A New Day by Liz Flaherty

Sunday, the 27th: I'm writing this ahead of time--at least some of it--because of lessons I've learned recently. This doesn't mean I'll retain those lessons.

And that right there is one of them. 

I worked the early voting polls yesterday. I like being a poll worker. I like knowing how hard these people work, how important (and occasionally annoying) the rules are, and how many steps are made to ensure fairness for all. I like that so many people take advantage of the right, privilege, and responsibility they have to vote. 

But before the polls, I was late getting there, because I didn't realize that because the precinct I was working in had been changed, I was also scheduled to work early voting. No one told me! I insisted. I still don't recall being told, but chances are good that I was and the telling got lost in the training. Which I was also late to because I thought it was the next day. 

Retention, then, is a hard lesson. Just because you take pride in not being late doesn't mean you don't have to do the work of keeping and checking your schedule when your memory has become...suspect. 

Dang it.

Another thing I learned is that (1) feeling sorry for oneself is not attractive, and (2) people are sometimes kinder than you deserve when you do it. In response to those lessons, I apologize for yesterday morning's whimpering on the Window and I thank every single person who ever reads it. 

Saturday, the 2nd: Today I will work the polls again--I plan to be there on time!

By next week, the Window will probably be opening on a new website. I am excited about it. The old posts will still be here, although we're moving a few of them to the new one, too. I hope you check out the site when it's done. 

It's the 2nd day of 30 Days of Gratitude. I don't know how many years I've done this, and I didn't actively intend to do it this year, but there it was. Maybe we need to have days of gratitude more during times when it's harder to be thankful. I worried this morning because I repeat myself on so many of them (just like with everything else), but I think that's okay. It's a reminder and it's about good things, so repetition it is. 

I have things to do this morning before I go, so I'll stop this without an end and do them. If you haven't voted yet and aren't sure you can make it Tuesday, by all means, do it today. 

Learn lessons--it's never too late. Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.

 

Is It Time? by Liz Flaherty

Gallery 15 Photo by Sarah Luginbill

Thanks to everyone who joined in the "Night at the Gallery" last night. It was so much fun seeing and talking to people, laughing a lot (and maybe occasionally inappropriately), seeing old and dear friends, and meeting friends I hadn't met before. Plus there was food. I just love food. 

I don't have a plan for the Window today. Like many others, I'm more consumed than I like by the upcoming election. Following the news and social media is like watching a movie you don't really like that much but feel compelled to see how it ends. 

There are two sides to that coin, of course. I like and am fascinated by politics. I like the two-party system, abhor gerrymandering and the electoral college, and am sick to death of having our financial strings pulled by people who never have to choose between buying groceries and paying the mortgage. 

That aside, I know we need  much more rain than the teaser we got the other day, but I swear this is the most beautiful autumn I can remember. The temperatures are wonderful, the foggy mornings are inviting, and the show the sun puts on at both ends of the day is amazing. We got a glorious viewing of the Northern Lights (if we remembered, but those pictures were wonderful if we didn't) and so many opportunities to look at the moon and think it's probably never been so beautiful before. 

I am grateful. 

Readership of the Window has decreased markedly, as in if I were a wailer instead of a whiner, I'd be wailing, No one likes me anymore! Truthfully, I don't think that's it. I have the same friends I've had for a long time, plus some new ones. There are many I can't talk politics with, a few I can't talk religion with, and a quite a few who are a whole lot smarter than I am, but we're still friends.

Once again, I am grateful.

I keep saying it's time to close the Window, but I'm not ready for that yet. Maybe I just need to take it in a different direction, but my internal GPS isn't giving me any ideas. Some days, I think blogging is in a "winter of discontent," but I really don't believe that, either. Times are too exciting and some of us are too hopeful for that to be the case. 

With all this said--without a plan, no less--I'll wind this up and have another cup of coffee. I wish you a good week, good friends, exciting times, and a season of hope. Happy Halloween. Be nice to somebody. 

"Are You Sixty Yet?" by Liz Flaherty

"Are you sixty yet?"

I wish I'd grinned at him and said, "Just." But I didn't. I gaped and then I grinned and said, "Well past it, but thank you."

I usually forget to ask for the senior discount available in a lot of places, and I think servers and cashiers are reluctant to offer it because they don't want to insult anyone by (1) referring to their age or (2) being wrong about their age. They also don't want to open themselves to the flak offered up by people who don't even want their age noticed, much less acknowledged. I don't blame anyone a bit for not stepping into that particular fray. 

