Me: "So I read the cozy mystery Grandma and I wrote years ago, and it's not salvageable. It's heavy-handed and sucks."
Husband: (Knowing my disdain for platitudes) “So let it go.”
Grandma was my mom, writing partner, and best friend. She died in the summer of 2021, safe to the end from Covid but not the ravages of age -- chronic UTIs and dementia. I inherited the title last year when our two beautiful grandsons were born.
She was a multi-published romance novelist who took me on as her partner when she was ready to have writing be fun. At the time, my father protested. He didn’t want her sharing profits with me. She’d had a lucrative run until the romance boom of the 1980s went bust.
"What's 50 percent of nothing?" she asked him, which ended that talk.
Later after 41 years of marriage, they divorced. We got custody of my mom, who lived with us for more than 22 years. It wasn't until she fell three times the year she died, she could no longer stay home safely. We'd only been able to keep her home that long due to the angels who lived next door, one nurse then another who made it possible.
Curious people used to ask my husband how on earth he could live with his mother in law. I would always pipe up sweetly it was their idea.
It was.
She lived in a townhouse by us in the university town we lived in at the time. When we bought our first house, they both thought it would be a great arrangement for all of us.
It was.
Besides I'd add, she always took his side.
Maybe not always, but he was her best friend too. He still misses her as his movie partner. She enriched our sons' lives beyond measure.
So back to the catastrophic cozy mystery. We wrote romance and women's fiction for nearly three decades. Our collective voice matched what we wrote though our reading tastes ran to murder and mayhem (me) and swashbucklers or heavy tomes on ancient civilizations (her). Occasionally we'd veer off in a new literary direction just for fun. Hence the dreadful decade-old manuscript I slogged through yesterday.
A week after my mom died, I ended up in a boot for a long-term foot problem. I always said I'd deal with when not taking care of my mom. But my foot decided for me. I spent eight months in that boot. I read a lot of books and wrote one.
A publisher I’d had brief contact with several years ago emailed me about writing the third book in a new women’s fiction series.
I wasn't sure I wanted to or could do it without my partner, even though for years we traded off writing chapters for each book. A long deadline and determination made me decide to do it.
I’m blessed with supportive, dear writer friends. One gave me invaluable advice: “You can’t fix a blank page.”
After a decent outline, and a lot of dreck (two drafts) followed by amazing editorial revision notes, the book was done. And it didn’t suck.
Since then I’ve been mulling what do I want to do next writing-wise, if anything.
Yesterday I finally read that dated dud of a mystery. Which led to this morning’s convo:
Husband: "You'll write when you have something to say, until then don't worry about it. Why don't you journal?"
Me: (After making a deregatory noise): "Journaling is like praying, it's not for everyone."
Disclaimer: My spouse and I each have a different relationship with prayer but both of us are adamant about putting prayer into action. And despite being a journalist by trade years ago, I’ve never been a journal-er.
Husband: "Point taken."
He didn't really say that, but maybe something similar.
This week I had coffee with a new friend whose late father had been a successful published writer of short stories.
She asked about my mom and me, and I heard fascinating stories about her father.
It’s not often (maybe never) I meet someone who grew up with a writer parent. He had a day job too, she said, but writing was his passion.
I’m looking forward to more conversations with my new friend about writing and other subjects near and dear to our hearts. Like love of words and family.
As much as it pains me to admit, my husband could be right.
I'll write when I have something I want to say.
Not entirely sure what that is but maybe metaphorically putting pen to paper will help me navigate what feels like sorrowful empty nest syndrome.
And maybe just maybe, I'll take another look at the crappy cozy.
Naw....
