Writer’s Block – Dealing With It

Writer’s block sucks. I know. I know. So does the vernacular, but I’m sorry, the description fits. It does. It sucks. I have no idea how that old devil writer’s block sneaks into my otherwise established routine from time to time, but it does. Its interference in my life does not make me happy. And I have to wonder at its power. How is it that WB’s invisible, sinister claws can pull me away from what usually is a must – putting words on paper . . . every day?

It is frustrating. After days of getting the words out, filling the pages, creating, creating, suddenly, the momentum stops. Dead. What caused it? Was it that trip to shop at Costco? Was it my garden calling? Was it my cold? (I have felt just awful!) Ah, it was the weekend at Tahoe, the walk with the dogs to the meadow, the breathing in of fresh air, the camaraderie with good friends. That was it. Yes. No, for I’m back from Tahoe. The cold is gone, Costco has been shopped, the memory of Tahoe is filed away, and still I wait . . . still I wait to stop finding excuses not to flip open that lap top and resume my story. 

This morning, domestic details kept me busy. I don’t particularly love cleaning the house, but I’m a Virgo. I like things neat and tidy. And, of course, laundry had piled up again. And there were other things. I walked my dogs three miles. I came home for lunch. I checked my emails. I perused Facebook. I played a game or two of Words With Friends. All of that takes time. Time!

Why then, one might ask, are you in the middle of a blog when you have writer’s block? I do not know how I got here. I had intended to work on my novel, but for some reason felt the need to rant about writer’s block, that insidious, aggravating, intangible phenomenon that, in all sincerity, has me feeling a bit out of sorts . . . and that really sucks! 

I know most people could not possibly understand my angst, but I feel it, and I must wear it like an itchy jacket. I’m an introvert. I like alone time. I cherish it actually. I like to fill my time, however, doing something constructive. I detest idleness. So, that is why, dealing with writer’s block is so difficult. I suppose the time has come to put mind over matter. Maybe today is a new beginning. Perhaps - maybe, maybe, maybe - I have put writer’s block back in its place with this little tirade. We’ll see tomorrow, but what I’m thinking now is that it’s time for writer’s block to move aside one more time and for me to take control of its space. Procrastination be damned! Time to move on.

www.jdechesre-boyle.com

What Do You Think? Would You Read This?

I am working on a fifth novel - only about 12,000 words into it - and thought I would write something very different from what I have written in the past. I’m not sure what will happen with the characters in this book. Each time I write, my characters seem to have minds of their own and drive me to develop the story as I go. These fictional beings have incredible powers of suggestion! This new book begins with a character named Grace.

 I would love to know what anyone out there thinks about the beginning. Do you think you’d want to read further into the book?

If it had been up to Grace she might have thrown in the proverbial, goddamned towel years before, but she evidentially had not been afforded rights to final jurisdiction as to when the end might come, even though she possessed a very heady mind of her own; as a result, here she was, carrying on as if, indeed, there was a tomorrow. It’s not that she hadn’t considered the notion that the prerogative of ending it all, right then and there, was hers for the taking, but she had thought better of it. It would leave a mess. And, besides, she had never lusted for dubious attention. As a matter of fact, if the truth were known, the mere thought of such an impulse sent her mind reeling. For lost in a sea of memories, was a rather sordid chapter that she just as soon would have forgotten entirely if she could have. Unfortunately, with untimely, aggravating regularity recollection of the incident weaseled its way into her consciousness. That annoyance never had sat well, but what could she do? She could only visualize what had happened and then pack the memory away with all the others - and there was a litany of them - until next time. 

And now, here she was, eighty-eight and counting; eighty-eight and reminiscing; eighty-eight and regretting, grieving, and often enough, rejoicing or savoring the many morsels of her life. A non-stop scramble of thoughts, reflections, and considerations swirled like a dervish around in her weary mind. And though at times she grew tired of remembering, it gave her something to do. She had to wonder though. How in the devil did I come this far? And furthermore, for God’s sake, what’s apt to happen next?

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

A Little Bit About Katelyn

       The name Katelyn was a mindless choice when I began this piece. I have known very few females named Katelyn and this character sketch is completely fictitious. I simply wanted to do a little writing practice – away from my book-in-progress-at-the-moment and apart from venting my angst about an anxious and unsettling world as I have done in a few of my more recent blogs. I actually have taken quite a long “blog break” but have challenged myself as of this week to crank out at least two a week. This will be blog number 264.

