Writing (Creating) In a Time of Pandemic

Posted by Joanne Huspek

You’d have to be living under a rock not to know what has been going on in the last two and a half months. (Two and a half months?!? Seems like a couple of decades.) Here’s a little rundown on the state of my tiny world.

It was early March. I had returned from the San Francisco Writers Conference, completely fired up and full of ambitious goals and new ideas. I even opened up one of my old files containing a novel I really wanted to finish. I had high hopes and a ton of adrenaline to propel them with. In addition, I was looking forward to returning to my part-time job at the zoo. After a couple of months off from dealing with the public, it was time to go back and deal with the public.

I’d started implementing the changes that I thought were necessary for the inn we had purchased. You know, getting bids, trying new technologies, tearing my web site apart (mentally) to put back together. I was armpit deep thinking of the events I would host. The room I was going to fix up as my gallery/gift shop. The kitchen I was going to clean and reorganize.

Then BOOM! In comes a virus and the cozy world I had devised had come to a crashing halt. Not an end, just a halt. Stopped on a dime. I, like many others, got whiplash.

The first couple of weeks (March 16 to the end of the month), I was glued to the TV, absorbing all the bad news I could soak up. Having done this right after 9-11, I knew this was bad, not only for my psyche, but for my health. I had to back away from that, and then from social media. I’m informed, but I don’t need to marinate in all manner of (dis)information. And of course, I was worried about my health. After all, I’d spent a week and a half in California, where I had shaken hands and exchanged breaths with a lot of people in a very large city. (I amazingly did NOT contract the conference crud – first time since 2009.) My husband became sick with a lingering (five week) cold. I worried that I had infected him with THE deadly virus by passing on my West Coast  germs. (He survived. It was just a bad cold.) I help care for my elderly father and the last thing I wanted to do was share my cooties to him (he’s fine too).

Of course, then you imagine YOU’RE going to die. (Well, the media tells you you’re going to die, by doing this or neglecting to do that. Listen to that enough and you’ll believe it.) Those first couple of weeks I had been seized with a panic with every cough, sneeze, and shortness of breath I experienced (most of that is due to living at a high altitude and owning an inn at a higher altitude).

The zoo was closed, so there went my part-time job. Ditto the husband’s part-time job at the casino, which he relied on mostly for the health insurance. The bed and breakfast was open (essential infrastructure), but people were laid off or if still working, not going anywhere, and so we had many thousands of dollars worth of cancellations and an 11,000 square foot monstrosity of a building to maintain and heat in the winter. Cable. Phone bill. Garbage. Taxes. The new web page and the advertising I’d spent just a week before the you-know-what hit the fan. Linen service. Monthly charges for the credit card processing, the utilities. More taxes. The larger capital improvements we had to put a hold on. Soon the fear wasn’t only of a virus, but of impending bankruptcy and the death of a business we took over before it could even take a first breath.

It’s a lot.

And the writing: The first thing I realized was I couldn’t sit down and write. Or edit. This is the kind of writer I am. If I’m paralyzed by a psychic fear, I can’t write. Likewise, if I’m happier than a pig in a poke, I also can’t write. Writing for me ebbs and flows in the in-between.

How do I know this? Dry spells have happened before, usually when I’m totally stressed and depressed. (The last one stretched for a year and a half.) I attempted to journal my way into writing this time. These are momentous if not historic times. I would leave something for future generations to ponder, right? Wrong. The first day I wrote about five pages. The second day, a half page. The third I fell off the wagon.

This is what happens when you’re frozen.

What I felt helped me the most during those initial trying times was to use my hands. One week, I made 11 pine needle baskets. I worked on them while watching mindless drivel like The Peoples Court and Judge Mathis. I wove baskets to old films on Turner Classic Movies.

The next week, I finished some wire weaving projects. Wire weaving is much like making pine needle baskets – you don’t have to think too hard about it. Your hands have to be strong and your stitches nice and even and tight. It’s also a portable hobby and perfect for those afternoon court shows.

I then went back to pine needle baskets.

I cleaned out every room in my house. Then we cleaned every room at the inn. I next started on the closets in both buildings.

