I wrote this piece a few years ago when I turned 40. The inspiration came from the few photographs I have of my father, John Daniel Lugo, Sr. On this World AIDS Day 2018, I remember him and the millions who have died from this illness that does not discriminate
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                                                                             Legacy

     All my life I have been told we look alike. That I am the spitting image of you.  That we were one and the same. When I was three I had the same wispy dark blonde hair that you had at that age. I saw it in a photo grandma had of you on the sideboard in her dining room. In the photo, your eyes were wide and exploratory. It looked as if you were seeing beyond the camera, the future perhaps.  

     When I was eight I saw a photo of you at the same age and it stuck with me. Your eyes were different now. They had a sense of a fate already accepted. Auntie Patty told me that when you were seven, you had a dream you would die before your time. After that, something changed in you.  Your eyes were dark pools of knowledge that perfectly complimented your now brown hair.  My hair colour changed too.  My eyes were different now too.  They had been since you looked into them as the ambulance pulled away. It was good bye not see you later.

    When I was thirteen I saw a photo of you. Grandpa told me we were the same ages in that one as he ruffled my hair in that way that made me tense up.  I could see the similarities in our eyes. You had long eyelashes that probably made your sisters jealous. All the girls at school were jealous of mine so I could relate. Your Romanesque nose seemed smaller than mine but I could see what Grandpa meant. You smiled more than I did.

   When I was eighteen just before graduation, Mom walked in and looked at me in a way she hadn't before. She leaned against the door frame and said “It's like seeing a ghost. You look more like him every day." I smiled because I didn't know if that was a good thing or not. I had seen a photo of you at 18 and you wore your hair like you were Carlos Santana.  My hair was frosted and combed  to the side. I couldn't see past that.

   When I was twenty three I looked at your wedding photo as I unpacked them from a box. You were the same age as me then. In the corner I noticed my stroller for the first time.  I remember feeling guilty that my parents had waited to give me a name. I saw your choices as my burden.  You were smiling from ear to ear as if that moment was the summit of your happiness.  I knew then that I was born out of love and that conventions mattered very little to you. I knew then that sometimes it was okay to put the milk in before the cereal.

    When I was twenty eight I framed a photo of you and me side by side both the same age, twenty eight. I wanted to see if it was still true what they said. Our eyes were similar. Both of us with dark pools of experience looking back at the camera. Your smile still outshone mine but the way our cheeks lifted was almost identical. My skin colour only slightly darker than yours, easily explained by a sun tan. Your hair was slightly longer than mine and you wore a bandanna on your forehead for some reason.  My hair was short and manageable. Our similarities were more important than our differences.

    On my thirty third birthday, Auntie Patty was at my surprise birthday party. She took one look at me and put her hands on her face. "You look so much like him!" She smiled. I smiled back. I had learned to smile when people commented on how similar we both looked. You were handsome and loved. This meant I was both those things too, right?  But there are no photos of you at thirty three. How could I still look like you?

     I'm older than you now, nearly forty. My skin is smooth. My eyes are dark with introspection. When I smile my youth is a trick of the light. The crow’s feet and worn hands always give away my real age. The photo of you at three now hangs on the wall in my office at home. All my friends ask if that was me as a child. I used to wonder what you were looking at in that picture. Perhaps you knew then that one day I would be mistaken for you. 

*****
This year, I set up a fund in his name for the Terence Higgins Trust. It is open year round for donations and will go to ensure that we continue to fight for a cure and eradicate the ignorance and stigma attached to this disease. 

https://john-lugosr-1955-1986.muchloved.com/?cac=1

In case I haven't been obvious enough and you haven't heard, I entered the Amazon Storyteller UK 2018 contest with my novella Lu's Outing. So far in a contest with over 10,000 entries, the feedback has been fantastic and I am humbled by the support. As of this morning, it is currently ranked #157 based on average reviews. I am in awe of that.

I love that people are reading a work of mine that struggled to find a “traditional” home. Novella's are near impossible to sell and get representation for in the industry particularly as an “unknown.” This contest provided me with the opportunity to share what I believe is a great story. It was a pleasure to write, and from the reviews, a pleasure to read.

I have only ever felt this strongly about another piece I wrote which took me 20 years to find a home for. “When Night Falls” is a short story that I was determined to have published. I used to joke that if I didn’t find a home for it, I would have to build one for it. It was written to be read which may sound odd to many people, but there is writing that you are not always sure you want to share. You take a chance. Lu's Outing, I knew from the moment I wrote the first sentence was meant to find an audience.  The characters exist in other stories I have written and I have started the process of writing another instalment that will have more adventures and insights in to the lives of the characters of Lu’s Outing.