It was not unusual for Katelyn to wake up tired and cranky. She actually was used to it and to feel differently would have been a crushing blow because she loved to wallow in a world of negativity. One might ask why, of course, but she would not have been able to explain. The fact of the matter was it was her reality. The one thing in her life she could control was her outlook on the world around her, but to that end, she couldn’t seem to get her point of view out of the cellar. 

The day always began with a systematic check on her physical wellbeing. Well, I guess I’m alive. How do feel? What hurts? Where? And why? Her thoughts might persist for minutes, but eventually she would slide from bed and march into the bathroom to assess what she saw in the mirror. It was never good. Even though she had flawless skin and long, silky, brown hair, the rest, in her estimation, was a disaster. My eyes are too small, my nose is too pointy, and my mouth is too wide. None of that was true, but she held it as so . . . and so it came to be, at least for her.

After a scalding hot shower, Katelyn would wander to her closet to select something to wear. No one is going to care for one second what I’m wearing anyway. Her wardrobe consisted of blouses, pants, and skirts, mostly in shades of gray or brown. Everything else was navy blue, white, or black. Other colors - the bright, pastel or flashy ones - she insisted, hurt her eyes. When she had thrown on whatever she had yanked from the closet she walked from her bedroom, down a dark hallway, to a small kitchen with one tiny window, the shade drawn, of course. Breakfast was always the same – a piece of dry toast, a boiled egg, and a cup of black coffee. No sugar.

Then it was off to her little cubicle at a savings and loan company where she worked as an accounting clerk. Accounts Payable to be exact. After walking two blocks from her apartment, she hopped the streetcar, stepping off just short of a nondescript-looking office building that housed several businesses all in one. Once inside her partitioned workspace, she sorted through stacks of bills marking some for immediate payment and leaving others for another day. Why should I care? What are they going to do? Come after me?She always left work promptly at five o’clock, retracing her route home . . . in the opposite direction, of course. It was the same routine day after day after day. Until the one day it wasn’t. 

Someone followed her home.

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

Telling It Like It Is

Censorship has raised its ugly head. I wrote a blog yesterday about myself, about my feelings as to what has been happening in our country in recent days, and about the intense love most parents feel for their children. The piece was filled with I, I, I, because it was about what was occurring for me. It was personal. And, although, yes, I did share my own “up-until-then-private” outrage about kids in cages and about the heartbreaking separation of families, my writing circled back in the end, to me. The blog was about how I’ve been feeling, what I’ve been thinking, and how I am dealing with my emotional response to the current news cycle. In the end, I simply stated a paltry plan of action so that my voice is heard: to write. That’s all.

Eagar to share my blog, I “boosted” it on social media so that the audience reading it would be increased; it would be offered to a broader group of potential readers. Almost immediately, my request to boost was denied. The text and/or imagery you’re using qualifies as political based on the definition we’re using for enforcement. Okay. I accept that position although I still don’t agree that my blog was political. Perhaps it was the title – Caged - One Way Or Another – that caught someone’s eye. Maybe it was the photo of a large, warehouse cage that brought on some editor’s ire. Certainly the photo of tiny fingers grasping an adult’s thumb was innocuous enough. Wasn’t it? Yet, how am I to know another person’s way of thinking?

I’m venting, I know, but, in essence, I feel a bit as thought I have been censored. It was my understanding that suppression of free speech flew in the face of the first amendment. But maybe I’m wrong. As Bob Dylan put it in a much different time, The Times They Are A Changin’. And I’m a bit wary, as are, I believe, a few others.

           I was watching the news earlier today and two reporters were decrying the fact that a few folks have attacked them personally for the stories they report. One actually mentioned the old saying - Don’t kill the messenger. These journalists were making the point that their right to free speech is essential. Ethical reporters are duty-bound to deliver the news accurately. As one correspondent pointed out, perhaps attackers of the news media should look beyond the newscast itself to the origin of the story. To whom or what is the story referring? It is not unthinkable that the protesters’ anger is misplaced. More importantly, however, shouldn’t they . . . shouldn’t all of us . . . be thankful for that first amendment right that protects free speech? Surely, it’s not something we want suppressed.

