The most valuable thing

Time is the most valuable thing a man can spend. - Theophrastus

The other day, I was talking to some people at a craft fair when a pretty young woman heard one of the others mention that I am a writer. She waited till the conversation was over, till I'd been stung by a woman saying, "Oh, yes, I read those when I was about twelve," when I said I wrote for Harlequin. At least, I thought, she didn't ask when I was going to write a real book. Or where the restroom was. I suppose that would have come later.

But I regress. When the conversation ended, the young woman--her name is Whitney--introduced herself and asked about writing and we talked a little bit. She reads "everything," the best kind of reader there is. She was pretty, bright, and interesting. It was fun talking to her. She said someday she wanted to write a book. And someday, when she had time, she was just going to write.

Which led to me giving advice she didn't ask for. Not that I'm a stranger to doing that, but just this one time, I was right to do it.

"Whitney," I said, calling her by name beause I love her name, "don't wait until you have time."

And I know, really I do, that I'm not the first person who ever gave that advice, but it is undoubtedly the best advice I ever gave.

I went on to tell her that I'd written my first three books sitting on bleachers. That

was in truth an exaggeration, but I did do some writing there. And in the car while I waited on kids. And during my lunch hour. And in the early morning hours before work--I had to get up at 3:30 AM anyway, so we're talking really early--I wrote the first draft of One More Summer in 83 days and a lot of that writing was done between 3:00 and 3:30.

Just last week I waxed pompous to my friend Margie, telling her I didn't know how I'd managed writing books and working fulltime all at once. I still don't know, but I do know this. I never had time, so I guess I made time. Thank goodness for coil-bound notebooks and pens that write well.

So, to Whitney, and to any other young writers out there, that's my best piece of advice: make time. My second-best is, when you meet a veteran writer, walk right up and talk to her the way you did to me. It makes our day.

I’m ending this differently, because it’s three years since I wrote this, and it was for a writing blog. I don’t regret the advice—unlike some I’ve given; when will I learn to keep my mouth shut?—but it applies to much more than writing. It applies to travel and apologizing and playing a game of Farkle with someone (particularly seven-year-old grandchildren who stomp all over you.) To saying “you bet” when someone asks you to go somewhere even if your hair’s dirty, whether it’s to East End for dessert or Aroma for coffee or a trip to Walmart for toilet paper and laundry detergent.

Don’t have time? Sure you do. 

Let's Go Fly A Kite...

 This is from July of 2016. It's a subject I've written about more than once because I think it's so important. It also seems to be as much a part of the holidays as ribbons and tissue paper. I've doctored it some and hope you'll have patience with seeing it again.

I've danced with depression. It's a demanding, crushing partner that doesn't so much lead as step all over your feet and then lay the blame on you. I was one of the lucky ones. It wasn't that bad. It didn't last that long. Zoloft cut in and two-stepped me off to a lighted area where I was with music and friends and people who loved me before the depression could sit me down over there by the dark wall with no one to talk to and not a song to be had.

However.

It is on days like today that I worry. When I wake with a sore hip and a strong inclination to stay in bed. When I eat for comfort instead of because I’m hungry. When I am irritated by things that I shouldn’t even notice. When the clouds in the sky—yes, there are usually clouds and/or darkness when I feel this way—bring me close to tears. Words are coming just fine on my work-in-progress, but…you know, are they really okay words? On days like today, I wonder if my cranky dance partner is coming around again.

No, it’s not.

Because by this afternoon, I am better. I have laughed and talked and sung (although it is true other people wish I wouldn’t.) I’ve eaten, but not too much. Medicated my hip and hoped it is nothing. Stayed awake.

I’m only writing this because depression is a villain to be watched. It’s all well and good to kick it to the curb, but the slimy rat bastard might crawl back and attack when you least expect it. I have no medical or psychological expertise, but this is what I do. 

• Take a walk.

• Go to lunch with a friend.

• Laugh at something. Anything.

• Find light. And color. Latch on.

• Talk to someone you trust. Just being listened to helps.

• Find a song that makes you happy. (Mine today is “Let’s Go Fly A Kite.”) 

It’s not that easy, of course. You shouldn’t diagnose yourself. Read up on symptoms to look for. If you need to see a doctor, see one—mine was a godsend.

I know I haven’t said anything new here, but there has been so much

discussion of safe places (much of it pejorative in nature) that I want to stress that it's a good idea to have one, where you can vent or spill or rant or rail all you need to. Today I needed to. What about you? Have you danced with the partner no one wants? If you have—or are right now—find that safe place or person; it’s not an opponent to be fought alone.

My new book, The Happpiness Pact, has a heroine with who suffers from clinical depression and anxiety issues. It's not the first time I've "used" depression as a plot point (see below), and I hesitated before doing it, but as any writer will tell you, our characters often don't do what we suggest. In the end, I was glad for the story that presented itself and I hope, for a couple of hours anyway, Libby's story becomes someone's safe place. 

In One More Summer, the book of my heart, Dillon Campbell suffers a raging

case of clinical depression. His best friend Steven travels to Paris to bring him home. I don't write guys all that well, I don't think, but I loved what Dillon said about Steven's arrival: “That’s something to come back to life to, a tall guy in a ponytail yelling, ‘Get off your ass, Campbell. I don’t have time for this.’”

I don't have time for it, either, and neither do you. There is too much joy to be found and life to be lived. Sounds glib and easy, doesn't it? It's not. I know it's not. But it's worthwhile to find the help that's available and take advantage of it.