There are downsides to being well past sixty, many of them having to do with worn out joints, deteriorating senses, medical appointments, and pillboxes on the counter. Forgetfulness, slowing reflexes, and invisibility create fears not unlike the ones in adolescence, when it seemed as if no one liked you, everyone was cooler than you, and your parents didn't understand squat. 

With the downsides, there are sometimes tradeoffs. Losing people is incredibly hard, but having had them is like the sun rising and setting--it's a gift every single day. Generally retirement income is less. Sometimes the kind of less that means choices between food and medication, food and new shoes, food and rent. The discount that is often offered is both appreciated and, in some cases, necessary. While being invisible to so many can be hurtful, sometimes being left alone is a blessing. Privacy offers benefits.  

I have to admit, for some of the over-sixty crowd, age is open season for being rude, for feeling entitled, for disrespecting every demographic except their own. As much as I despise hearing Hey, Boomer, I sometimes understand the reason for it. I still remember the man standing in the express line at Marsh in Logansport with his full cart of groceries. He'd stood in line all his life, he said, it was "their" turn now. Behind him, on the feet I'd been standing on for eight hours, I didn't appreciate him a bit. I still don't. 

Just speaking for myself, of course, I don't think anyone's entitled to that kind of rudeness--even ones like me, who are...well, almost 60.

I know I've talked about age a gazillion times on this blog. I can almost hear there she goes again whistling in on the cool October wind. But mostly I just wanted to tell about Ed, the guy with the smile at My Pizza My Way, who said, "Are you sixty yet?" and made my day. I wanted to thank him. 

On the 25th, stop by Gallery 15 from 6:30-8:00 PM for a book signing with Debby Myers, Kathy Oldfather, Joe DeRozier, and me. Buy a book or two, listen to the readings at 7:00, peruse the beautiful art, and visit a while. 

Have a good week. Notice somebody--and be nice to them. 

Keeping It Rosy by Liz Flaherty

Sean Dietrich

"Apostle Paul would tell us keep those rosy shades of faith." - from a comment on Sean Dietrich's column. Just because I liked it a lot and reminded me to be grateful even when things aren't especially...rosy.

While I don't have trouble "keeping the faith," it's not always rosy. Not always easy. Sometimes it's hard. Respecting others' faith when they use is as a weapon to hurt people they don't like is impossible. Respecting their right to have that faith is a little easier, but not at all rosy.

But sometimes it is easy. When nurses on horseback, and linemen from all over, and 1000s of FEMA employees go toward trouble instead of away from it, it's easy to have faith in humankind.

When catastrophes strike others, the often promised thoughts and prayers are easy. When I came out here this morning well before daylight and heard the hum of the combines and saw their bright lights in nearby fields, it was easy to mumble, "Keep them safe."

It's easy to pray when school buses are on the road before and after school. To be thankful for kids who give of their time and sometimes their muscles to help others. To remember “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another." (John 13:34)

When you have enough and others don't, it's easy to share whether you have the same values or not. It's even easier when you just think about your own values instead of giving a lot of attention to theirs.

If you are a person of faith, it's easier to tell the truth than otherwise. Especially because if you're laying a groundwork of lies, you have to remember what they were. If you choose to believe the liar, what does that say about your faith? Or you?

In case you think I'm sounding more righteous than I'm entitled to, you have a good point. I was not a truth-telling child. I don't like when people take advantage of charity just because they can and they'd rather not work. I judge them even though I know better. Sometimes faith is easy because I'm not the one doing the work, bearing the burden, mourning the loss.

I don't have an end for this, because it's not something that ends. Faith is ongoing, doing for others is ongoing, catastrophes are ongoing, truth--although it's often buried--is ongoing, loving one another is ongoing.

Have a good week. Pray for others if that's what you do, simply wish for the greater good if it's not. Stay safe. Be nice to somebody.

Retreat... by Liz Flaherty

A couple of times a year, my friend Nan Reinhardt take three or four days (or six!) and to on a writing retreat. Usually we're finishing a book (me) or starting one (Nan), and we're tired before we even start. 

We know we're lucky to be able to do this, that we have husbands who keep the home fires burning, that our kids and grandkids don't need us on a daily basis (I'm still a little wounded by that, but not terribly), and that our houses are perfectly happy to not have us to clean it and/or hang the toilet paper the right way. 

And, yes, my house is happier than Nan's because I'm the worst housekeeper on the planet and that's not going to change any time soon. Ever. That's not going to change ever. 

