipad. We continue to play it on our ancient Apple Ipad. The screen is cracked, there are no current updates, but that silly game still continues to be playable. The day that the Ipad dies will be the end of an era for us. Rick’s been winning far more than I like lately, so maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing! Have I mentioned I’m competitive?

On the recent mornings when I have lost a few hours of sleep thinking about the book, I nod back off after a few Solitaire games and Bopzee. 

This morning my hour snooze was filled with funny dreams in which I was laughing so hard with our friends that I couldn’t breathe. That E-ticket ride I talked about in my last post? Yeah… my dreams would concur that I’m enjoying the ride. I feel beyond blessed for my health, family, friends, and this fantastic experience. More about friends next post, along with tentative dates for the release of the book… early to mid November!

I’ve been looking forward to writing about my editor Dennis. Any reminisces about our efforts together are a mix of humor, horror, and in the end, understanding. What an unlikely pair we have been. 

A decade younger than me, Dennis, an east coast man, spent many years as a newspaper editor. Think Ed Asner (rest in peace) on the Mary Tyler Show, picture me as Mary, and you’d be getting close to our dynamics.

In Dennis’s spare time, he’s a photographer and has a BBQ business called Uncle Dempo’s BBQ.

I approached Dennis three years ago with the idea of turning my blog into a book. He accepted the challenge. And it’s been a labor of love ever since… for me. For Dennis, it’s been the longest assignment of his career. 

With that said, it’s only fair to say that it was at his suggestion that I did a significant rewrite of the book, with a new focus on the material I had initially written about. That took the better part of a year, but even subtracting that year, I think I still get credit for being his most extended project.

I’m stupid competitive at games, but not really sure this counts as a win. Kind of like my sweet Aunt Lura being the longest living resident in her Alzheimer’s home. Yikes.

Once I provided him with my rewritten material, our efforts began in earnest. And that’s where we started to learn about each other, the good, the bad, and no room for the ugly. We had signed on for better or worse. At times it was for the worse.

I had much to learn. And in that respect, Dennis was a fantastic teacher. 

We began the painstaking process of going through each of my 32 chapters. A few chapters went smoothly, maybe only three to four versions of the chapter, back and forth. But the majority of chapters experienced anywhere upwards of 10-15 versions. If you do the math, that’s a lot of hours!

As we moved through the process, I began to find humor in our dialogues. Dennis’s balloon comments would come back… “California dreaming,” “Hippy Dippy nonsense,” and more. A few of my favorites were, “Are you on the dope?” and “banging my head against the keyboard.” Those two, in particular, made me laugh out loud, and at times feel like banging my head against the keyboard as well.

But we made our way. We went back and forth as many times as it took to get the writing and the message across in a way that satisfied us both. In the most difficult of chapters, we would end up talking for hours on the phone. 

No call with Dennis was less than an hour. It could be said, we both have the gift for gab. We needed thirty minutes about whatever writing matter we were talking about, and another 30-40 about life or his book or me trying to explain what manifesting really means. Regardless, we always parted ways on a positive note, moving forward.

What is most important for me to honor in this somewhat humorous post is that Dennis stayed the course with me. Regardless of our differences, he worked each chapter through until he could wrap his head around my concepts, helping me reword them for a greater majority of people like him who didn’t grow up in California in the early ’60s. While I was never really a flower child, too young, I nevertheless was still significantly influenced by the era. I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. But I must remember that the experience colored my perspective on life.

As we have made our way to this untimely finish, we each are mellowing, raising an eyebrow of smirk and feeling genuine happiness at our accomplishment. Last week we scheduled a zoom call, our first-ever. Getting down to the end, we had several items that we needed to address that would be easier on a zoom call.

I actually felt nervous as I readied myself for the call. The screen loaded, and there we were, two people who had probably spent hundreds of hours together in one form or another, greeting each other uttering the words, “nice to meet you.” 

And yes, it was more than nice to finally meet Dennis, who has helped me turn a dream into a reality. He even got to meet Rick during the call and took the time to thank him for being such a supportive mate to me during the project. Turns out Ed Asner has a pretty big heart after all, despite his efforts to hide that fact.