The next thing that was oh-so-helpful was to use my feet. Thank goodness this winter/spring wasn’t as severe as last year’s, what with bomb cyclones and hail and late snow. I was able to walk, and walk some more. I took my chihuahua, Chuy, who has turned out to be quite the adventurer. My husband actually started walking too. Then we took to hiking in the mountains. Now he wants to climb Pike’s Peak. (I’ll pass.) Meanwhile I’ll just walk and think.

I also forced myself to take small writing workshops. I’m supposed to start one this week. It’s not my best work, but it’s cattle prod in the right direction.

I’m also now returning to this blog. Hopefully later to writing and editing. I feel like a seed that’s been trapped in my cocoon, sheltering in my place, warding off the virus by inactivity, but now it’s time for the seed to germinate and shed the shell.

Summer’s coming, the ideas are there, waiting to blossom.

And if you’ve never been to Cripple Creek and want to visit, I’ll be here.

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Writing (and Creativity) with a Virus Over Your Shoulder

Posted by Joanne Huspek

There’s nothing like a medical national emergency to put a damper on your life.

Damper? I mean totally rearrange the moon and stars.

I personally think some aspects of this “epidemic” (actually it’s an ENdemic where I live) is blown out of proportion. For one thing, I like to maintain a level of calm in a sea of uncertainty. Even in the midst of 9-11, I didn’t get rattled, although by the end of September I was seriously depressed. I’m always looking for the positive. I’m well; my family is well. What’s going to happen is going to happen, including dying. There’s no escaping death, whether it be by virus, cancer, a bus running you over, or that Bambi that leapt from the side of the road right into your windshield. I’m not offended by the term “boomer remover” – I am a boomer, after all, and at my age I’m closer to the end than to the beginning. Besides, just try to remove me, I double dare you. I question motives of media, both news and social, and try to look at the hysteria in an objective manner. Whipping the masses into a frenzied panic is a dangerous sport, and I’m wondering who will be benefiting from the wild toilet paper and cleaning product runs.

If I try to maintain a level of positivity, I’m accused of not having feelings for those with compromised immune systems. If I sneeze because of seasonal allergies, I’m looked at like I’m Typhoid Mary. You can’t win.

Most of us are never going to get this virus, and if we do, most of us will survive. This is according to the CDC. Sheesh. We’re a resilient bunch, aren’t we? I believe, anyway.

I think I watch too much TV news. My husband is a news junkie. He’s watching TV news while he scrolls for news on his phone. I just can’t take it. I’m at this moment typing this while “How The West Was Won” is playing on TCM. (Thank the Lord for TCM. It’s keeping me sane. I need a dose of 1930s Bette Davis RIGHT NOW.)

I know I’m on Facebook way, way too much. The political misinformation was bad enough, but now with the medical madness mixed in with conspiracy theories of the tin foil hat variety, I find myself getting the same sickness (not CoVid19) in the pit of my stomach that I got after 9-11. A chipping away at what I like to think of is a sunny exterior. An erosion of my heart and soul. A darkness like Voldemort settling in from the clouds. FEAR. It’s a real thing that can cause more pain than the actual illness.

The grocery stores are depressing, as is Sam’s Club, where I usually go to buy supplies for the bed and breakfast. You have to get there by SEVEN AM to get toilet paper, and even then it’s a crap shoot if you’ll walk out with your two packages (current limit). People, I run a bed and breakfast. I need toilet paper.

Taking the chihuahua on a walk is good, which I did the other day before it snowed. I walked around the Colorado College campus, where students where playing field hockey. (I think it was field hockey; I’m not much for sports.) It was nice to see kids cheering from the sidelines and the announcer over the loudspeaker in broadcasting mode, especially since now there’s no sports to watch (I’m still not much for sports, but it seems to calm some).

To change the downward direction of my psyche, I thought I might do something creative. Every time I walk into my office/craft room, there’s this painting I started about 15 years ago staring me in the face. A painting of orchids. Nope. Can’t finish that, not feeling it. I’ve been collecting pine needles in my yard (from my neighbor’s trees, it’s been windy here). I look at them and tell myself I should wash them and make a basket, even a small one, but no, not feeling that either. I need to go through my beads and wire and finish a couple of projects but just can’t compel myself to move toward it.