BTW, just in case a reader has forgotten, below are the words of the first amendment. I hope this doesn’t make today’s blog too political.   

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

Caged - One Way Or Another

I admit it. I’ve had writer’s block. Okay. So, that’s not exactly true. I write everyday . . . in my head. I am always creating lines, working on my novel, thinking about my characters, or wondering how best to advance the storyline. That writing process never ends. I also have written a letter of support for a DACA recipient (not the first one), a thank you note, a letter of recommendation, a few entries in my journal, a poem I could not finish, and the beginning of a blog or two. And, I’ve done some editing on my current novel (now that’s never ending). At least, to that end, I am beginning to feel my new characters take hold. 

So, yes, I have been writing, but I definitely have had writer’s block. For about three weeks, I have been unable to get into that “flow”, that state of creativity where the current world slips away from my consciousness and I am developing a new one – where nothing else matters but the words I am putting to paper. That is what has been missing and I haven’t been happy about it. It’s as though I’ve been caged and I can’t escape. 

I’ve been distracted – too many projects around the house; a chronic back problem that has reared its ugly head; errands that cannot be avoided; monotonous domestic details (How many times a week need one vacuum with pets around?); routine doctor visits; dealing with my demanding German Shepherds; and watching the news . . . the crazy cycles of information that cannot be escaped. News is everywhere. It is on television, on Facebook, on popup flashes on my phone, in magazines and newspapers, in emails from friends, and in emails from countless, unfamiliar people who somehow have managed to add me to their mailing lists. The news has seeped into my very being. It’s in my dreams. Really. I dreamed two nights ago about a queue of restless, frantic mothers, standing uncertain, with their babies in cages. Seriously, I dreamed of diapered infants being toted around in small cages by their mothers . . . as if that were normal. 

Well, damn. Has it become the norm? Kids are in cages. I can’t stop thinking about it. Kids are in cages. Kids are in cages. Little kids. Toddlers. Adolescents. I know outrage over this practice has become the prevalent emotion among a great many people everywhere and clearly folks at many levels are trying to put a stop to such barbaric, inhumane actions but it hasn’t happened yet. Reporters and members of Congress are being blockaded at every corner. And with each passing day, children are traumatized in ways we perhaps can understand and in ways we most certainly cannot imagine. I truly am heartsick. 

I am a parent. I can never forget the moments when I held my sons in my arms for the first time. The emotion was magical, intense, almost too powerful to truly absorb for a second, but then I did take it all in, and I felt the most powerful love for those sweet babies who became my “everything”.  Most parents would understand. How could one not? Furthermore, how could one not have sympathy - or for those who have experienced the loss of a child, empathy - as we watch the news of families being separated cycle through?

I do not know these people who are seeking asylum in the United States personally. I do not know the adults. I do not know the children. But I do know the intensity of love a parent feels for one’s child. I do know that. Tearing families apart is not normal. We cannot normalize it. We cannot let history repeat itself.

The news had brought this crisis into our living rooms, into our lives. It is unavoidable. And it’s time to make our voices heard, one way or another. I plan to keep writing . . . this blog, letters to congress, or letters to news outlets. Write. It’s one thing I know how to do and when I'm doing it, I don't feel so caged.

www.jdechesre-boyle.com

More Thoughts And Prayers - Really?

         Reflections On Another School Shooting

            This is the truth. For the past crazy year, every morning when I walk out into the kitchen and family room to take care of our two German shepherds, I pick up my charging cell phone to check the news and say to myself, “What kind of shit is happening in the world this morning?” 

            I’m never disappointed . . . and I say that facetiously. Natural disasters and random, bizarre accidents aside, something insane constantly is occurring around the world – in foreign countries, in our own government, and in plain, old, average communities in our United States. Today was no different.  

            No sooner had I drunk my cup of coffee, than it happened – an alert on my phone announcing a school shooting in Santa Fe. At first I thought it was Santa Fe, NM, but then found out the town was in Texas. No matter. It still meant probable injuries, maybe a death or two. (Are we becoming so accustomed to events such as this mass murder that the news doesn’t faze us?) By the time the morning was over, I learned that nine students and a teacher had been killed; another ten people had been shot. Twenty people. Twenty people (and their loved ones) who, I would assume, thought they were beginning another average day, had their lives changed forever. 