I won't lie though, I was afraid because the platform that presented itself was a self publishing one. I worried about the opinions of my peers, and my friends. The behind the back sneers, the looks of "awww bless his little heart."I was worried about my own bias. I’m a writer, we have the neurosis, anxiety and doubt as an almost default function in our makeup. If you could think of a put down, we’ve already thought of twice as many. I had to push all that to one side and trust in the work. Remind myself of why I wrote it. How I felt writing it. Remember the smile it left on my face when I finished it and the feeling of being on the right track.  

I also thought about the people in my life. I am blessed to be surrounded by creative types in all fields. Some have formal/ professional representation and some don't, yet they don't get the sneers that writers do for pursuing the same avenues. If an unsigned band goes into the studio and records an EP or album and plays live gigs, we buy the CD's or downloads. We tell our friends about them. We support them. When an artist paints a picture and sells them out of their home, through a website or a stall in a market, people buy them, they support them. When a performer puts on a show, we go, we support them, and we tell our friends. Yet, if a writer self publishes...tumbleweeds.

So first, thank you to all of those who have supported me thus far in this competition. Your supportive comments and reviews are everything. Those who have reached out and sent me messages have blessed me with a feeling that makes every moment of this competition worthwhile. If you haven’t read it or reviewed it yet the contest ends 31st August 2018 so there is time and you will have my infinite appreciation in addition to a cracking read.

For anyone in doubt as to the process of self publishing, it is time consuming. Hard is not even the word to describe it. I have had a baptism of fire with this competition and it has given me a tremendous amount of respect for those who pursue the self publishing route. This is not for the fainthearted and I feel ashamed for ever doubting how rewarding it can feel and how much respect we should be giving to those who pursue this avenue. I have taken each copy sold and each review written as a personal victory. More on my thoughts about the self publishing route to come after the contest ends.

If you think finding time to write is hard, try doing it when you are balancing promoting your book at all levels in this season which is notoriously difficult for writers to get any work done in. It has taught me new ways of balancing my writing time and cherishing it with a renewed sense of purpose.

A writer friend said to me that even if you don’t win, you have won. I couldn’t agree more with that sentiment and I couldn’t do it without the support of all of you.
 
Lu’s Outing is available on Amazon Worldwide in both kindle and paperback. Click here for various marketplaces.

Completing hubby’s birthday was the 10th anniversary of CK Sunday’s at Halfway. We have only followed CK for less than two years when we began taking regular trips back up to London. In fact, it was one boozy Sunday that we wandered into Halfway to experience CK for the first time. It was CK Sunday that made us both fall in love again with the London scene. They also rekindled our love of all things drag.

In that time we have been so honoured with the welcome we get when we see them; and having a shout out for having travelled up from Cornwall made our day. This though is the essence of their show on a Sunday at Halfway: community.

I challenge you to go see CK on a Sunday and not leave feeling fabulous or at least with a smile on your face. Are they the perfect way to round off the weekend or start the week? The answer is both.

CK are formed of Crystal D’Canter and Kelly Mild who bring you proper sing along magic from musical theatre numbers to Erasure, Bananarama and Kim Wilde. Signature tunes include “Suddenly Seymour” from Little Shop of Horrors, “Oom Pah Pah” from Oliver, “I Know Him So Well” from Chess. After seeing CK, you will never listen to “I Want You Back” by Bananarama without hearing Kelly Mild’s addition of “Back! Back! Back!”  Nor will you sing along to “I Drove All Night” without adding Crystal D’Canter’s hand on wheel motion.
Their extravaganza was not just a celebration of them but a way to give back to their fans. There were awards and prizes to the hardworking staff at Halfway and to those fans who are there week after week getting their dose of CK. There was a special guest PA by Miss Alex Vileda Anstey, currently performing in the West End production of Everybody’s Talking About Jamie.

I’m an urban boy at heart. Third generation Native New Yorker you don’t meet many of us anymore. I have to admit that the longer we live in the country side, I run the risk of being labelled a provincial queer over urban.  Okay that will probably never really happen as you can take the boy out of the city but you can’t take the city out of the boy.  What it has done though is made me aware of how much I took the scene for granted when we lived in a city. In Cornwall, we don’t have the same safe spaces that cities have, simple as that. We don’t have scenes to which you can escape to let your hair down, not without travelling hours to Plymouth. None of that matters though at CK Sunday’s because there is a feeling of inclusion, No matter how serious the world is out there, downstairs, you have you are welcomed, you belong and that is something that the world needs more of.

Thank you Crystal and Kelly for a truly incredible anniversary show and for giving us laughter, music, sing –a-longs but most importantly, for providing that space where it doesn’t matter how old you are or who you are, you are always welcomed.  We love you girls!