That’s it. Tonight, I’m going to write. Or re-write. Or read what I wrote. I have to do that or succumb to negativity and I’m not going there. Maybe I’ll drink and write. It worked for the masters.

It’s difficult, yes, even for me, to shrug off perceived impending doom, but it must be done. And whether it’s writing or some other creative pursuit, go there. Grow your brain, don’t rot it.

 

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And Now, Back to Reality

Posted by Joanne Huspek

It was yet another successful San Francisco Writers Conference! I was able to take in many helpful workshops, met old friends, made new ones, saw my editor, who gave me insight on what I was doing (sometimes I write and I’m not sure what I’m writing about until he points it out), and even pitched my book, An Education for Addie. (Can I say here that I DESPISE pitching? I’m a writer, not a talker.) My efforts were successful, too, as three agents asked for more. I don’t know if they were truly open (I had the first time slot, so the agents were nice and fresh and full of good coffee), or maybe some of them were tired of seeing me. 🙂 I’ve pitched so many times and been such a stalwart attendant, they should almost name a room after me (just kidding).

I want to be Laurie McLean when I grow up.

The venue is of course to die for, and the speakers are thoughtful and impart much for vision and ideas. I’ve often said in the past that I go to recharge, to find inspiration, and yes, I’ve been recharged and inspired.

The world outside the Hyatt.

I’ll likely sign up for the 2021 conference . For those of you that have never been, yes, it’s a bit expensive, and yes, it’s in San Francisco which is uber expensive, but yes, it’s worth it. You’ll not find the kind of helpful, friendly people anywhere else in the world, and the education is so worth it.

Really yummy conference food.

Food! The requisite crab before I left town.

The road trip to San Francisco and back was nice. No heavy snow falls, and with the exception of a major traffic pile up in Denver on the return (which extended my in-car time by four hours), things went swimmingly. Chuy loves the road, and he especially loves hotel rooms. He even ended up loving his San Francisco dog sitter, Alicia!

Love note from the pup while I was at the conference.

He’s not too fond of large ocean waves or big dogs, but he did appreciate the sand and loved taking walks.

The West Coast is extremely dog friendly. The weather was unbelievably warm and sunny, so no complaints there. I returned to Colorado via South Lake Tahoe and visited with online friends who are now real-life friends. They escaped California for the western edge of Nevada. We shared a wonderful spaghetti dinner, with meatballs so delicious, I find myself craving them even now. I like the terrain along the Nevada-California border, it reminds me much of the way my old neighborhood looked back in the ’60s and ’70s before civilization came and built subdivisions and strip malls over everything. If you’ve read Finding Cadence, you’ll know what I mean. Western Nevada (outside of the cities) is dry, rolling scrub, high desert, not unlike where the prairie meets the Front Range in Colorado Springs. I’m partial to seemingly desolate landscapes.

Outside my Topaz Lake, Nevada motel room; inside my Topaz Lake motel room

Road trips are the stuff of good writing, and I might have to explore that, when I have a spare minute.

Being away for ten days and staying in hotel/motel rooms, I took copious notes on every place I stayed, from lowly Super 8s to the Hyatt Embarcadero. When I returned, I threw myself back into bed and breakfast mode. I ended up becoming inundated with mundane, time consuming tasks, including taking photos, helping to update the web site and social media, getting bids for work to be done, buying a stove, hauling junk (I mean perfectly wonderful vintage 1898 salvage) to the ReStore, putting rooms on AirBNB, payroll processing, getting my windshield replaced (crackage from the road), putting in a POS system, etc. Holy cow, I’m tired. I haven’t had a chance to unpack my SFWC bag and swag yet, but hope to do so tomorrow.

My dog as a tourist.

I finally feel myself getting caught up. While I’m using March to do some major work at the St. Nicholas (painting and setting up my gallery), most of the pressing jobs on my To Do list will be completed and I can get back to the editing.

BECAUSE, even though I haven’t really wrote or edited lately, doesn’t mean my mind hasn’t been going a mile a minute on the writing. This is what notebooks and the Notes section of an iPhone is for. As I mentioned, my editor brought up that my historical novel is not really historical in the traditional sense. (There I go, bending genres.) Yes, it takes place in 1898, but it’s about a woman who follows her dream into a new century and a man who seeks redemption in advance. (If that doesn’t intrigue you, I don’t know what will.)