We have but a few weeks left until this project comes to an end. Like I’ve written about numerous times, endings are emotional for me, and I’m crying even as I write this. This has been an E-ticket ride to date myself. I am forever changed and beyond grateful.

Thank you, Dennis, for staying the course, for being the editor, the teacher, the critic, the comedian… for being you.

You can find Dennis here: LinkedIn

BBQ info if you happen to live in Dennis’s area:

“Uncle Dempo’s BBQ was started in 2015 as a hobby business to serve friends, family and neighbors. I have about five dozen customers and cook 10-12 times a year. As a native of piedmont North Carolina, I have a refined barbecue taste, and thanks to newspaper jobs in Austin and Knoxville, I own a great foundation for what works. My specialties are hickory-smoked pulled pork, pecan-smoked ribs, mesquite-smoked chili, and I recently added apple-smoked pulled chicken. I also have my own rubs and seasonings, and two branded barbecue sauces, a sweet ‘n tangy red and all-purpose white. “

With a little luck in my corner, it seems the countdown has begun, hoping for a November book release, just in time for my birthday. Let’s not talk about age. Nothing to see here, move along.

Pretty nice birthday present though, the realization of a long-standing dream of publishing a book. These somewhat surreal days of guarded anticipation make me mindful of how I arrived at this precipice, and especially who helped me get here.

I’m saving my editor for one of the last posts. I sigh hard and laugh out loud thinking of our efforts together. What a mix of emotion and personalities, which I will write about in the weeks to come. His story may take a few posts. But in the end, I’m so grateful for his contribution and hopeful we have forged a friendship going forward.

This post, though, has to do with my sweet man, Rick… Rickie to many. He can pull off pretty much any iteration of his name, Richard, Rickie, Rick, and even Dick to a few. He’s human after all. But for most that know him, he’s either Rick or Rickie. He hasn’t aged enough to outgrow Rickie, which I love about him. 

Thankfully, I accepted his invitation. And a year or so later he replaced that desk with a beautiful dark wood writing table. Once this beloved desk arrived, I created a desktop that spoke to my heart. For the most part, it comprises pictures, a fews pigs and a candle. Not sure what my connection to pigs is, but I certainly have one. 

Those pigs and pictures, along with my candles, have kept me company every time I sit down to write. I light my candle, smile at my parents, sometimes talk to them, and sail on the wings of Rick and my kids as I write to my heart’s content.

Being a big fan of the movie It’s a Wonderful Life, I often contemplate the influence one person’s life can have on others. I like to believe in the end, like George, we all realize our triumphs. But just to be on the safe side, I dedicate this post to Rick to be sure he understands his tremendous influence on my life and this accomplishment.

Love you baby.

I typically write my posts about a week before they appear online. It’s now Friday afternoon, September 24, and I had planned to work on my post for next Thursday. But I’ve become a bit sidetracked, as I just received the first draft of the inside of my book from my designer Tara Price.

Wow, what a thrill. It’s one thing to stare for hundreds of hours at your own words on a Word document— but quite another to see the designer’s version for the first time. I wasn’t three pages in before the tears of joy began streaming down my cheeks. The fonts, the chapter headings, the pictures, she did an excellent job. The tears likely will not subside for a while.

I must admit, even though I’m crying, I’m breathing a bit deeper. I began blogging about the experience of writing my book in August. I thought it would be fun to share the journey with my readers and also hopefully gain more followers which in the end, might be interested in purchasing my book, or at the very least follow my blog.

Closing, I had a great last swim in our HOA pool today all by myself. The pool closes next week. I was able to do the backstroke, which I will only do when no one else is in the pool because I seriously veer off course, taking up the better part of three lanes. (I hope this isn’t indicative of how I live my life.)

I enjoyed looking at the sky. The muffled sounds of my breathing somehow remind me that life is precious. Regardless of the sky’s temperament, the birds are still flying above me. My family on this day is healthy and thriving.

And I have an added blessing, my book is on the horizon. It doesn’t get much better than this.

The thing about realizing a dream that spans many years (like writing a book) is that by the time you finally cross the finish line, a number of the people you would have loved to celebrate your accomplishment with are no longer here. Luckily, I have new angels that have stepped up to support and encourage me. And that is truly amazing and something I am incredibly grateful for.

