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Welcome to the Messiness of Writing

I read something the other day about writing that said to create a beautiful place to write. And I thought of all the ideas I have had in the past for a perfect writing area: a tasteful color scheme, flowering plants, a reading chair and lamp straight from the boards of Pinterest, no dust, no clutter, a window to the world that would make me wax poetic. And then I thought of other writers’ advice about writing spaces.

Stephen King in his book On Writing said he started writing in his laundry room—a noisy, distracting place—in a double wide trailer. He said that the only thing that was important about his writing space was a closed door.

I wrote my first two published novels, Carrie and ’Salem’s Lot, in the laundry room of a doublewide trailer, pounding away on my wife’s portable Olivetti typewriter and balancing a child’s desk on my thighs; John Cheever reputedly wrote in the basement of his Park Avenue apartment building, near the furnace. The space can be humble (probably should be, as I think I have already suggested), and it really needs only one thing: a door which you are willing to shut. The closed door is your way of telling the world and yourself that you mean business; you have made a serious commitment to write and intend to walk the walk as well as talk the talk. Stephen King, On Writing, p. 144

Foster and Small Things Like These author Claire Keegan, when asked at a recent writing retreat about her writing room, pierced our romantic images of her writing with a view to the green pastures of Ireland, her beloved horses frolicking near the sheep of a thousand hills. Instead, she said she had blocked off the window with a giant PC screen to do her work. So she could focus. So she could do the hard work of writing.

Trying to create the “perfect” space for writing is a distraction from the writing. It can actually be a metaphor for the writing itself as that search for perfection bleeds into the way we write.

Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird writes :

“Perfectionism means that you try desperately not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived. Clutter is wonderfully fertile ground—you can still discover new treasures under all those piles, clean things up, edit things out, fix things, get a grip. Tidiness suggests that something is as good as it’s going to get. Tidiness makes me think of held breath, of suspended animation, while writing needs to breathe and move.” Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird, p. 28

So where do I write? In a corner of my bedroom, facing an unmade bed, on a desk with clutter and chaos that only I understand. It’s a place where I can shut the door, turn on the fan, close the blinds so the sun doesn’t hurt my eyes. It has photos of the people I love and miss, along with things I should put away but doing so would distract me from the work.

I also write on planes and in airports. I write in a recliner in my living room. I write on my laptop and on my phone. The issue isn’t really where I write; it’s to just write. Just do the work.

The writer of Ecclesiastes understood the enemy of perfection when he wrote:

“If you wait for perfect conditions, you will never get anything done.” Ecclesiastes 11:4

There’s no such thing as a perfect writing environment so let’s stop waiting for it and just write!

November 14, 2025
I Can Twang With the Best of Them

“You talk funny,” my family complains in their midwestern twang every time I go back to visit them in southern Oklahoma.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say with precise diction.

My siblings and I, having been born in Arizona, learned to speak in a way that follows established phonetic rules. Then when I turned 7, we moved to Oklahoma where people’s syllables seemed to run amok.

My brothers and sister assimilated this new language, but I somehow kept my crisp mother tongue. Now every time I protest that I do not speak funny, they list the words I say wrong, including my younger brother’s name.

“Why can’t you say his name right?”

“I am saying it right.”

I say it several times: Cole, Cole, Cole.

Cull, Cull, Cull. They parrot me.

Each time, they shake their heads in disgust.

They brand me a northerner even though I live just a couple states away to the northwest–not straight north. Doesn’t that make me a westerner? And why does it matter, anyway? They are midwesterners–not southerners!

Then one afternoon from Colorado while trying to locate an old friend I can’t find on social media, I called the Dunn Lumber Company in my family’s town. I hoped he could give me his sister’s number.

“Is James Lance there?” I asked the woman who answered.

“Who-o-o-o?” she asked in a voice like sweet tea.

“James Lance.” I emphasized each mono-syllable of his name.

“Who-o-o?”

I said it again, but louder.

“James. James Lance.”

“Ma’am, I cannot understand a word you’re saying.” She strung out every syllable.

“Ja-imz. Ja-imz La-ince,” I drawled out.

“Oh, no. He’s not here today.”

That day, I learned the hard way that I truly no longer speak the dialect of my clan, but I can twang with the best of them when necessary.

(You can learn more about me here if you’re interested.)

May 10, 2022
Death Is My Traveling Companion

Death is my traveling companion.

