Please Don’t

Posted by Joanne Huspek

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a long, long time.

(Yeah, you’re thinking, where has she been? Dropped off the face of the earth? Contracted the virus? Suffered a heart attack? No, I’ve been here. Mostly thinking. Part of the time running an inn – you know, that post retirement job I thought might be fun? It is, sometimes… It’s work most of the time. But I have a new idea for a novel which I’ll probably write in November. Emerging Inn Sync. Yeah, I like the sound of it too.)

I’ve been suffering from a case of fatigue. Mostly from looking at the internet and specifically from following people on social media, which is becoming less and less sociable and more and more like the wild, wild West. Yes, there’s a virus, yes, there’s injustice, yes, there’s unrest, yes, the world sucks. I follow people because I like them, because they’re authors or agents, because when they speak it’s interesting. Or it used to be interesting. I don’t follow them to get their world view – I’m sure they have passionate world views (as do I) but the constant harping, name calling (on all sides), and vitriol had me clearing out my list once and then again. Which is sad. If you post one hateful thing, you’re gone, and that’s not because I’m better than you. Hate consumes the vessel carrying it and I don’t want any part of that. I’ve seen good friends descend into a vortex of bile so strong it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it. I’m almost ready to give up Twitter, it’s such a cesspool. And Facebook is right up there too as a major disappointment.

I don’t know how to put this other than just saying it: P L E A S E   D O N ‘ T.

Please don’t.

If you write, please write. If you paint, please do. If you play music, play the hell out of it. If you make pine needle baskets or jewelry like I do, put your passion into that. But please don’t contribute to the noise, unless you are actively doing something to make things better, and I don’t mean just donating money to a cause. At that point, I’d want to know. Before that, it’s just complaints with no action.

I’m not a Pollyanna or an ostrich with my head below the surface. I have eyes. I have a mind with which to think. I need more than an echo chamber to live a full life.

I try not to engage in fights, honestly. I follow a great variety of groups and people. Mostly writers, but there are others. In the last month I have been dragged into a bullying mob just for asking a simple question. In a group that was supposed to be a community helping one another. Then derided and called names. When I sought to clarify a point, no one read that part. Oh no. That would have made sense.

Manners are dead. Common courtesy is on life support.

I’m too old to stir pots anymore, but I do like to point out there are two sides to every story. (I did take classes in journalism, before the news biz became the editorial/propaganda biz.) That’s what makes writing an interesting proposition. It’s not just telling a story, it’s delving deep into background, of why people do the things they do. You don’t have to agree, or even like the person, but there are valid reasons people do and say the things they do.

If we were all the same, life would be pretty bland. I don’t want to be the same as everyone else. I’ve never wanted to be the same as everyone else. Individuality is the sparkle in the facet. Different is good.

In the meantime, I’m trying to stay away from the devices. Enjoy the warmth of the sun and the fresh air of the mountains. I’m coaxing tomatoes to fruition and feeding my angry swarm of hummingbirds. I’ll start working on my edits, because every time I go up to Cripple Creek, I see where I need to change something. And I did most of the research before writing!

I wish you peace and as much happiness you can grab in this crazy world. Grab it, because there’s not much left.

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Requiem for a Virtual Mom

Posted by Joanne Huspek

Remember this fun novel? I wrote it over ten years ago. It’s the story of six women from all over the country, who met in a Beanie Baby AOL chat room way back in the mid 1990s. All mothers, they bonded over small plush toys and shared their trials and tribulations. They watched their children grow from toddlers to teenagers. Some have met in Real Life, while others have not. One of them invites a single parent who has lost their spouse in the Iraq war, one who appears to have secrets…and then the intrigue begins.

It was a wacky story line, but I loved the characters and I especially loved the premise. This would be considered a tame story now, but back then no one had a cell phone. Facebook was just for college students, and Twitter was nothing. There was no zoom or Face Time, as the internet was just a baby. It was relatively easy to shield yourself from prying eyes online. I remember trying to pitch this novel at the San Francisco Writers Conference and getting the skeptical expressions of nearly every agent I spoke to. Something about “oh, too weird for us” or “it doesn’t have a genre” – I called it “mom-lit” or chick-lit for aging women. Eventually I self-published as an ebook. (There’s a sequel but it’s now so dated I’m not sure I’m ever going to publish it.)

I based my “virtual moms” on a real life internet group which I belonged to, the Beanie Moms. I’ve met all but two of the ladies in my group. Don’t ask who’s who in the book, I took a little personality from each of the women I know. (It’s 25 years later and we still refer to ourselves as Beanie Moms, even though our kids are in their 30s now, and me? I gave all my Beanie Babies away when I moved to Colorado two years ago.) We’re still close. Unbelievably.

Just as unbelievably, one of us (of the Real Beanie Moms) passed away recently.

It was rather jarring, as you can imagine. We had just had a group chat on Mothers Day. She was still young! Younger than I am. She died the Friday after Mothers Day. It was an accident, a freakish one where she fell, hit her head the right (or wrong) way, and that was it.

It took a while for me to recover. I was rendered speechless for quite a while. And then I thought, “wow,” and of course, I went through a period of thinking holy shit, life is short, what am I dinking around for.

I couldn’t write. I could barely function.

Even now, six weeks later, it’s still unbelievable.

I never met Cyn in Real Life, although we got close a few times. My son had an audition for school in Philadelphia at the Curtis Institute back in 2004. She lived not far away in New Jersey. But we had another audition to make, and my car was acting weird so we headed to Boston right away. Then last year, she was in Denver visiting another Beanie Mom. I was going to come up to meet her, but unfortunately I was running in the Race to the Shrine that morning and that afternoon she had plans. We were only separated by an hour and a half of geography.

What I remember most about her was that she was always positive and energetic. She would post these hand made memes on her Instagram (she had a board!) that were catchy and smart. She loved her husband, her daughter, and her dog. She had so many friends! Which was no wonder, since her personality was so uplifting.

But she had fears too. She was afraid of the CoVid19 virus and didn’t go to many places. She masked up when she did. She was super careful. She told me she had things she still wanted to do; she wanted to travel, she wanted to see her daughter married, she wanted to play with her grandkids. I’m afraid I’m a bit more rambunctious. (I’ve been a government disbeliever since Nixon, and hey, I live in Colorado where the fresh air and sunshine has definitely been a positive influence on my health.) So we had a bit of a disagreement over our opinions, but nothing that would break a bond.

I’m going to miss Cyn. You need a super positive influence in such a negative world. I’m sorry she won’t make it to her daughter’s wedding, but she’ll be looking on from heaven.

Rest in peace, Cyn, you deserve heaven.

 

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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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