But– I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my heart aches just a bit when I think about some of the souls in my book that have gone to greener pastures and will never be able to read what I have written about them, nor will I be able to share my joy with them.

Here’s to dreaming about how it might have been…

My parents would have been over the moon, even though my accounts about our life are sometimes brutally honest. I think in the end, they taught me about the importance of honesty. And if telling my story helps even one person, then the truth has been worth it.

My dad would have choked up any time he told someone his Suzy wrote a book. And when I presented him with my published book, he would have hugged me close with his left arm, his disfigured hand not able to fully wrap around me. He would have bent his head slightly as his throat tightened with emotion. And when he raised his head and his eyes met mine, they would have been brimming with tears. No need for words when your actions speak volumes.

My mom would have been equally happy, even a bit giddy. But I would have learned in hindsight how proud she was of me when someone else told me what she had said. Thankfully, all these years later, I understand that their different responses had much more to do with how they viewed themselves than it ever had to do with me.

I recently read a memoir that I really enjoyed. One of my favorite parts of the book was the photo section toward the end, where I could actually see the people that I had been trying my best to visualize. It brought the story full circle for me.

When I hired my editor, Dennis, I honestly had no clue about the mechanics of writing a book. He was recommended to me by my writing coach, Renessa. And before working with Renessa, I attended one writing course in college. I never gave writing a thought, honestly, until one day about 20 years ago when my ex-husband’s Aunt Trude asked me if I would help her write about her Holocaust memories.

To this day, I’m not even sure what prompted her to ask me, except I was a court reporter. I’m thinking she thought that since I worked with transcribing spoken words onto the page, I would be a good choice for assisting her.

Trude had remained silent for many years, never sharing her experiences during the Holocaust, but had begun to feel the need to speak her truth. She was asking me for help. Wow! I was honored and hoped I was up to the task.

I have to laugh at myself thinking back; I treated the assignment like I was a Sixty Minutes reporter (must have been the latent writer inside acting so silly.) We scheduled our first meeting to begin the process. I arrived with pen and paper in hand (cell phones and iPad just making their way at this point.)

We talked for hours, meeting numerous times. I took a few notes, but for the most part, I just listened to Trude reminisce about her life, often fighting back tears taking in the horror of what I was listening to. She shared with me her memories, along with photos and paperwork she still had, a sleeve cut from the clothing she wore at the camp, drawings her husband had made, photos from passports, all reminders of a horrific time. Having been a seamstress and quilter for many years, holding in my hands the actual fabric Trude had worn through such heinous times sent a shiver through me.

I don’t remember now how long I worked on the project, but it took some time. It became a labor of love. When I finally delivered the finished product to Trude, she was pleased with it. She requested a few changes and added additional facts. When it was completed, she shared the story with many people, and from what I understand, she enjoyed after so many years, speaking her truth.

I relinquished what I would consider my first important literary work in exchange for a thirst to continue making my way back to the keyboard, a great trade. I had begun by telling Trude’s story, but I would move on in time, sharing my own memories. It would just take me a few years to catch up with myself.

And here I stand at the precipice of publishing my first BOOK!

I want to add a critical postscript to this post.

At 22, I became engaged to Ron. His Aunt Trude and Uncle Hermann took exception to our marriage, declaring that they wouldn’t attend our wedding. I was not Jewish. I agreed to study Judaism in the year prior to the wedding. And in the end, they not only attended our wedding, but Hermann enjoyed taking pictures at the ceremony.

Trude asking me so many years later to help her tell her story is what the world is so desperately seeking in current times. We all want to be understood and accepted and, most importantly, healed from past aggressions or transgressions. We want to heal each other, get each other, and move forward. And we are all capable of that. What I’ve come to understand, though, is that the journey can take a lifetime.

For Trude and me, it did take years. But what we left each other with was worth the wait. Yes, she originally rejected me out of hand, but what she gave back to me was more than I ever bargained for. Trude taught me about humanity and in the end acceptance, forgiveness, healing, and the strength of the human spirit to prevail against all odds. I’ll never forget the lessons.