But I'm regressing and trying to be funny when the subject matter is really kind of serious. I hear and read a lot about mental illness and I've made no secret of taking an antidepressant.  We know the political and social media situations are toxic. We know respect for others is more of a meme than an actuality in way too many cases. 

Hence, retreat. No, louder. 

We were gone for six days. The only time we turned on the TV was to watch the vice-presidential debate. Social media was way down on our scale of interest, far below writing, eating, talking, and laughing. It was a great week. 

I'm not saying it's necessary to spend a week in South Haven, Michigan--although I recommend it--to get away from "what ails you." You can do it anywhere. You can do it by closing doors on things and people who create havoc in your soul, turning off devices that have you lying awake at night, not responding to the instigators, watching the sunset, watching the colors change. You can escape by acknowledging kindness and passing it on, by sitting with friends and telling terrible jokes, and by eating soup and pie; it is autumn, after all. 

Enough advice from me for one day. I'm late getting this posted and I have unpacking to do, but I'm wishing you all a good week and a gentle retreat. Be nice to somebody.

Layers and Loss by Liz Flaherty

I have nothing good to say today. I'm discovering, even at this age, that it's the little things that get me; I seem to cope better with the big ones. But our 20-year-old cat, Gabe, has disappeared, frightened by stray dogs who won't be deterred. Signs have disappeared from our yard, too, leaving me resentful that people have the right to free speech urging others to f*** whomever they hate in the moment on signs and flags everywhere or fly swastikas from their flagpoles, but if we have candidates' names on signs that are on our own property, someone is frightened enough by them that they trespass in order to steal them. I am discouraged by these little things. I am angry. I miss our cat. I miss feeling at home in the community where I've spent my whole life.

Until this morning, I didn't remember feeling this way before, but when I was looking for something to repeat-post, I found this. I guess what goes around comes around, and here I am again. If you're in this place, too, I urge you to wallow in it for a while (like I am and did four years ago, too) and then get over it and go on. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

There's been a lot grief in 2020--we all know that. A lot of loss. But it's September now, with cool nights and breezes that sift into your hair and make you smell apples and leaves and bonfires.

It is, I know, a dying, decaying time as the earth prepares for winter, but the bean fields are golden, as are the corn tassels and some of the trees and the quick shimmer of the sun on the river. The colors that begin to emerge in September are bright and burnished and hopeful. 

There are golden sounds, too. Performers sharing their music both digitally and--where there's space--in person. The bleachers at junior high and high school football games. 

I should have finished writing this when I started it on Friday morning, but I didn't. I had other things I needed to do...and now Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg has died. For many of us, the colors have dimmed. Rest in power, Your Honor, and thank you. 

But this time of year is also about layers. On Tuesday I went to a meeting at ten in the morning, wearing my third shirt of the day. I started hopefully (and foolishly) in a tank top, changed to a sweatshirt, and by the time I went to the meeting, was in short sleeves--with a hoodie in the car because you just never know. Last night when we went to dinner, Duane wore shorts--and a golf sweater. 

School's back in session. Football's being played. But the layers are uneven these days, because caution changes things. Disagreement, almost the only constant in these change-of-season layers, makes the edges of the tiers rough-edged and sharp. 

I can't seem to come to a good place this morning, and I'm sorry. If you have good news, I hope you'll share it. 

Have a good week. I hope you see bright colors and find kindness in the layers. Stay safe. Be nice to somebody. 

Do Something by Liz Flaherty

Wednesday - This morning, when I came out to the office, my hands were full and I had no pockets. Why on earth would I have bought something with no pockets? But I carried everything out, looking at the tree in the east and marveling at the red streak of day's beginning. When I got into the office, I laid everything down and took off my sweater. The one I'd worn wrong side out and had two really nice pockets on the inside. Aside from feeling a little goofy, I was really glad I hadn't bought a sweater without pockets. And that, unlike me, the tree knew how to look its best so early in the day and even when it takes its sweater off soon, it will do it beautifully. Also unlike me.

Those were the last good thoughts of the day.

In Georgia today, yet another shooter cut loose in a school and killed four people and injured several more. He was 14 years old and he used a gun his father had given him.

It was suggested by a politician that "we have to get over it," by another that shootings are "a fact of life" and that “We don’t have to like the reality that we live in, but it is the reality we live in. We’ve got to deal with it.”