Following on that weekend in London, on Saturday we celebrated hubby’s pre-birthday at Halfway to Heaven by taking two friends to see Rose Garden, a drag performer who has a special place in our hearts from the time we lived in London. I have written about Rose before but what made this show special was that our friend Cass, was a drag virgin and Rose did not disappoint in making her feel part of the show. The thing about drag is not only do the performers need to have a thick skin but so does the audience. If you haven’t seen Rose and are of a delicate demeanour, you’d probably walk out in disgust. Having grown up in Belfast during the 70’s, her jokes can take aim at everything from “The Troubles” to the current state of identification and classification within the LGBTQ community. She did both that Saturday. Rose and I disagreed on the term queer which I prefer but she does not: still after calling me out on it, we all agreed she was a BITCH and it was cemented in unison J. If you head down to her show, you’ll get that joke.

Splicing her own unique brand of jokes with old musical and tv classics from the theme to Laverne and Shirley to Cabaret and Rocky Horror, there is a comfort in knowing that there are performers who are still carrying the tradition of drag as I first encountered it over 25 years ago. Performers, who have paid their dues and have weathered the changing tides of the scene. It is too easy now for many to think that drag is all Drag Race instant celebrity when truth is for a long time, it existed behind blacked out windows where for a few hours you could forget the realities of life out there and laugh, drink and smile in a safe space. Where the success of the show depended on the connection with the audience. Rose keeps that magic alive.  
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To introduce friends to that experience on a Saturday at Halfway was extra special on a weekend celebrating hubby’s birthday. It was also our first experience seeing Morag McDuff who did manage to get our friend Cass on the stage. She did have the drag baptismal of fire that day. Here is another reason to head down to Halfway on a Saturday in case you aren’t convinced yet.  Each time we have ventured down on a Saturday, we are introduced to new acts and this is how fan bases are traditionally created, at a grassroots level. 

I was going to post about seeing Ripley’s Like A Sturgeon: Trump Tops at the RVT on March 9th upon my return from London but illness got in the way. Still, there is never a time limit on praise.  In that time I was ill, Facbook also brought up a memory from a year ago that made me realise I don’t just want to write about, I need to write about and if you haven’t yet seen Ripley perform, you need to get your arse down to wherever she is on stage next. In fact, the next instalment of Like A Sturgeon: Fake News will be on Friday June 15, 2018 at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Get yourself a ticket here.

The memory that Facebook brought up was a year ago, hubby and I were downstairs at Halfway to Heaven watching Rose Garden when she brought Ripley on stage as her guest. You can read my original posting on that here. I was personally touched when she tweeted it as a reminder to remain defiant in her art. Not everyone needs to get what she does, but she needs to do what she does and if you ask me, in this day and age if you don’t get what she is doing, then you haven’t been paying attention.  Wake up people, this is not a drill.
In that time, she has gone from strength to strength with her third instalment of Like A Sturgeon: Top Trumps at the RVT.  Those who were in attendance will agree that she set the bar even higher than ever.  As she told me, the show was three months in production and the reaction of the audience I hope made her realise how much it was all worth it. We had a friend visiting from New York who was floored by her performance and said to us that he wished performers in the US were doing what she does.

Returning characters like Nicola Sturgeon were present as was Melania, who this time was not the only Trump in attendance. Ripley brought out Donald, Ivanka, and even Byron. With the help of her drag daughter Elle, we were treated to Byron Trump (click here for video), Tiffany Trump and that sneaky Putin. If you go to Ripley’s Facebook page (click here) and see the videos, you will never think of Tatu’s “All the Things She Said” in the same light again.

As with previous shows, Like A Sturgeon was set to Ripley’s own pre-recorded voice, giving us insight into the political villains of the current time. Usually Theresa May and most recently Arlene Foster have been her choice of attack but this time, it was all Trump. Simultaneously scary and hilarious. The portrayals were like the Trump themselves, you are not really sure if what you are seeing is believable or a joke.  Their sinister monologues were spliced with sound bites from the likes of Rhianna, Kate Bush, and so many more. A special mention to Bjork as Melania informs us of her own morning ritual in Hyperballad. Not just content with giving us this, the video in the background set to Madonna’s “What It Feels Like for a Girl” showed “Donald Trump” putting on make-up and women’s clothes was the stuff of YouTube viral dreams. If it were ever released to the public, I am sure that is where it would end up. Trump’s level of misogyny, transphobia, homophobia, racism, etc were given the treatment that would have caused his twitter calloused fingers to whittle down to the bone.

Swooping in at the very end, to give us that stern sensibility that has earned her the post of First Minister of Scotland and of course Mother of Dragons was Nicola Sturgeon. Performing her signature tune of Like A Sturgeon and giving us her wee insight into the state of the world, plus her obligatory dig at Theresa May. Ripley’s Sturgeon leaves us thinking that perhaps she may be the only sane political leader on this wee island of ours. 