            So, what is going to be done about yet another tragedy in our country? Are we going to send a hefty batch of thoughts and prayers? Sure. We’ll do that. Is that all we’ll do though? Probably it is . . . and that is an additional disaster, a pitifully sad state of affairs. Politicians will again bluster their outrage, sputter about mental illness, rant about the unfairness of bullying, sidestep the issue of more responsible gun control, and cozy up to special interests who want to maintain the status quo. It’s a fact. 

            Aside from that, however, are those pesky thoughts and prayers. Offer them. Give them. Believe in them if necessary, but know they will not bring dead children back to their parents. They will not do that. Anyone who has lost a child for any reason, whether in a barrage of bullets in a school shooting, on a battlefield, in an accident, or to illness such as cancer - anyone like that - knows the stark reality of absolute loss. Trust me. I know this is true because I am one of those parents.

 “Ah,” one might say. “He’ll always be with you in your heart, in sweet memories, in unforgettable recollections.” 

Yeah. Right. True. Such a comment does hold some veracity; it does, but it falls short to those of us who have lost a child. The void is forever. And for the parents of the students who died today, for those people, I am so, so sad . . . and a little bit angry. Today will begin a new reality for them. Sure, most of them will “get through”; they will carry on, but it will never, ever, be the same. Life, in an instant, has been altered. 

In reality, perhaps that is true for all of us. To some degree maybe all of our lives shifted a bit today for despite all the thoughts and prayers, the tragedy that occurred this morning at a high school in the state of Texas cannot be removed from our consciousness; it cannot, unless, of course, we are spiritually dead already. 

www.jdechesere-boyle.com    

Live and Let Live – 

         A Character Sketch 

From the moment that Cecelia had first noticed her own refection in the small, makeup mirror on Mama’s bedside table, she understood. She was cockeyed, plain as day. Though she was six at the time when she finally took a good, long look, she could tell things weren’t quite right. One eye was bigger than the other – the blue one on the right was larger than the hazel one on the left. Both were lined with thick, chocolate-colored eyelashes, and that was nice enough, though the lashes on the right curled up into themselves while the left ones were pencil straight. And her nose? It was small and well aligned until the very end where it turned up a touch more than slightly. She could look right into her nostrils and she stared initially for minutes wondering just what was up there hiding in the dark. 

Her mouth was another issue. When it was closed, she held it rosebud tight, but when she opened it, it gaped open, drawing up on the left as though tugged by an unseen puppet master. If she stuck out her tongue, that in her assessment was amazingly normal, it curled into a perfect U. Maybe that wasn’t so bad. The straw to her Sippy cup always had fit her mouth to perfection. 

Her teeth had no intention of cooperating in any ordinary manner either. They erupted through swollen gums much too slowly and in crooked disarray until she was twelve. Temporary braces had helped, but an annoying retainer had become Cecelia’s partner for life. The moment she abandoned it, every tooth developed a mind of its own.

Cecelia’s first look at herself certainly had not been the last. For years afterwards, she had been drawn to mirrors, to window reflections, to any looking glass she could find. She simply could not understand why she, unlike anyone else in the family, had been created in such a misaligned manner. Why look at my ears. One lies flat against my head like a gnarly, old growth of some kind and the other pokes out . . . and a little too far to my way of thinking. Well, at least my hair covers them.

Her hair. That was another issue altogether. It grew it seemed, in fits and starts, at times taking months for a nest of unmanageable curls to appear; at other times, it grew inches in a month, the locks falling into wild, tangled, waves. Oftentimes, Cecelia simply pulled the mess back and tied it in a ponytail at the nape of her neck with a ribbon of some kind . . . always making sure the ears were hidden though. 

Cecelia’s muddled proportions did not stop with the features of her head, however. Her arms were not even, the left being at least half an inch longer than the right; her right hand was thicker and fleshier than the left; and her feet were not the same size either . . . at least a half size difference in length according to the grouchy, shoe salesman at Macys down at the mall. Well, what am I supposed to do? Buy two pairs of the exact shoes? 