And in my minor studies with Trude, I learned that I needed to pursue writing. I will ever be grateful to Trude for sharing her healing with me, which in turn opened doors that enriched my life more than I will ever be able to communicate with mere words.

Thank you Truchen.

As I mentioned in my prior post, Christine offered some great advice on promoting the book once it’s available. Some of the ideas we were already onto. I’ve printed postcards and bookmarks. I’ve managed to get a few shops close by to display them on their shelves, and I’ve been hitting the local info boards outside the grocery stores. The ideal thing about living in a rural area is people actually get excited about a local artist, so I’ve received excellent support from local artisans and even our small town Cool Pharmacy. 

We plan to branch out in the coming weeks and begin hitting small shops in the surrounding cities and towns. At the very least, Rick and I will enjoy some fun days scouting around and trying to get people interested in a little book called Lessons of a Wayward Yogini. If any of you readers have ideas on how to promote, please respond!

Back to Christine’s suggestions, she also brought up contacting local newspapers, radio, and television news stations, sending a copy of the book and seeing if they are interested in doing an interview, again that hometown gal angle. Apparently, Christine’s husband traveled around the US doing interviews for his book. 

This was the part of the evening when my heart skipped a few beats, and not from the margaritas. WHAT??? Interviews on the radio or television? Again, WHAT??? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not so bold as to suggest that this will be happening. But I was freaking out just at the mere suggestion that it could happen. 

We practiced the skit for weeks. I had one of the beginning lines and the final line, which would cue the stagehand to close the curtains. I was so nervous that I said my first line, followed by the last line, which brought the curtains down without the other members of my group delivering their lines. Needless to say, my friends weren’t too happy with me. The teacher gave us a courtesy D on our final. So much for my acting abilities! I doubt much has changed on that front.

While I hope hope hope that I will be so lucky to have someone want to interview me about the book, my mental imagery beforehand will likely be pretty humorous. 

Think Ed Asner (may he rest in peace) sitting at a newspaper desk, a cigarette burning in the ashtray with the smoke circling about a foot above Ed’s head, my introduction letter, and a copy of Lessons of a Wayward Yogini on the desk in front of him. 

“Lessons of a what? What the hell is a yogini?” as he slides my book across the desk, and it drops with a loud thud into the garbage can below.

Or the old vaudeville acts, the black cane reaching across the stage to pull off the actors who have overstayed their welcome. 

And my favorite, me standing on a stage mid-sentence with the heavy 20-year old velvet curtains dropping just feet in front of me, the dust rising as I work to catch my breath.

A vivid imagination is excellent for writing, not so much for anticipating stressful events.

Awww, but I love to jest, and luckily I’m far from that 13-year old girl. I’m sure whatever comes my way, I will rise to embrace the gift. 

Along with I’m sure some trepidation, I will also imagine clinging tightly to my dream, excited to venture where it takes me.

A few years ago, I met up for happy hour with my friend Patti and one of her close buddies Christine. Patti ran the office for my dentist Gary Thodus, DDS, in San Bruno, CA. I met Dr. Thodus while waiting for a haircut with my favorite hairstylist, Karen Toro, owner of Artisan Salon in San Mateo. Whew, that’s a long trail of bread crumbs!

One day a bit early for my hair appointment, I sat listening to Karen and the “doc” as I would come to think of him, talking. I was in the market for a new dentist at the time. As she completed his haircut, I introduced myself to him, mentioning that he would soon be my new dentist. He seemed receptive!

I was in his chair a few months later. Never enjoyed going to the dentist more than those few years. I not only enjoyed his company, but everyone in his office was a joy. He had a way of joking that allowed my muscles to relax as he and his staff made their way around my mouth. Patti likewise ran the office with humor and competence. Alice, the lead dental assistance taught my Amy to move beyond her fears about visiting the dentist and needing X-rays. Jordan and Rick followed suit and soon became patients. It was a family affair. Unfortunately for us/fortunately for him, the “doc” retired last year, but we also had moved out of the area. His retirement finally prompted us to find a local dentist. Time moves on.