I still remember as the plane touched down at LaGuardia that Pixie's “Dig for Fire” was playing through my headphones.  The flight attendant had asked me to remove them but I put them back on as she walked down the aisle.  I doubted and still doubt till this day that my Panasonic CD Player would interfere with the plane’s navigation system. The batteries were held in by tape because I had lost the cover some time back.  The music and contrasting vocals of Frank Black and Kim Deal on that track still reminds me of that day. I can still see myself sat by the window of that plane as it landed on that clear day , 19th February 1998.  

My mother died on the evening of February 18, 1998.

I was in my senior year of college at University of Oregon in Eugene. She died in The Bronx. I was on the morning flight back East. I know I changed planes somewhere but couldn’t tell you where. I have no recollection of leaving Eugene, of the journey itself but I do remember landing in New York.

Much of that week I can still only recall in moments and even then, it’s as if I see them as if I am watching a film or TV show or something.  Even with grief counselling and other forms of therapy, I somehow remain detached from the events of that week.

I remember that before I got home on Feb 18th and was told to phone back East as my mother had been taken to hospital that it was a beautiful day for February.  I cycled home from work as it wasn’t raining that day. Eugene winters can be very wet and miserable so that day I just remember feeling at peace and enjoying the light. When the weather was nice in Eugene, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else and I often thought those hills around the town were like a protective barrier; keeping us sheltered from the world outside though sometimes it felt like it was keeping us prisoner. That day I felt safe.

Things I do remember are the friends who were with me in my apartment in the Eugene Manor as I waited for update after update. I remember speaking to my best friend in New York and asking her to visit my mother in the hospital. She talked her way in by pretending to be her niece. I remember my best friend and roommate held me as I collapsed when the phone call came that she had died. 

I remember crying in Eugene. I don't remember crying in New York until I had a moment alone in the funeral home with my mother's body. Even then, I am assuming I did cry. I must have.  It looked nothing like her in the coffin which made the whole moment surreal until I looked at her hands. Her hands bore the marks of the life she lived.  She was never afraid to get her hands dirty or pop open the hood of a car and see what was wrong with it. They were hardened but had an olive tinge that made them look soft. She was always using hand lotion to make them feel as soft as possible.  I inherited that from her. In my house, I am never far from moisturiser. It was then in that closed room that I realised how important it is to look at hands. Hands tell the truth, they never lie.

That week I was "home," I remember arguing with my older sister Elisa about the funeral preparations, whether it should be in English or Spanish. Elisa was a mess. She had been shopping for her wedding dress when my mother was rushed to the hospital. My sister lived in Miami and like me, would never see our mother alive again. What’s that saying about God and making a plan? 

I remember trying and failing to be there for my little sister Kasandra. She was only 13. I wish I had been able to show more to her because I was 9 when my own father died.  Now, as adults we have an incredible bond but back then we were just kids. Kids who had just lost their mother.

 I remember we couldn’t locate my brother Joe. We hadn’t seen him for a few years.
I remember the neighbourhood took up a collection to be able to give my mother a proper burial because our family couldn't afford it. People talk about poverty levels and yet where I grew up, there were no statistics that covered how we lived. We lived by helping one another. It wasn’t charity. It was how we did things.

Friends and family I hadn't seen for years came to pay their respects. I welcomed friends and  was rude to my mother's family who never looked for her in life. I remember asking them "why look for her now?" I’ll never be able to take that back.

Father Quinn at Our Lady of Mercy presided over the church service but only after we agreed to confession in order for us to be able to take Communion. "It would look bad" if the family didn't take communion." I remember picturing my mother rolling her eyes and trying not to laugh in his office.  She used to joke that if she stepped into a church that the stain glass would explode. I also remembered how important it was to her for her body to be taken to Mass before being buried. She feared wandering for eternity like she believed my father did because he wasn’t taken to Mass. It’s why we light a candle for him each year, so he can find his way. I remember at the time thinking that perhaps her light would finally illuminate his path and that even if he never made it to Heaven, if they found each other then at least they would be in paradise.

She was buried in New Jersey which is the resting ground of many New Yorkers both in life and death. My dad is also buried there. At the cemetery, I forgot the words to The Lord's Prayer which was embarrassing and shameful as "head of the family." That was a role that was thrust upon me because someone had to” keep it together.” Elisa accused me of "being cold" and not caring because I wasn't crying. It’s hard to organise things with tears in your eyes.