So stay tuned.

 

 

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Another San Francisco Writers Conference! And I’m Still Stoked!

Posted by Joanne Huspek

Yes, people, I’m in San Francisco yet again for another San Francisco Writers Conference. And yes, I’m STILL stoked!

You’d think that after so many years of attendance (going strong yearly since 2009), I might weary of traveling halfway across the country for this conference – after all, I haven’t hit the Big Agent from a Big Publishing House jackpot, yet – but as I’ve said in other posts on the subject, I’m not here for a lottery. I’m here to learn, and as a writer, you should be learning every day.

The Hyatt Embarcadero is of course lovely. This year I’m on the 14th floor overlooking Market Street. Market Street used to be all flavors of chaos, but now car traffic is verboten and all that’s left is buses and taxis, and of course, humans on foot. It’s a nice change of pace from the road motels, and the LaQuinta Inn in South San Francisco where I stayed before this. I’ve been taking copious notes for our own bed and breakfast venture; it’s amazing that what used to be largely ignored sticks out like a neon sign – towels, sheets, amenities. Since our place is proving to be a money pit of epic proportions, I’ve been told I should write about it. Maybe I will. If you follow me on Instagram or Facebook, you’ll know I brought my pup with me. He’s currently with a dog sitter, as I want to focus my attention to the task at hand. He’s an excellent travel companion. Doesn’t like big ocean waves or big dogs but he’s a trooper.

My recently finished work-in-progress An Education for Addie is still in the editing phase, and not yet ready to pitch. However, I’m most interested in those who are versed in historical fiction, to include writers as well as agents. That’s the true gem at this conference: finding other writers like me. And there may be a story brewing as a follow-up to the novel, perhaps set in a later date. I’m always thinking. 🙂

In a few moments, I’ll head downstairs and see what’s up, and I’ll be sure to report if I’ve learned anything new.

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New Year, New Decade, New Adventures…With Ghosts!

Posted by Joanne Huspek

Much has happened since my last post:

1. My Editor for Life is hard at work editing An Education for Addie. So far I think I’m in for a title change and a rearranging of the first few chapters. This is what happens when you send your work out for viewing by another set of eyes. Not that I’m not appreciative. Sometimes a writer’s attachment to this thing or that is self-serving and not in the best interest of the work. I’m good with critique. I just want my work to be the best it can be. I’m working very slowly these days, so I think our pace is in sync. 🙂

2. Happy New Year! And New Decade! Welcome to the Roaring 20’s (although I’m fairly certain 99% of the public has no idea what that refers to)! My husband had to work at his retirement job for New Year’s Eve (dealing blackjack, some people might not call that a job), so I ended up making dinner for my dad (lamb chops, roasted veggies) and calling it a night before 9 p.m. (And that was LATE for me.) So I slept through champagne, parties, fireworks, and anything else that can happen in the dead of night.

3. And here’s for the big news: My husband and I purchased a bed and breakfast in Cripple Creek, Colorado! Yes, we closed on the property on New Year’s Eve, meaning we have really set ourselves up for a challenging adventure this new decade.

Here’s where it felt like it had to be. I’d been coming up to this once boom town-then ghost town-now gambling town since I was little. My dad loved to drive up here on weekends, where we’d fish in streams or poke around in old gold mines or find interesting rocks like turquoise right at the side of the road. (No lie, the gold miners used to throw turquoise away, after all, they were looking for the good stuff.) After my husband decided on his part time retirement job in Cripple Creek (it’s a gaming town, and he’s a blackjack dealer), we started looking for a second home, a crash pad if you will, because he kept getting speeding tickets and there was that one crash with a deer. (He should not drive after 3 a.m.)

Last year, when I started my class with Michelle Richmond (Novel in Nine), I somehow came up with the story line for my 1898 heroine who comes to Colorado because her brother has died and left an estate. He was a miner in Cripple Creek – amazing, isn’t it? – which led me to a ton of research and a greater appreciation for the area. Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine that I would write a historical, and never ever would I imagine owning a piece of history such as the Hotel St. Nicholas.