We prepare for a dream trip to France and these items are on my list of things to accomplish before we board our first flight.

The drapes are at the alteration shop by the UPS store in the shopping center with the Subway, I tell Ray. In case anything happens to me, you’ll need to pick up the drapes.

He smiles sweetly and raises one eyebrow. He understands why I say these things.

To our children, my mother and my sister, I send a list of where we will be and the dates of each stay. The Hotel Saint Dominique with a link to its website where everything is in French. The camper van rental site. And lastly, the final hotel we’ll stay at the night before we fly home. Hopefully we will fly home.

I forget to send our airline info so I forward another email to our children. They may need this. Planes crash. I imagine them standing in their living rooms, tensely watching the news reports and waiting to match the flight number with the email I sent, like some backward version of watching the lottery results. There will be no dropped balls with numbers imprinted. Only wailing.

We book round trip tickets, but there are no guarantees. I am hyper aware that death may await my second husband and me on this trip just as it awaited my first husband and me in Alaska.

My patient husband tells me our kids and family will always be able to reach us by phone. Not if we’re dead, I tell him as my mind flashes back to images of tourists mown down by a terrorist in a renegade truck in a distant city…their bodies broken and bent and lying in the positions where they breathed their last.

We must update our will. And yet the night we sit down to discuss it, we cannot remember why we set things up the way we did. Was it because one of us might remarry after death? Was it because we were trying to do right by one another’s children?

The will is outdated. There is even a percentage of my money that will go to my father who has now been gone for five years.

I cannot have this discussion right now. There is too much emotion…too much stress. He lovingly smiles and says that’s okay. We can wait. He kindly does not mention that it was my idea to update the will.

Death is my traveling companion. I wonder what I would do if my husband were killed on his commute to work. Would I go on the trip? I ask my mother. No, you wouldn’t, she says. I pray harder for my sweet husband’s safety.

What if my mother dies while we’re gone, I wonder. What would I do? Would I come home immediately? Would I wait? Would my siblings want me to wait?

Stop your jitters and just be safe, my Mom tells me on the phone the morning we are to leave. I’m not nervous; I’m hyper aware. And there is a difference, I explain to her so she won’t worry about me.

It is not macabre that death is my traveling companion. I do not have a dark preoccupation with death.

I am simply very aware that death awaits us. And this awareness is heightened during travel because my first husband never came back from our trip.

I think of things that may seem disloyal to some. I ask my husband what is plan B for when you die?

Why am I going to die? he asks.

Well, if either of us die, I say unconvincingly.

I wonder what I will do when my husband is gone. Would I stay in this house? I think I would downsize, I decide. This house would be cavernous and lonely without him. I think I’ll get a gun.

I kiss him goodbye every morning, knowing this could be the last time I get to kiss him and tell him I love him.

Is it dishonorable to imagine a day without him? A life devoid of his graciousness toward me?

Death has hijacked something deep within me. It never fully leaves my side. It is a stowaway in my perception of what life is. Death lurks. Death hitchhikes. Death is not a roadblock. Death is the mechanical glitch that will break us down as we move forward.

Death is my traveling companion.

May 5, 2019
To the Widow Whose Husband Died Suddenly and Unexpectedly

My husband died suddenly and unexpectedly on our trip to Alaska. If your husband died suddenly and unexpectedly also, I’m so sorry for your loss. I was 43 when my husband and the father of our three children was killed in a tragic snowmobile accident.

One moment we were saying “I love you” and enjoying the day…the next he was gone. The shock was as palpable as being slammed against a wall.

I don’t pretend to know what you’re feeling or experiencing. I do, however, know that your sudden grief is different from a wife’s grief who’s lost her husband to a long-term illness. If I can be so bold, I’d like to share with you some things I experienced that you also might experience at some point. If you don’t experience these things, that’s because your grief is going to be as unique as you are.

Every morning is a reminder…for a time. In the first few weeks that you awaken each day, you will experience the reminder that your husband is gone over and over again. You will awaken and for a few brief moments, you will have forgotten. Then the dawning will fall on you and your heart will break anew. I spent so many mornings crumpled by the sadness of coming face to face with his death almost as if it were the first time. This “twilight grief” will go away. I don’t know how long it will be, but by God’s grace…you will not hurt as much as you do now.