I remember United Airlines lost my luggage on the flight home. I didn't get it back for two days. I remember looking at pictures of my mother when I got back home and for the first time seeing how beautiful she was. I had always joked she was a handsome woman but in reality, she was a beautiful woman hardened by the life she was born into and the life she led.  Ronnie Spector once said that The Ronette’s look was inspired by the Puerto Rican girls in Spanish Harlem at the time. That was my mother. She was a teenager fresh off the plane from Puerto Rico. She had lacquered hair piled high in a bun on top of her head, black eyeliner in the corners of her eyes and wore skirts that “good girls” in Puerto Rico were not allowed to wear. She was on a different island now and Mirta Luz became just Mirta or “Murrta” as non-Spanish speakers would pronounce it.

I remember flipping through those photographs while listening to music by powerful singers to get over the lump in my throat and open the floodgates. Singers like Edith Piaf, Nina Simone, Andrea Boccelli and Felipe Rodriguez, my mother’s favourite Bolero singer.
Most of all, I remember that when I went back to Eugene, life moved along without much input from me.

A few weeks ago, I was driving home from St Ives. I took the coastal road which I love doing when I have things on my mind. It’s a windy bit of road through a beautiful and desolate landscape with the Atlantic on one side.  It is dotted with crumbling mining stacks and houses few and far between. Possibly the largest place on that road between St Ives and Pendeen is Zennor. On a sunny day, I put the top down, my sunglasses on and I feel free.  I can easily get up to 60 mph on those roads in my little Mazda if there is no one else on it. She drives like she was made for them.  I was listening to a mix CD I had made who knows how many years ago and “Dig for Fire” came on.

 I had to pull over to the side of the road and cry. I could have skipped the song but I didn’t.  I was back on that plane, touching down at LaGuardia.  Images of the funeral flashed like bulbs. I remembered that I was wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses that day.

I cried because my sister Elisa would probably still be alive if our mother had lived. I cried because as of now she has missed 20 years of our lives. She never got to meet all her grandchildren. She never got to see the amazing woman and mother my sister Kasandra has become. She never got to say goodbye to my brother Joe or see the man he has become. She never got to see us now as a family. She never got to meet my husband or see my life as it is now. 

I cried because 20 years on, I still miss her and that is okay. I don’t ever want to not miss her. 
​

It probably seems a little odd writing an end of year piece this early in December but there are two reasons for this. First,  I tend to consider the start of my year as my birthday rather than the traditional calendar year. My birthday is when I set my goals for the next year. I write them down in a carefully chosen birthday card to open the following year. This year as I read my goals, the one that eluded me was publication, but more on that in a moment. As my birthday was three weeks ago, this is a belated wrap up. The second is, from tonight I am away for about 10 days on a well needed holiday with hubby in Gran Canaria but not before a stop in London for my annual consultant appointments. Then there is Christmas so chances are I won't have time to update my Soundboard till just before New Years.

Explanations aside, let's begin.

I struggled this year ego wise. Every single piece of writing I sent out was rejected. It just wasn't my year. In 2016, I had some fantastic results and I rode that high. 2017 well,  I wouldn't say that the rejections broke me, but they bruised my ego. This of course is not necessarily a bad thing when I think about it.

As I looked back at those rejections though, there was something that stood out from previous years' rejections. I actually got feedback 9 out of 10 times and encouragements to resubmit. It is too easy to get caught up on the stigma of rejection and not see that they were not so much a full rejection as a "hey, you're on the right track but perhaps try this." You can write till the end of days and not know where you are going wrong because you haven't had any feedback. That can be crushing when you are finally ready to send out your work and the only feedback you receive is a "Thank you for submitting but..." This year I did stop and take notice of what my peers were saying. That is growth and growth should never be underestimated or taken for granted.

I guess what I am saying is that sometimes the rejection is not so much a rejection but a guiding light towards a new finish line.

The other noticeable difference in 2017 is how my "recovery" time from being rejected was shorter. In previous years, a rejection would mean at least a few days of "what is wrong with me?" Reaching for chocolate or entering my silent mode and wanting to throw something at anyone who dared to say something encouraging when I was in the depths of my own despair. This year, I time boxed my rejection, I still reached for chocolate (91% cocoa, just a small square though because that's healthier) but I made sure I got back in my chair and continued writing. In fact, in spite of nearly 4 months of not being able to write regularly because of both hubby and my health issues; I actually produced more words this year than I have done in previous years. This is also means I have more editing than I have ever been faced with but you can't move forward without the words. It's part of the process and as I look back on 2017, I realise that the process has been something that I have felt each step of the way.

As I mentioned earlier, 2017 health wise was not a brilliant one. Hubby broke his wrist and needed ear surgery for an ongoing condition which meant he needed to be taken care of. For an independent man like him, it wasn't easy and it really brought home how much we work as a team.