The property used to be the St. Nicholas Hospital, run by nuns and with a full operating room (and also a morgue) and so with the quaintness and the cuteness, we have also inherited other things: like the ghosts that are said to roam the hallways. I personally haven’t seen any of them, but I do believe.

Obviously, it’s some work to run a place like this, especially with no previous experience in the hospitality business. The last two weeks have been full, with transferring accounts, getting a feel for the place, and prioritizing all the things we’d like to get done in order to make this place shine. But we ran a much larger business in Michigan, one that consumed a lot of energy. Still, I had enough time to write, which is what I hope to continue full bore once the dust has settled.

And where a year ago I would have pooh-poohed the idea of writing historical fiction, I now have ideas in my head for the next story, and the next.

No matter what the rest of the world is involved in, it’s possible to find something new – whether it’s in endeavors, love, life, stories – things don’t stop just because the decade or the year has ended. There’s always a fresh horizon.

Apologies: I had meant to include photographic evidence of our new venture but this web site keeps kicking them back, even though I made the pictures teeny-weenie.

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And Now, For a Little (or a Lot of) Editing

Posted by Joanne Huspek

The upside to never throwing any writing away? You will always have something to edit.

I didn’t participate in NaNoWriMo this year, but I didn’t have to. I have at least four (FOUR!) novels on my external drive in various states of disrepair. Each is about 85% complete, because if you NaNo, you don’t really end up with a full first draft, although 50K words + is a good start. Each year I give myself a month break from writing before putting on my editing hat, I may start again, but then something (anything) will get in the way.

As a result, I feel like the hoarder queen of incomplete works.

My task until the next NaNoWriMo: Get some of these from the partial manuscript to at least a workable first draft. I have an Editor for Life that has barely seen two words come out of me in the last five years. (Update: I sent him An Education for Addie, so he’s working on that one as I type. My goal is to get something else to him as soon as I get my first edit of Addie back.)

For my editing project, I’ve decided on my NaNoWriMo project of 2017. I’m good at constructing story lines but horrible at writing a catchy title. It was tentatively titled The Loud Sisters, until I decided to throw a brother in. Oopsy. The now working title is Waking Art Loud. It’s about five siblings (adults) who return to Detroit after their father dies, for the funeral. There are secrets all around, and the sibs are not as close as they would like to believe they are. Blood is definitely not thicker with this bunch. Death usually brings out the worst in people, or at least in the people I know.

Drama, drama, drama, and it all takes place in the space of a week.

I enjoyed writing this tale, but now that I’m editing, I find that I’m enjoying this part even more. Shocker! Editing is NOT usually my favorite task in the whole wide world, right next to writing an outline and a summary. I’m finding this edit a vacation from my historical, which is still fraught with a few historically incorrect items within the pages that I’ll get to in the second draft. It’s so much easier to write about the present day! The Loud children were rather wooden the first time around, and now I’m adding texture to their personalities. As with a lot of my stories, I have in my head which famous actor/actress will play each character. (I should give them a Pinterest board.) In addition, I have a vague idea as to how this will end; rest assured, someone will be unhappy at the end.

My ultimate goal for this edit is to finish by the first of this year, but I’m a heavy procrastinator so who knows. There’s a lot going on in this house, and it’s not just Christmas. I’ve curtailed any other art projects until I’m finished, and I’m nearly halfway through at this point.

I’m trying to limit my social media, although that’s hard. Facebook, you are crack. Twitter I gave up on a while ago, because I don’t enjoy wading in the cesspool. TV, that’s easy. I only have Hulu and Amazon Prime, so it’s a major moment to find something to watch, much less sit there for a couple of hours twiddling my thumbs.

And so I will leave you now, because I have dinner to make and words to get back to. See you on the other side.

 

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Not NaNo-ing This Year

Posted by Joanne Huspek

The writer’s life is full of ups and downs.

After coming off my highly successful Novel in Nine class with Michelle Richmond, I had intended on hitting NaNoWriMo with another vengeance. (I’m getting really adept at starting stories – not so good at editing them, but that’s another story.)

Unfortunately, last week life dealt me another hand.