But we don't deal with it, do we? Since so many deep-pocketed lobbyists insist more stringent gun laws won't help, we tell them that's okay, because the money in their pockets and the guns they carry matter more than the kids who are in our schools, our homes, our hearts. We suggest arming teachers instead of disarming madmen. Because teachers don't have enough to do, after all.

Sure. Makes sense. Thoughts, prayers, and deep, bitter anger are with the families of those lost in Winder, Georgia this week. The most fervent of my prayers are that maybe this time, something will be done. 

Thursday - It was a good day. Great time with a great friend. Good lunch. Writing. Reading. My favorite kinds of things.

Friday - I wrote a lot today, made a lot of progress on book #22 (or so.) It begins to feel right as the words slip out of the keyboard, as my fingers seem to move on their own over the keys. It is a good writing day, a good thinking day.

Two teachers died in the shooting, one of them a father, the other a woman who couldn't have biological kids but who loved the ones she taught. Two students who had a lot more to do in their lives than worry about book #22.

My grandson played soccer for his school this week. Our school won their football game tonight. Did the people on the bleachers look from side-to-side? Did the parents of players and cheerleaders watch the sidelines for someone who didn't look right? Someone who might do harm to their very reasons for living?

How could I have had a good writing day when people in Georgia are preparing to bury their children? Guilt is a noisy companion. I don't sleep much. I don't sleep well. I have thoughts and prayers far into the night.

They're not enough. Not nearly enough. We need to Do Something.

“We are so sure we know what freedom is in America that we cannot imagine a world in which true freedom might come after sacrifice of personal rights. Freedom is sending your kids to school with confidence that they will come home at the end of the day.” — Taylor Schumann, author of When Thoughts and Prayers Aren’t Enough

Saturday. -

Last year in March, I wrote this in part after dropping donuts off at school:

I don't know most of these kids' names, although I'm sure I know some of their parents and many of their grandparents. I don't know who's at the top of their class and who hasn't turned in any homework since kindergarten. I don't know, sitting in my car, whose language would scorch my ears and who never learned the value of please, thank you, or a dollar earned. I don't know who shops at boutiques and who combs the clearance racks and who depends on the kindness of strangers. I don't know who worries about being bullied, who bullies, and who doesn't give a damn either way. 

I don't know any of that and frankly, that morning in the school driveway and this morning as I write this, I don't care. I want them all to graduate, to run whatever bases their lives bring them, to walk the fields of whatever is their passion, and to have more adventures than their parents can bear worrying about. My prayer for them is always the same, and I cry with the fear of it not being answered.

Keep them safe. 

 Yes, that. Still.

There's nothing new here, is there. Just more of the devastating same. Sometimes I don't think I can stand it.

Not at all the post I thought I'd have today. I planned to continue on from the first paragraph in that same vein. Of silly slipups and laughter. Of lunch with a beloved friend, a meeting with other friends, a piece of Roberta Struck's apple pie, and supper one night at the B & K.

I did, indeed, have a good week. I hope you did, too. But I don't have it in me to celebrate today.

Be nice to somebody.

This Week by Liz Flaherty

As a Democrat, I've had a wonderful, hopeful week. A few days after the end of the DNC, I'm still feeling that. Still feeling the joy. Not to mention some sleep deprivation. I'd love to make this whole column about politics, but I'm not going to. Nearly everyone who reads it knows where I stand and within the personal friendships, we don't talk about either my stance or theirs. While that's hard for both sides sometimes, it's good for the friendships. 

As the mother of teachers, my kids are back in school just like yours are, which means I get to worry again about the things all teacher parents worry about. And get cranky about. Low wages, keeping their classrooms safe in ways we didn't used to have to think about, teaching kids what they need to know and what is true, making sure the students get enough to eat.   

As a nana, I got to see a picture and hear about our youngest grandboy playing varsity soccer for Danville. I got to see pictures of his brother climbing on rocks in Colorado. (GOT to see is wrong. It scares me to death.) I got to see another grandson and hug him. 

As a lifelong rural dweller, this week I got to watch the seasons changing every time I look out the window. I've seen sunrise and sunset every day. I've pointed at the place where Broadway Landing is going to be, listened to the yeas and nays of partial use of solar and wind power over only fossil fuel, and mourned the loss of small fields and big trees. We drove past the school road last night and saw the "Friday night lights," at North Miami, bringing back memories and reminding me to keep feeling hopeful. 

As a Christian, I've missed church two weeks in a row. Once because we spent a few fun days in Kentucky and once because a friend and I had a fun day signing books at a winery. While I do believe God doesn't take attendance, the Sunday morning time in the fourth pew is precious to me. I'll be glad to slide back into place tomorrow.  