I was faced with a serious question of mortality that I had to answer, resulting in lifestyle changes that have gotten easier with each day. I quit smoking over 6 months ago. I smoked for 25 years just to put that into perspective. This has been interesting writing wise in terms of re-reading some of my own work because cigarettes feature in my writing quite a bit and I won't deny that the cravings still rise up when I read those passages but rather than change them, I decided to confront them. Also, I had to start eating better and taking exercise. Rather than join a gym, I bought a treadmill and an exercise bike. I have found that the treadmill has been a great way to work out problems I encounter when writing or just problem solving in general. Honestly, it is the single best piece of exercise equipment ever invented in my opinion.  As hard as the initial changes were, I have embraced them now and okay I admit it, I see and feel the benefits.

Too often we focus on the things we haven't done and don't give ourselves props for the things we have done. I like to think of it as the "invisible cage" in our minds. Each thing we haven't done becomes a bar surrounding the space where our accomplishments live.  Believe me 2017 was getting me down with the list of things I didn't do which is why I needed to look at things from a different perspective. The  journey rather than the destination.

I had hoped to have my collection of short stories published by now. Instead, though, the time I took from not looking at them has proven invaluable to the editing process and I am enjoying reacquainting myself with the characters and the stories again. I also want to finish so I can move forward with other projects. I'm ready to bring this baby home.
I have a real soft spot for the spy genre. This year I decided to try my hand at a spy story which I entered in Ploughshare's Short Story Contest. Though I did not win, I did push myself out of my comfort zone as a writer. That story has now developed into an idea I am pursuing which bring together my interest in Latin American politics, espionage and Post-Colonial studies.

I wrote a draft of a ghost story which lead me down a research trail that brings in my local surroundings here in Cornwall and love of the supernatural. Once again, I stepped out of my comfort zone and it felt great. That story I am planning on entering into the Fiction Desk Ghost Story Competition end of January 2018. Fingers crossed.

I started to engage more as a writer on this blog and created my own social media page which is something I have wanted to do for ages but was nervous about because it is so easy to get lost in social media. Thing is, it has given me a whole new appreciation of how positive social media can be.

Continuing with social media, I have started to pull back from reading the news comments on articles. This is that space where compassion goes to die. It was really having a negative effect on my mental state and by taking a step away,  I have been able to keep my head above water current events wise. This process is a work in progress though and I think it will always be. I'm a writer, I will always want to know what is behind door number 2. I guess I just need to remember to open it with caution.

I explored Flash Fiction properly this year. Even submitting some as well. This is a format I have struggled with and still find hard to get my head around in terms of writing, but I faced my fear, put my big boy pants on and did it. Ladies and Gentlemen, once again, I think this is called growth.

So I didn't get published in 2017, this doesn't mean my year was wasted. In fact, it was incredibly productive even with all the hurdles in my path.
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Watch out 2018, I'm geared up!

​Recently, I've been tired. Washed out to be precise.  It's not just a physical exhaustion from looking after hubby as he recovers from multiple surgeries (nicely by the way, thank you for asking). Taking on all of the day to day running of the house plus caring makes me realise how much our relationship is dependent on both of us doing our part. That's actually a wonderful thing to realise and I appreciate it more and more now that he is on the mend.

That said, that only a part of the exhaustion.

There is also a collective mental exhaustion from news headlines and the barrage of comments from a population that lacks compassion as much as they lack basic spelling and grammar. That again, is only part of the feeling of the exhaustion that has followed me around. After all, the headlines are the headlines, how one chooses to deal with them is more important and in my case, that is forcing myself (and failing at times) to not look at the comments section of an article.

On top of those two things in life, there is also my old friend doubt who has returned as I near completion on my collection of short stories entitled Tangled.

A few months ago I was set to get on with the publication of Tangled. This collection has been years in the making and the pursuit of it as a self published book has been part of the decision making from the onset. It is in part, motivated by the fact that short story collection by newly established writers are notoriously hard to sell to agents and publishers, but also when I returned to writing after a doubt induced hiatus and a complete life change. It was a goal I set myself to ensure that I never forget how important it is to make an opportunity instead of just looking for one (though if any opportunities in the form of agents or publishers are out there, I'm listening. Just saying).

Regular readers will remember that a few months ago, life interceded and so creative pursuits had to be put on hold and with it, the seeds of doubt were sown. Doubt in any person can be debilitating. Doubt in an artist can play at every and any insecurity you have ever had about yourself and your craft. You doubt what you have produced and what you have yet to produce. You even have a absurd thoughts like, the reason the cat is sitting on that draft is because she knows its shit and wants you to know that she knows.

It was during one of my regular "shut the fuck up" moments that I signed up for an online course through One Story. As often when these courses present themselves, not only is the material good to give you the kick in the bum you need but by being in an artistic forum with like minded people, you remember that you are not alone in this process. There are others out there struggling to be heard and wondering if anyone is listening.