By the time she was sixteen, after ten years of marking the discrepancies of her body, Cecelia gave up – not with life, but with judging herself. I am who I am. Folks can take me or leave me.And her outlook worked. Despite the fact that Cecelia’s features were a bit askew, everyone who knew her overlooked them just as she had learned to do for her personality was one to be emulated. She bore life on an even keel. Oh, she had normal ups and downs but overall her disposition was one that was balanced and calm, a complete contrast to her awkwardly put-together figure and visage . . . and that was a paradoxical juxtaposition all to itself. 

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

Excuses, Excuses

         I suppose everyone has excuses for not accomplishing what they should at times. Perhaps it doesn’t matter to most folks, but for me, not completing tasks I have committed to doing is bothersome. The following is what’s been going on for me.

I have been neglecting my blog. It’s a fact. Why? I have many reasons, most of which don’t hold up . . . not for someone who loves to write. It’s not that I haven’t been writing. I have. I’m working on a new novel, but even that has being going in fits and starts. In the past, I have been at my computer for several hours early in the morning or all afternoon. I love becoming totally engrossed in creating a character or imagining a scene. Lately, it has been harder, and thus the excuses.

First. Okay. So, I have a new German Shepard puppy, Molly, but she is seven months old now. She is much less demanding. She can fend for herself or play with her big half-brother, Jake. That excuse is wearing thin.

Second, my husband has been around a great deal lately . . . not that that’s a bad thing; it’s simply a distraction or a disruption. “Let’s go walk the dogs.” “We need to plant the garden.” “I want to check out MSNBC.” “We should make a Costco run.” “The Warriors (or the Giants) are on in a few minutes.” Needless to say, I have found it difficult to carve out enough non-interrupted time to concentrate the way I like.

Third, I have been reading like a fiend. Seriously. I have been drawn to a number of non-fiction books about politics and about the world we live in currently. I read Fire and Fury by Michael Wolff, Russian Roulette by Michael Isikoff and David Corn, What Happened by Hillary Clinton, and A Higher Loyalty by James Comey. Fascism by Madeline Albright is on the stack in front of me. And The Soul of America by Jon Meacham is due to arrive today. I even read a children’s book, A Day in the Life of Marlon Bundo written by Marlon Bundo and Jill Twiss (illustrated by EG Keller) and presented by the one and only, John Oliver. This little book is a gem! I read Still Me by Jojo Moyes, The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, Camino Island by John Grisham, and Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult. Right now, I am smack in the middle of The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah. Plus something “juicy” always captures my reading interest on Facebook when I tune in for a few minutes each day. 

Fourth, and this is a weak one . . . I’ve been pulling weeds. It’s spring. Everything is growing like crazy. Those pesky weeds beckon my Virgo spirit and I want to clean up, so I pick and pull until my fingernails are dirty and broken (even with gardening gloves) and my allergies are giving me fits. The sun is lovely though and I sweat through another session, satisfied that at least another section of the property looks tolerable.

Fifth – Words with Friends. Silly, isn’t it? I like playing though, win or lose. It’s another means of staying connected to friends and can be strategically interesting. 

Finally, and this is probably the most meaty excuse for neglecting my blog - I am distracted by the news, most of which I find disconcerting. Perhaps I think too much, but I would be happier if our country was not so divided, not so angry, and certainly not so volatile. Every morning I wake up, stumble into the family room and kitchen to take care of the dogs and, of course, check my phone that has been charging all night. “What crazy shit am I going to read about now?” It’s the same question each morning. If it’s not a natural disaster somewhere that grabs my attention, I learn that an insane or misguided person is up to no good. “Why don’t you blog about those things?” one might ask. Believe me, I think about it, but I don’t want to come off as a pontificator, as if my opinions are right or more correct than those of others. On my blog, I have tried to stay away from controversial issues that can be off-putting or seem judgmental though a few times I haven’t been able to help myself.  

I know I can always write a creative piece, a scene or character sketch and blog that, but, really . . . who actually cares? Those blogs are writing practice. Occasionally, a reader will respond, but in reality, I believe readers ignore them. It’s too long. It’s not important to me. It’s not relevant. It’s not interesting. I do not have time.

So, here it is, for what it’s worth – my first blog in two months (though it is number 259). My goal is to be better organized and self-directed and in the future - two blogs a week. No more excuses. 