As a human being, I am appalled by cruelty in any form. If you know something's going to hurt someone--even if it's "just" their feelings--for heaven's sake, don't do it. It's really easy. And when you DO hurt someone (also really easy), own it and apologize for it. 

As a columnist, I'm kind of tired. I'm also grateful to those of you who continue to visit the Window every Saturday even when what I write makes you roll your eyes. I don't have the words--shame on me--to say how much I appreciate it. 

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

Meandering Through the Words by Liz Flaherty

I had to look up the word cabal this morning, because I'd never used it, and even context didn't clue me in on what it was. In truth, I should always look up words I don't know, because too often the person using them doesn't know what they mean either, so even context can really mess you up some. 

It sounds kind of silly, I guess, maybe even disingenuous, to say I love words, since I use so many of them. Some of them, like just and that and look, I use so often that when I do a global search of a manuscript and take out the unnecessary ones, I need to write a new chapter just to bring the book back to the length I want.

That might be an exaggeration. But not by much. 

When I was in high school--I think it was junior year--our literature class had to read Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. Although I liked the wow factor of a young woman having an affair with a minister and carrying his child out of wedlock in the 17th century--after all, it would have been just as shocking in the middle of the 20th century and, of course, all Hester's fault--I hated the book. I still regret the six weeks we spent on it when we could have been reading something...readable. 

But I have to admit that even now I remember Hawthorne's overuse of the word ignominy and all of its derivatives. If he'd had global search abilities with his quill and rag paper, I'm sure he'd have used it a lot less. 

I try to understand why we read the things we read in class, why we were introduced to Shakespeare and why we read parts of Beowulf and the Iliad. It was to introduce us to classics. At the time, I thought it was to encourage us to love reading and learning and I couldn't understand why it fell so wide of the mark. I didn't like any of it. 

However, reading all kinds of books is what taught me I like reading genre fiction best. I don't particularly care if it changes my life. If I don't like it, I don't finish it--life is too short to read what I don't want to. (Case in point, I never read another Nathaniel Hawthorne book.) I read for entertainment and to learn things. Especially things I like to know that clarify other things. It's a wonderful chain, the learning one. 

I learned about seasonal disorder in a romance by Jackie Weger. I learned about the Iron Range and Minnesota's lakes in books by Kathleen Gilles Seidel. I learned about the 19th century in books written about it by people who did the research before they wrote them. 

If it were left to me, I would never have read most of the classics on my mental bookshelf at all. (Other than Louisa May Alcott--she's a whole life chapter unto herself. I'll spare you.) Except for the words I learned in them. I had to look them up and develop a wish to use them in drawing a picture a reader could see. Their writers used a plethora of words, and they never used one word when 56 of them would do. But they sure could draw those pictures. 

This was certainly the long way around from me having to look up the word cabal, wasn't it? I'm trying to find my point, and I think it's one I've made more than once. If you use words without understanding what they mean, you're telling lies. If you use words only to hurt someone or create a false picture of them, you become the villain of whatever story you're promoting. 

But if you learn from them, if you use them to explicate what you say and mean, they're like the gift that keeps on giving.  (No--I don't actually use the word explicate. I looked it up to be a showoff. You can do that, too!)

I hope when you read something that you enjoy and learn from it. Check sources. Quit in the middle if it's not making you happy. Have a great week. Be nice to somebody. 

Come see Nan and me at the Whyte Horse! 

You Know You're Old When... by Liz Flaherty

I forgot it was Saturday and no one reminded me! This was on another blog and Substack yesterday, so I'm sliding into home just behind the ball and using it here, too with a change or two. Plus adding a  plea for a vote at the bottom. Thanks as always for reading the Window. - Liz

In case you were in any doubt about it, there are ways to know you're getting old. Or already are. It is not necessary to admit it to anyone, so if you like, you can just keep it between you and me. 

On before-and-after pictures of home remodeling, you like the before better.

Your kids are the age you were when you first began to think you might be old.

By the time you get home from having your hair colored, your roots are showing.

Laughing hard comes with a penalty. So does sneezing. Coughing's not good, either. 

You no longer care what you have for supper. Or if you eat supper. Or if anyone cleans up after it. 

You begin to think of other generations in terms like snot-nosed brats.

You don't like it when other generations think of you as...all those mean things you see on Facebook.

You forget...well, no, you don't actually forget things--you just have to be reminded.