A fellow classmate reached out after having read my website including my story "When Night Falls." That story is a reminder of how determined, or stubborn I can be when I put my mind to something. It is a story that continually got rejected but I never gave up on it; 21 years after I first put pen to paper, the kind folks at Litro Magazine #TuesdayTales published it.  He had also read an  article I wrote about Finding Your Tribe for The Review Review. It seems that reading that article inspired him to reach out to me and a couple of other people for feedback on his story.

To that person, I would like to say a big thank you.

Thank you for reminding me at a time when I was feeling doubtful and vulnerable that what I have written is of importance. Thank you for giving me the kick that I needed to get back to work. Thank you for reminding me that my words speak for themselves and that doubt is a part of this process. That to give in would be to deny yourself and others the connection that art produces.

Through art, we extend a hand into the void and hope that someone will take it. Thank you for that reminder.

Thank you also for sending me your story which is well written, enjoyable and will find its publication home because I can tell you believe in your words; and now I do too.  Belief in your words is crucial to seeking a home for your writing. Belief in your words is essential to your writing.

Thank you for that reminder. 

In my mind, it hasn't been nearly two months since I updated my Soundboard. That said, I have been on autopilot since last month and the time has come to take some control and find some direction once again despite factors that are outside of my control.

Since I last wrote, hubby broke his wrist which has meant taking on more responsibility around the house and in general because you don't realise how important two wrists are until you only have one. Hubby is fiercely independent so this has been a bit of learning curve but apart from putting a spanner in our plans, we're doing what we always do; work together. I count myself lucky to know that if I were the one injured, he would do the same. In fact he has done in the past. It's what we do and not a day goes by that I am not grateful for him and what we have.

As a result of this, the publication of Tangled has been delayed because I have not had the time to go through the final edits before proof reading. That said, I have waited this long to get the collection out there, a little bit longer is not going to hurt. In fact, distance and fresh eyes can only be a good thing when it comes to editing and proof reading. So once again, watch this space. It will be so worth it :-).

If those two current factors are not enough, an issue that in my opinion had been dealt with has bubbled to the surface like an overflowing septic tank (ours did need emptying last week so the imagery is stuck in my head) and for the last two weeks has caused me unrest and unnecessary stress. Without getting into the details, sometimes friendships end and there is nothing either party can do about it. It is sad when it happens but I also believe that everything happens for a reason. I have often found that the best thing to do is make peace with it and go forward but not everyone deals with the loss of friendship in the same manner. Having spent too much time and energy that I could have been directing towards my own writing and my own life, I took the step yesterday to block certain people on Facebook who are no longer a part of my life. I used to think it was a childish thing to do but I get it now. Since I did it yesterday morning, I have been able to think again. I have been able to write this entry. For the last week I have been trying to write a completely different Soundboard entry but the transfer of words from mind to paper has eluded me. It is so nice to be able to write freely once again.

When I used to work in London, I would often get my coffee at Starbucks and there was an employee there who whatever her mood was, could either make me smile or piss me off. That was until I realised that it was mentally damaging to let someone else's mood influence your own. Truth is, I had no idea what had made her upset that morning so why should her mood upset me. You can't control other people's behaviour but you can control how you react to it. I stopped reacting to her behaivour. In fact, I stopped going to that Starbucks and found another one. Sometimes you also need to remove yourself from the situation for the purpose of harmony and serenity.

Something else happened this morning as well, I started thinking about the good things in my life. Seeing the good in any situation.

Hubby broke his wrist but he is mending nicely. That is a blessing. That is something to be grateful for. It could have been worse but it wasn't.

This last year, I have not had a single piece of writing accepted but I have not let it stop me writing. I have actually produced more words this year than I have done in previous years. That is incredible given everything this year has thrown at me; at us.

Last week, I had lunch with an old friend who I have not seen in 10 years and it was like nothing had changed apart from us being older and both having quit smoking. It was a reminder though of how lucky I am to have friends who are that solid. Not just her but others. My friendships are long and they are strong. To have that in my life is a true blessing and not one that I take for granted.

My writing tribe has been a source of great support creatively and personally. To have each of them as part of my tribe is an invaluable addition to my life and though we are scattered around the world, we maintain contact that has made the writing process a little less lonely this year.

Finally, I am grateful for my recent immersion into the world of telenovelas which has helped my Spanish return, something that often I worry about losing having very little use for anything other than English where I live. It may seem like an odd connection but watching Spanish, means I am able to be in the mindset to read Spanish. Reading makes me happy.
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Too often I get lost in the troubling matters of the world and I don't take that pause to reflect on the good, but not today.