That happy hour a few years back is where this post begins. I met Patti and Christine at Max’s Deli in Burlingame. I learned that night that Christine had helped her husband promote his book years earlier. We agreed that when the time came (my book finally going to print), we would meet again for dinner, so I could pick her brain.

What is my book, you ask? It’s a small journal I began a few years back (more like a scrapbook) where I have collected thoughts and inspirational items, ideas and pictures, business cards, and the like. From page one, it makes me smile—a photograph that my dear friend Tracey Walsh took. I am a huge I Love Lucy fan, and I also love my own Rickie. This photo, of course, found its way into my heart. My kids, no surprise, also adorn the page with their sweet smiles. A picture I came across of myself at 4 or 5, a humorous image that depicts a confidence that I didn’t recognize in myself until many years later. And a card from my favorite designer, Curlygirldesign.com.

The following pages contain anything book-related, responses from my blog readers, the first ideas of a design for my cover that my editor Dennis offered, etc. This tiny book will likely feel as close to my heart as the published book. After all, without the dream, the book would never have become a reality. Here’s to dreaming!

Since this post has been a bit long-winded, I will conclude part 2 about brainstorming next week.

In many aspects of life, I’m a believer that transparency is king. Nothing appeals to me quite like someone willing to be honest. When someone trusts me, I typically find the courage to return their gift with my own candor. But then, of course, there’s that very fine line you don’t want to cross when you realize you’ve shared too dang much! The tightrope act comes to mind (dating myself, are there still tightrope acts? I hope so. They were exciting.) 

Writing reminds me of making my way across the high wire, one toe at a time, careful not to misstep. Like many of the live tightrope acts, there’s no safety net below. It’s a component of the experience that likely, in the end, makes it as thrilling as it is.

I will never forget the early days of blogging, the sheer terror of pressing send and offering my thoughts into the blogosphere. It thankfully did become easier as time passed and developed into the highlight of my days. 

The upcoming release of my book feels much the same as those early days of blogging. As my release date nears, I vacillate between excitement and panic/dread/dismay. (I could add more synonyms for terror if need be.)

But then, I get a response from a loved one/reader/follower that lifts me from that place of anxiety and reminds me to enjoy the journey. Once I dry my heartfelt tears of gratitude, I take a yogini breath and put my foot out once again, feeling for that high wire, trusting in its strength and my ability to place my toe right where it needs to go. And when I get it right, it’s a high like no other.

I had a subject I was making my way to finish this post with, but the universe stepped in, demanding that I finish up differently. I always write to music. I write and cry and read my words repeatedly, correcting, changing, rearranging, deleting. This cycle continues until I am satisfied with what I have shared. 

Music is an integral part of me writing anything worth reading. Guess my dad’s girl did inherit the need for music to create her art.

In my early days of writing, I quoted the lyrics of songs too often. I always wanted to share the music that inspired me. But I learned that I needed to enjoy the music in my earphones and only share my words. I often wished there was a way to share the songs I was listening to as I wrote to help my readers feel what I was feeling. Now I believe there is that capability. Maybe one day I will use it.

I recently watched Modern Love on Netflix, Season 2. If you haven’t watched this, and you like a crazy current day happy ever after love story, give it a look. I found myself repeatedly pressing the rewind button on my tv to listen to the soundtrack at the end while doing my dishes. I downloaded it a few days ago on iTunes to write to and began listening to it tonight. 

It’s interesting what different people connect with when it comes to music. For me, often, it’s the melody over the lyrics. If I listen long enough, I finally memorize the words, but I can hum the tune from early on.

Tonight, as I was writing and rewriting, listening to my iTunes, I actually heard the words “high wire” maybe only five minutes after focusing on those same exact words in my writing. Wait, WHAT? 

I instantly went to my iTunes to see what I was listening to and then looked up the lyrics and smiled at the universe, always lending a hand. I was enjoying and connecting with a song entitled Circus. The words were eerily pertinent to my post and the melody haunting in a perfect way. Tonight I will break my rule and share the beautiful lyrics. If you are of a mind, pull it up for a listen.

The adventure of publishing this book feels much like the Circus coming to town. It’s only passing through, but my heart is flying somewhere above the high wire, and I will likely always love and remember this time with fondness.