Making the bed takes enough energy that you need to sit down for a while. Maybe have something to drink and some chips. 

Being set in your ways becomes unattractive as you sink into curmudgeonity. (Nope, not a word, but it should be. Remember you saw it here first.)

You talk too much about being old. Not sure why that happens, but it does. Case in point, on your birthday, you even blog about it. 

Furniture displays remind you of lobbies in medical facilities. They all look alike and you can't find a comfortable seat. 

You still love buffalo plaid even though it seems to rule the fabric mosaic of the 21st century. 

A date includes a doctor's appointment, picking up a prescription, stopping at the grocery so you can forget what you needed to get, and going to lunch, followed by a nap.

You don't get why being a cat lady is a big deal. 

You've accepted that the f-bomb is a word that must be used in every sentence to show one's non-conformity to the mores of the 20th century--before buffalo plaid became the national design--but sometimes you still flinch. 

You've forgotten that you used to feel guilty about not doing spring cleaning, Now you just feel free. And somewhat dusty.

You know that the left lane is for passing. It's not for living in, road rage, or escaping...whatever the hell it is you're trying to escape. 

You know your faith is your own. You don't have to explain it, you shouldn't deny it, and you shouldn't expect everyone else to share it. 

You know not all old people are as well mannered as you are. This is undoubtedly because all their joints ache, their organs malfunction, and someone's trying to take their car keys.

You've seen more, cried more, laughed more, and loved more than anyone else in your family. You absolutely cannot believe how lucky you are.

Although I was old yesterday on my birthday, I'm older today and I don't feel one bit different. Blessed, though. Very blessed. Have a great week, and be nice to somebody. 

I'm pleased that the cover of Pieces of Blue is in the running for Cover of the Month at the AllAuthor site. If you like the cover, I'd so appreciate your vote. There are a ton of others there to choose from, too. Here is the link to vote. https://allauthor.com/cover-of-the-month/18151/  Thanks again!

Cover of the Month Pieces of Blue Hey Everyone, I’m excited to tell you that my book has been nominated for the "Cover of the Month" contest on AllAuthor.com. This will help me a lot if I could see some votes coming in, so please remember to vote my book. Vote Now »

Thanks, Liz Flaherty

Less than by Liz Flaherty

I usually only have Wednesday at the Window when I have a guest. Today, the guest is me. I wrote this for last night's Black Dog Writers' meeting. This morning, I added a little to it. Although it's written for writers and about writing, I think it matters in other areas, too. No one deserves "less than."

This week, I read a review on A Year of Firsts, a book I released last year. The title of the review was: This was a worthless and boring waste of time! One star was awarded, and the rest of the review went like this: “This was such a boring read. I seriously had a hard time getting into it. Was it me or was Syd always talking to herself? And I also wished the author made it easier to keep the characters straight. Too many names at once were just too confusing. And why did the chapters have to be so long? Oh, that made the read that much more daunting. Don’t authors know that it’s easier to read shorter chapters rather than longer ones? No, they have to go with 12 REALLY LONG and ENDLESS chapters!” (The book was 192 pages, just to give a hint of how LONG and ENDLESS they were.)

On Sunday, we went to watch a couple of musicians perform. They were retirement age, talented and funny and singing familiar songs. We liked them a lot.

After the show, I went to tell them how much I enjoyed it. My friend June was right behind me. I got there in time to hear one of them say they were both retired professors from a nearby private college.

As someone whose formal education ended with high school graduation, I am both impressed and intimidated by education and those who have a lot of it. (The exception to this is my kids, who have numerous degrees between them, but, as the saying goes, I did teach them to use a spoon.) I assume that people with letters accompanying their names other than M-R-S and Mom Emeritus not only know more than I do, but are smarter as well.

I asked one of the musicians what he taught. Art, he said, and talked about it a little bit, plus he said he painted as well. His partner taught history, but I didn’t catch whether it was art history or…you know…history history.

Behind me, June said I was interested in education and that I was a writer who’d written lots of books. Oh, my goodness, his face lit up. “That’s wonderful,” he said. “What do you write?”

Before I could mumble anything, June said, “She has 20-some books published. She writes romance.”

As impressed as he was by the fact that I had books published—which doesn’t carry nearly the cachet in its bag of tricks as it used to—was just how uninspired he was by the genre that I wrote. His face collapsed in on itself and he visibly recoiled.

He started to say something, and I admit to not knowing what it was. I just said, “Never mind. I saw your face. I enjoyed the show,” and went on to speak to his partner.