Since I last posted, I have been hard at work on writing and on my health. 

First, the fun stuff. My collection of short stories entitled Tangled, will be available soon. It is a collection that is years in the making, has gone through various titles, has been cut down, expanded, cut down, expanded but has come together as a project that I feel proud of and I hope more importantly, is enjoyed by those who read it. Putting that on your radar for now. Watch this space! More details to follow soon, possibly even a taster.

So now health. Yea, well.

Shortly before my last post I had to go see a specialist about my cholesterol and triglyceride levels and although still in an exploratory/ diagnostic phase; I was told in no uncertain terms that I needed to make some major lifestyle changes if I wanted to be here a bit longer and the thing is, I do. I am only 40 for starters and I intend to be here for as long as I can because hubby is not getting away that easy. I also have a lot more life to live.  
Enter, cutting down on all things that I love like cheese, pizza, red meat and wine. I've had to incorporate exercise into my daily routine and the big one; quitting smoking. I made the decision to quit cold turkey.

Today is day 66 of no cigarettes and as of yet, no slip up.

Hold the applause.

I titled this post "This Is Not A Public Service Announcement" for a reason. I have chosen to give up for a specific health reason and what the implications are if I didn't. Anyone who knows me will remember hearing the words, "my mother did not raise a quitter" more than once. Believe me, I intended on smoking till the very end. In fact, I fucking love smoking. I also should add that I do not have an issue with anyone who smokes. I have absolutely no intention of being THAT quitter. You know the type, I don't need to say who they are.

Quitting is hard. Simple.

If you Google articles on quitting smoking you come up with a load of "benefits." What I wasn't prepared for was how it would affect me as I went into withdrawal. My sister said I should write about my experience which I think was her way of saying stop whining to me. She's never been a smoker and I think if you have never smoked you will never understand how hard it is to quit. I took her advice anyway because she is right, writing always helps me. So here are five aspects of quitting that I was not prepared for.

1. Smoker's flu: Nothing like feeling you are on death's door with a flu during a fucking heat wave. Only to find out that yes, your body mimics flu like symptons as it purges itself.

2. Bleeding gums: So yea, as your gums heal from the years of smoking, they bleed more. That was a fun visit to the dentist.

3. Stress: In recent years I had been the type of smoker who could go days without a cigarette so I thought, okay I can do this no issue. What I hadn't thought about was how I used cigarettes to cope with stress. Something pissed me off, I'll have a fag. There you go. Nope not anymore. I am exploring new ways of dealing with stressful situations. So far, herbal teas, just walking away from my desk help and I am now meditating twice a day. I have found as well that a piece of dark chocolate is pretty effective which is good since I am not allowed milk chocolate anymore. Dark chocolate is also good for the heart.

4. Heavy drinking: I find that this is harder and not as much fun without a cigarette. The more I drink, the likelihood of cravings arising and so as a result I just can't drink as much as I did two months ago. This is of course verges on the benefit side of things but it does mean that in these early days, I am not as social as I used to be. Mind you, my snarky comments on Facebook typically made when drunk are at a minimum which is probably a good thing.

5. Senses: So my taste and smell are different now. Bad smells REALLY smell bad and I feel like with food, things taste a bit funnier. I would like to say it is my sense of taste and smell returning but seriously I started smoking 25 years ago, so it is more likely that they are building from scratch at this point. At present, any body odour is magnified which is not pleasant.  

I could go on about the positive benefits like my skin looking healthier (it is) but to be honest, you can Google those articles and ultimately for me, the main benefit is life. Still, I am owning my right to whinge here so that is what I am doing.

I mark each day on the calendar as if I were counting the days of my incarceration because each day counts. Also, it provides me with a visual and that helps me. It reminds me what quitting look likes. It also means I don't take for granted how hard quitting is.

I have agonised about making this information public because I don't want to be that sanctimonious holier than thou prick who quit smoking. To my smoking friends, smoke em if you got em. My journey is my journey. I quit, you didn't. I'll still go out with you for a fag, I'll just stand there for the conversation.

For anyone thinking or needing to quit, I won't lie. It's fucking hard. That is what to expect. Expect that some days will be easier than others. In terms of my own experience, I have found acupuncture to be beneficial and marking each 30 days with a treat to yourself.  I went to the spa Tuesday and it was heaven. Yes I realise that it was on the 64th day not the 60th but I was ill last week.

Apart from that, the only words I can offer are: It's fucking hard but not impossible with the right motivation.

So I leave you with this article on "Stairway to Heaven" because (1) I like to keep my Soundboard somewhat musical as you know (2) it reminded me when I was younger I found that "Comfortably Numb" was the perfect length of a Camel Light, but only a Camel Light, not a Marlboro Light. Weird huh?

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