The pain will subside…I promise. While you won’t hurt as much as you do now, you may find as I did that there’s comfort in the hurting. Somehow the grief seems to draw us nearer to our husband. And the day you realize that your cloud of grief is somehow lifting may bring another kind of grief. You realize that as much as you want to stop hurting, the sadness continues to bond you to your husband. And you’re afraid to move away from your husband by getting better. But get better you must.

You’ll long for him. No marriage is perfect, but you and your husband chose marriage continuously. Through all the ups and downs, you hung in there and bravely chose commitment Every.Single.Day. Death took that away from you. You didn’t want to stop being a wife, a lover, a best friend, a companion. It was ripped from you suddenly and you’re left longing. Longing for his smell…his touch…his voice. Aching to make love again. To feel his body against yours. You will ache for him.

You will ache to be touched. So be touched. Get your hair done often. Get manicures, pedicures, massages. Your need for human touch must be met so pay someone for appropriate touch. It’s what I did and it helped me navigate the skin hunger of losing my husband.

Loss will deliver compassion for others. Losing my husband suddenly and unexpectedly, along with the shock of grief that came with it taught me to never judge how someone grieves. After Mike’s death, I had family members who went off the deep end of alcohol abuse and negative choices after losing their spouses. And I got it. I understood that they were doing WHATEVER it took to soothe their pain. And the truth is I probably would have done the same things if I hadn’t had three children and a Christian reputation to protect that gave me boundaries. Soon after my husband’s death, I saw a post from a Christian widower who said he was having sex with women and detested himself. I got it. It’s very hard to judge another’s grief after ramming headfirst into a husband’s sudden death. It hurts so much.

Do whatever you need to do to feel better…with boundaries. Listening to the loudest rock music soothed my angry spirit for awhile. Weeping as I watched episodes of “A Wedding Story” helped at other times. Shopping, redecorating, taking classes, reading voraciously…they all had their place in my grief journey. For a time. Support groups didn’t help me, but that’s just me. I felt propelled to move from the “camp of death” and to pursue life. My children needed that from me.

The best advice I got after Mike died was just “to be.” To be present with myself. Be present with my grief. Be present with God as He lovingly carried my children and me through such deep loss. Listen to your spirit and do what soothes you. Avoid the “shoulds” right now. Avoid the people who all of a sudden want to become your friend to support you. You don’t have the energy for new friendships. Just be with those who have loved you before this day.

The worst advice? “Make sure you grieve.” Make sure I grieve? As if there’s any other choice? Give me a break. The people who give you this advice don’t realize that his absence lurks in every word, every song, every thought….every single day. You will cry in the strangest places. I sobbed while buying new tires, while watching my kids play, while waiting for coffee, when I saw a man who reminded me of Mike…the list goes on. You will cry a lot. And that’s from someone who didn’t cry much before.

Talk about him. You will need to talk about your husband a lot. Cling to friends who are willing to hear the same stories again and again…until you’re ready to stop telling them. My daughter shared a memory of her father with a friend who told her, “You’ve told me that before.” I gently pulled the friend aside and told her that she’s really the only one my daughter was talking to about her dad. And she may need to tell the same story more than once.

Your loss will never be over. You will grieve the loss of future anniversaries. You will grieve his absence at your children’s weddings and the birth of their children. You will grieve at small times that he would’ve been there and big times that his absence is glaring. You will grieve throughout the rest of your life, but the pain will subside. That’s God’s grace to us. Even when your husband died suddenly and unexpectedly.

Grow deeper with God. And, finally, if you’re a woman of faith, you already know the goodness and grace of our loving God who is walking through the valley of the shadow of death with you. You already know the peace that passes understanding, because you know there is no reason on earth that you have this much peace with so much loss. And for that, I’m very grateful for you. It is only by God’s grace and mercy that the human spirit can survive such loss even without a relationship with God. I believe, though, that the way is much smoother when we are carried by faith and a relationship with God.

If your husband died suddenly and unexpectedly, you will feel like you will never survive it. You will wonder how you can make it through one more day. You will stare into a future void of him and shudder.

But you will get better. You will always miss him, but you won’t always hurt like you do now. You will always long for him, but you won’t always ache. You will get better because get better you must.

January 3, 2019
How God Says My Name

We’ve been having work done on our house (to try to sell it!). And it’s been interesting to listen to the workers as they come in and out. Ray noticed that one crew really enjoyed each other as they joked and worked–very hard. When I told them that, they chuckled.

With a late-night plumber visit (that was supposed to come at 8:30 that morning!), I listened to the two men as they went in and out of our house.