While my romance writing has segued pleasantly into women’s fiction over the years, I still have a loyalty to the genre that taught me a lot, entertained me a lot, and gained me publication and occasional paychecks. I still read it, although not as much. It grew one direction and I grew another. It became both uber-inclusive and uber-exclusive almost in the same breath. I just got old, which is where romance’s uber-exclusivity came in. The genre as a rule excludes people past their 40s wherever they can.

I guess that is the way genre fiction is. If you’re the protagonist in a cozy mystery, you can be old, but you’d better be quirky, too. If it’s horror, it needs to be…well, I don’t know; the only horror I’ve ever read was a couple of Steven King books that I thought I should like because he’s such a good writer.

And that line…that one right there before this…is the reason I wrote this.

Stephen King is more than a good writer; he’s a great one. His book On Writing was the most helpful instruction manual I ever read. But I don’t read horror or anything else that scares the bejesus out of me. The fact that I don’t read it doesn’t have a thing to do with its quality, does it? It just means I don’t read horror.

I read that Henry James said Louisa May Alcott was “not a genius” after he wrote a really awful review of Moods. While I’ve never read Henry James, I have read virtually every word Miss Alcott ever wrote and I will stack her genius up against his every day of the week and twice on Sunday.

But even then, if someone wrote in a genre not respected by the literati, a face was made. A writer’s work was denigrated. The words “less than” floated both silent and loud in the atmosphere just as they do now.

Romance novels often don’t hold their shelf space for long. They’re replaced quickly and easily. And yet the keeper shelf in my house is comprised almost completely of them. They, not the pretty hardbacks with their dust covers still intact, are the ones I re-read, that I’ve had to replace from eBay because I’ve literally read them until they fell apart. Less than? Hardly.

I have learned a lot in the process of getting old. I know about hair color, that refined sugar gives me heartburn, that either talking or looking down on someone else doesn’t make me any smarter or taller. I have learned that if the music’s too loud, you can leave. If you don’t like the book, you don’t have to read it. If artwork doesn’t touch your sweet spot, look elsewhere.

But don’t critique with the intent of harm. And don’t make a face.

Yeah, I'm tired by Liz Flaherty

I had a column half-written. Well, maybe a third. I really liked it, but when I read it over, then read it aloud, I realized I sounded like a bitter old person. What's really bad about that is that the subject of that first long paragraph was...yeah, bitter old people who complain about everything. So, you've been spared that. For this week, anyway. You're welcome.

But I didn't really have any ideas about what to write, which happens a lot these days (which might have something to do with being old; I'm not copping to bitter. Most of the time.) So I stole borrowed a subject from Sean Dietrich, one of my favorite columnists. 

Let's talk about food. 

It's been a lifelong love. While many people my age have seen their appetites diminish over the years, that phenomenon hasn't reached me yet. I love to eat, to have meals with friends, dinners or breakfasts with family members when my son and/or son-in-law make the best gravy ever. I love popcorn with  movies, cheese and crackers with anything, and potato chips if there is a bag or can of them that hasn't gotten away from me yet. 

Are you saying So yet? As in, when's she going to get to the meat of the matter? (Sorry. I had to say that.)

The meat is one I've talked about often, but needs to be re-addressed in case anyone missed it. 

I'm tired of cooking. I'm tired of choosing what to cook. I'm tired of choosing where to go out to eat. I'm tired of choosing when to eat. At a time when so many people in government are intent on taking away choices, they don't even address this one. This gives me a sneaking suspicion that they haven't been choosing what, when, and where to eat for most of their lives, and as long as it doesn't affect them, they're not interested. 

I don't see a solution to any of this happening soon, but I am happy to have gotten it said anyway. 

Again. 

I'm not cooking tonight, by the way. We're going to the ice cream social at Ebenezer Church and I'm going to have one of Gracie's chicken sandwiches and a piece of someone else's great pie--probably sugar cream--and whatever kind of ice cream I want. Because as tired as I am of cooking and of choosing stuff, I'm not one bit tired of eating. 

Have a good week and some ice cream. Be nice to somebody. 