My cat of six years, Purrby, has been struggling with kidney disease since August. Back then, we admitted him to the vet hospital where he spent a couple of days on an IV. After his release, they gave us drugs to try and new food. Due to having previous cats with kidney issues, I’m really picky about food and read labels for the pets more than I do for myself, so I’m not exactly sure what happened.

Purrby perked up a bit after that, but he was never really the same. When we moved to Colorado, he was fat but not obese. (I kept him on a strict diet.) He spent some time outside, because my husband’s not so strict about keeping him in the house. I’m not sure if this has anything to do with his illness, just throwing it out there. Purrbs lost about 4 pounds during his illness, which is not necessarily a bad thing.

Last week, Purrbs took a turn for the worse. Where he didn’t eat much since August, he stopped eating altogether. I think he was still drinking. He took to tipping over my watering cans and sat in the water. Or he’d sit in the kitchen sink. Or in the shower after I’d gotten out of it. I made an appointment to get him in, but then my car tires (yes two) went from slow leak to fast leak, so that day I spent too much time getting replacement tires. The next day (Saturday) I dropped Purrby off early in the morning, figuring an IV would get him almost as good as new.

The vet called about two hours later. Purrby was in the final stages of his kidney disease! I had two options: take him home and watch him suffer, or put an end to it.

I chose to end his suffering. And I was sad.

Oh, I know how I have spoken about and written about Purrby as being a “very bad kitty” – it’s in my brief bio. He was a handsome orange tabby with a personality and then some. When I adopted him, he was six months old – plus. He had the run of the shelter, and let everyone know he was the boss. I liked him; he came right up to me and meowed loudly. Followed me around. He also purred loudly. I spent a bit of time there, looking him and the other kitties over. (An aside: I’d lost the other cat to kidney disease about six months before and wasn’t in a big hurry to get another cat, but I visited shelters. I still visit shelters. You never know.) When I left, he was meowing at me like he was mad. I waited the weekend and came back. He was there on the counter, meowing at me, like he recognized me and was pissed. “Where the hell have you been, human?” And he was purring.

For the first couple of years, Purrby was crazy. N-U-T-S. He could jump six feet or more and knocked over everything in his path. He ate the bread on my counter, so I bought a breadbox. (Purrby was especially partial to croissants.) Do you know how hard it is to find a breadbox? He ate butter, so I started putting butter in the upper cabinet. (I like room temperature butter. Bite me.) Purrby figured out how to open the upper cabinet. I returned home from work one day and he was INSIDE the cabinet eating butter.

He leapt to the clothes rods in our closet and slept on top of them. You’d think that would be uncomfortable, but he liked balancing on the rod. If you left a drawer open, he’d get comfortable inside and you’d never know he was there, until you closed the drawer. THEN he would meow.

Purrby liked to climb inside the Christmas tree and hang out. When I stopped putting the Christmas tree up, he did the same with the evergreen trees outside. He also climbed the houseplants we had in the house. This was fine when he was a kitten, but when he weighed 14 lbs, it was a bit much.

Purrby thought it was great sport to run away from us. I’ve chased him through snow drifts. After a while, I gave up. I’m too old for this. When we first moved here, he went missing for an extended period of time. We went to the Humane Society in a panic and filled out a report. Turns out Purrbs was under a roll-away dumpster we had parked in the yard for our construction waste. He showed up later that night covered in dirt and pine needles.

He was still the same mischievous kitty even at the end. Still running away from us. Still batting Chuy around. Still jumping six feet or more over the neighbor’s wall. Still purring like his motor would never quit.

*sigh*

I took Chuy to the vet to say goodbye to Purrby. Purrbs was weak but still purring and meowing. I like to think he was happy to see us. I couldn’t stay to watch him cross the Rainbow Bridge. Some things are just too hard to do.

Purrby’s last vet visit

You know, you rescue pets, you love them, they get sick, you lose them. You think you’d get used to it but you never do.

So you can see why I’ve been a little deflated since November 1st.

After a week of regret and tears, I’m ready to start writing again, but I won’t be participating in the breakneck speed of NaNoWriMo.

No. I’m going to take it slow. And I’m going to think about things along the way.

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