The older man, James, spoke so kindly to the younger man, Jeremiah. I could tell in the lilt of James’ voice that there was affection and warmth. I figured they were father and son.

When I asked Jeremiah if this were true, he said that James was his uncle. I told him I could tell there was a connection because of how kind and loving James said his name. Jeremiah just smiled and thanked me. It meant something to him.

I asked Jeremiah if he was a journeyman and he said no, just an apprentice. His uncle was a master plumber with amazing skills.

And it made me wonder. How do I think the Master of the Universe says my name? Kindly like a loving father or caring uncle? Or harshly like a stern disciplinarian I’ll never be able to please?

How do you think God says your name?

In Zephaniah 3:17, we learn this about how God feels and thinks about us. “The LORD your God is in your midst, A victorious warrior He will exult over you with joy, He will be quiet in His love, He will rejoice over you with shouts of joy.”

Imagine God saying your name right now. Kindly. Gently. Lovingly.

Imagine God rejoicing over you like a father with a newborn baby–filled with delight and happiness.

He speaks to us with a kindness that’s palpable and precious.

Not only does He know my name, but He loves saying my name.

This is my God!

December 15, 2016
Someone, the Champlain Towers South

With the tragedy in Surfside, I could not stop thinking of the word “someone.” So many someones who were lost. I thought of how these people were doing normal things all day long that day and as I read the tributes to those who have been discovered and are still missing, I pooled the things that were said about these dear people to write this essay.

On the day before the building came crashing down with hell’s fury in the deep of night, it was a day like any other–a day someone did what someone does when mercifully unaware that someone’s end is near.

Someone talked to friends. Cassie Billedeau-Stratton talked to her husband from the fourth floor. Michael Altman talked to his son. Anastasia Gromova talked to her mother. “I love you,” she told her. Someone talked to a brother, a sister, an uncle the day before the building came crashing down.

Someone watched the sunset on the watery horizon and sighed a prayer to God. Magaly Elena Delgado gazed at the ocean she had dreamed of living near, breathing in its salty air for the last time.

Someone played cards. Someone shopped online. Someone finished a book while someone else started one. Someone wrote a letter.

Someone read the Torah. Someone read the Bible. Someone read the Koran. Hilda Noriega clutched the Rosary as the building came crashing down.

Someone cooked Ropa Vieja, someone ate Gallo Pinto, and someone swallowed the last spoonful of Sopa Paraguaya. Someone fed their children Dulce de Leche and someone braided an exquisite Challah loaf as she had so many times before.

A world of smells wafted from kitchens the day before the building came crashing down.

Someone was the world to her family.

Someone helped a neighbor. Someone said good morning and someone said good night. Antonio and Gladys Lozano had dinner with their son and kissed him goodbye, not knowing it would be their last before the building came crashing down.

Someone teased his wife. Someone argued. Someone made up. Someone hugged his loved ones tightly. Someone made love.

Someone paid bills while someone fried an egg. Someone folded laundry. Someone shined the windows that would shatter into a million pieces when the building came crashing down.

Someone waited for test results. Someone hoped for a miracle. Ilan Naibryf and Deborah Berezdivin attended a friend’s funeral the day before the building came crashing down.

Someone watched her wedding video. Ruslan Manashirov and Nicole Doran-Manashirov wrote thank you notes that would never be sent. Gladys and Antonio Lozano planned their 59th anniversary party. Someone longed for her late husband the day before the building came crashing down.

Someone beamed with pride because of her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. Judy Spiegel ordered a dress for her granddaughter while someone looked forward to his first grandchild.

Someone rocked a baby, inhaling the sweet smell of freshly washed hair. Aishani Gia Patel crawled across a solid floor that would disappear beneath her. Her parents chose a name for their unborn baby for a lifetime that was not to be. Someone kissed a child goodnight the day before the building came crashing down.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I ‘wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Someone slept soundly. Someone tossed and turned.

Someone heard creaking noises the day before the building came crashing down.

Someone felt the building sway.

Someone saw a crack opening up.

Someone felt the wind.

Someone–

Sources: https://www.local10.com/news/local/2021/06/28/stories-of-surfside-condo-victims-identified-life-of-the-party/

https://www.cnn.com/2021/06/24/us/miami-building-collapse-victims-missing/index.html

https://abcnews.go.com/US/victims-surfside-condo-collapse/story?id=78517075

June 23, 2022