The Woman's Journey by Liz Flaherty

If you've seen me on social media at all, you know I've been blogging a lot, saying Look at me! I wrote a book! a lot, and working on writing the next book--also a lot. I was going to put in a note saying I was going to take a few weeks off, but I'm really not. And then I thought I just did a Fourth of July post, so I could skip today, but that's not a habit I want to get started, so today I'm going to share a post that's just me, the writer. Not so much the Window Over the Sink girl, but the other one who's even more geeky that me at the Window. This is a combination of a couple of recent blog posts, so if you already saw them, I apologize. But here it is--the Liz Flaherty treatise on the Woman's Journey. Thanks for reading the Window. - Liz

I’m not sure when the term women’s fiction entered my consciousness. I don’t recall whose I read first or even if I liked it. The words Woman’s Journey had been bandied about most of the years I’d been writing romance, and I thought that’s what we should do with romance and women’s fiction—just make them into one huge glorious genre known as The Woman’s Journey.

The idea didn’t catch on.

But I read Curtiss Ann Matlock’s Lost Highways and Robyn Carr’s Deep in the Valley and Cheryl Reavis’s Blackberry Winter and Elisabeth Ogilvie’s Bennett’s Island series. I kept thinking yes, this! They’re all women’s fiction, but they’re all love stories, too. They’re all women’s journeys and I’ve read most of them more than once. While I love the relationship that grows between the heroine and hero, I also enjoy the ones between girlfriends, between sisters, between work friends who are there for each other. The romance is important, but it’s not always most important.

Because it's the story that’s important. The journey. How you feel when you finish reading. To a lesser degree, as a writer, how I feel when I finish writing is important, too.

To begin the story of Pieces of Blue, I had two words. Two! What was I supposed to do with that? But there they were: Trilby died.

Great. Who's Trilby? Why did he die? Did someone kill him? 

In a conversation at Home Ec club, my friend Tami Keaffaber said Town Lake was south of Akron and had been for…well, she had no idea how long. But it was less than 10 miles from my house, less than five from where I grew up. How could I not have known it was there? My sister said that of course it was there. Where had I been?

So my husband and I turned where she said to, off a country road onto a little bitty countrier road (yeah, I made that word up.) “It’s a T road. You can’t miss it.” 

Even with its small green sign identifying Town Lake Road, we could and did miss it. But there it was—the lake I’d never heard of and had possibly insisted wasn’t even there. Between the lake that wasn’t there--renamed Harper Loch by Maggie Edgington--and the town I’ve taken for granted for my entire life, one of my favorite settings was born. 

There are only 86 people on the lake, one store, one church, and one beauty salon, after all—but Placer, the town closest to it, strongly resembles Akron.

Akron is where my doctor’s office is, where I go to church, where two of my nieces live, where I used to sit at the drugstore counter and drink a small coke and talk to friends. My first bra and many pairs of stockings came from Eber’s Five & Ten. They have a great 4th of July parade and a pretty little park like the one you’ll read about in Maggie’s story.

Because after having that two-word start that wouldn’t get off my mind and a trip back a skinny, curvy road to a small lake I’d never known existed, heroine Maggie North invited me on her journey. It took her a while, and writing it took me a while, but…gosh, I loved Maggie. And Sam. And her adoptive parents. And Pastor Cari Newland. Oh, and Maggie’s friend Ellie and the dachshund named Chloe, too.

Pieces of Blue has some romance, a setting I never wanted to leave, and, most of all, it has friends and family and community. Their dialogue was so much fun to write. The house—the Burl—is a character unto itself.

How did I feel when I finished writing it? Oh, I felt good. Happy with how Maggie found herself. Sorry it was over and slapping back thoughts that maybe it wasn’t over…maybe there was another story at Harper Loch. Or two.

We’ll see. In the meantime, it’s a story from the “huge glorious genre” I mentioned above. I hope you like it.

Blurb:

For all of her adult life, loner Maggie North has worked for bestselling author Trilby Winterroad, first as his typist, then as his assistant, and finally as his ghost writer. Throughout her first marriage, widowhood, remarriage, and divorce from an abusive husband, Trilby was the constant in her life.

When he dies, she inherits not only his dachshund, Chloe, but a house she didn’t know existed on a lake she’d never heard of. On her first visit, she falls in love with both the house and the lake. Within a few weeks, she’s met most of the 85 inhabitants of Harper Loch and surprisingly, become a part of the tiny community. Her life expands as does a new kind of relationship with her friend Sam Eldridge. She finally feels not only at home, but safe.

Until her ex-husband is released from prison. The fragile threads of her new life begin to fray, and that feeling of safety is about to shatter into a thousand pieces.

Buy links:

Books2Read: https://books2read.com/FlahertyBlue

Amazon: https://a.co/d/eyEjPDA

Thanks for reading. Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.