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

Stuck and Alone

I began this little vignette with one word – a girl’s name. Agnes. I had no idea when I began writing where this piece would take me. As it turns out, I created a female who is baffled by her life. Though it hasn’t quite turned out as she might have planned, she has decided to take it just as it is. 

Agnes had no idea why she had no answers, but she realized a little too late, that she did not. She had been searching her whole life for a purpose, for a reason to be, for a means to make a difference, for the perfect relationship, for one of those loves that make magical movies. All of it, every bit, had evaded her and now that she was on the verge of forty, she felt as if she were an empty vessel. Even her feelings had betrayed her. She had none . . . or so it seemed. She was not happy; nor was she sad. She did not expect anything, did not look forward, and did not look back. The only good thing, she supposed was that she was here, breathing, taking in air, in and out, in and out.

How does one reach her fortieth year feeling unaccomplished, unappreciated, unloved, undone? Agnes had to wonder, but that was about all she could do.

            Maybe it’s my name. Why in the world did my parents name me Agnes? Agnes. Ag-nes . . . the pure and holy one. She had looked up the meaning once. “Who in this day and age,” she had asked herself, “is going to employ, befriend, or love an Agnes? Maybe if I’d been a Jennifer, a Shelley, a Madison, a Rachel, Alisha, Emily, Deb, Chloe, anything other than Agnes, my life would be different.

            Maybe it’s my face. I’m ordinary. The fact was that Agnes was Agnes - brown hair, honey-brown eyes, paler than olive skin, a straight nose, a mouth . . . one that seldom smiled. She was of average height, normal weight, and was far from ugly, but not beautiful either. She did not stand out in any way. She was convinced she had gone through life unnoticed. Completely unnoticed . . . pathetically unseen.

            Maybe it’s my intellect. Agnes was smart, but not too smart. She had graduated from high school and junior college with every grade being a B or C. It didn’t matter the subject – one she liked or one she hated - she always earned, or, at least, was given a B or C . . . nothing more and nothing less.

            Maybe it’s my personality. Not one person disliked Agnes. How could they? No one had ever been close to her because, whether consciously or subconsciously, she had kept others at bay. Better to be safe than sorry. Her reasoning had become her bond - an enemy and a friend.

            And so it was. Agnes would spend her fortieth birthday on her own. Her parents had died, her sister lived miles away, and her only acquaintances were distant as well, both in proximity and in relationship too. It’s all right, Agnes. Being alone would be an advantage in itself. No one would listen, no one would hear, and she wouldn’t have to answer to anyone.

www.jdechesere-boyle.com

A New Start

So, here’s what’s up. In the past few days, I have begun a new novel. I have only a little over 2000 words in print so far, and the passage below is the very first, short section. In this book, I hope to explore the notion of aging. When one reaches really old age, what does one consider? My main character is eighty-eight year-old, Grace. Through her telling and flashbacks, I am hoping others can understand, and in essence, “live” her life. I would very much appreciate comments.

If it had been up to Grace she might have thrown in the proverbial, goddamned towel years before, but she evidentially had not been afforded rights to final jurisdiction as to when the end might come, even though she possessed a very heady mind of her own; as a result, here she was, carrying on as if, indeed, there was a tomorrow. It’s not that she hadn’t considered the notion that the prerogative of ending it all, right then and there, was hers for the taking, but she had thought better of it. It would leave a mess. And, besides, she had never lusted for dubious attention. As a matter of fact, if the truth were known, the mere thought of such an impulse sent her mind reeling. For lost in a sea of memories, was a rather sordid chapter that she just as soon would have forgotten entirely if she could have. Unfortunately, with untimely, aggravating regularity recollection of the incident weaseled its way into her consciousness. That annoyance never had sat well, but what could she do? She could only visualize what had happened and then pack the memory away with all the others - and there was a litany of them - until next time.

And now, here she was, eighty-eight and counting; eighty-eight and reminiscing; eighty-eight and regretting, grieving, and often enough, rejoicing or savoring the many morsels of her life. A non-stop scramble of thoughts, reflections, and considerations swirled like a dervish around in her weary mind. And though at times she grew tired of remembering, it gave her something to do. She had to wonder though. How in the devil did I come this far? And furthermore, for God’s sake, what’s apt to happen next?

www.jdechesere-boyle.com