Grace Metalious. You may not recall her name, but there’s a fair chance you’ll recognize her novel, Peyton Place.  Marie Grace DeRepentigny Metalious enters my thought process nearly every day. As I drag along my cleaning bucket to wipe down mirrors, clear the dust off pictures, make my wood shine, and my floors pretty, I often sigh with envy for Grace.

                Why? Well, there are a few things in life that drive me to the ledge. The call of my absent-minded husband is one. “Honey, I can’t find my [place the name of everything he owns here].” Now, I mislay items all the time.  However, it seems men need to call out for help in this type of dilemma. Women can search on their own. The key word here is search. My husband fails to locate the items he puts in places where he knows he will find them.  The irritation grows even stronger as I walk up to where he stands, unmoving in his diligent rummaging. I shift, let’s say a pencil, and lo and behold right behind it, I find his [place the name of everything he owns here] right in front of him.

                So, what else could bother me?

               A dirty house. Not yours. Mine. I can go into another home and sit amongst tons of laundry. I can write my name in the dust on a coffee table belonging to another, even relish the fun, draw a picture or two, leave a note. It doesn’t bother me. However, my house, complete with three dogs and three cats, must be clean. I don’t mean the pick-up-everything-and-put-it-in-its-place clean—though that’s a given. I’m telling you, I dust the window blinds and the ceiling fans daily. I actually clean (and not rinse) the percolator after coffee each morning. I vacuum and mop my floors e-v-e-r-y day.

                Now, I wasn’t always like this. My mother would be so proud of me today, although my idea of clean would not be enough for Mom. She once looked around my home and narrowed her snake-like eyes in my direction. “I didn’t raise you like this,” she hissed. To that my children should be on their knees praying, “Thank you, Lord. Our mother was bad enough, but Grandma. . . Whew, we dodged a bullet on that one.”

               Mom was such a freak about her home. . . How much of a freak was she? She should have been on the midway of the carnival I wrote about in my last blog. I once swept a porch for three hours straight until she could find no dirt. Today they call in the Department of Children and Family Services for that type of abuse. Back then they called it “teaching a positive work ethic.” Thanks, Mom.

                So, where does Grace Metalious come into this strange, rambling story?

                In all writers there is a type of schizophrenia—mild, even therapeutic.  When we do anything, we have little people on a stage complete with full scenery in our mind. They’re practicing for their upcoming role in the newest novel, or they might try to convince a writer that they belong in a current novel. When I’m cleaning, I can’t shut out their voices. They try to call me away from the task at hand. They whisper, “You could have written five hundred words by now. Come play. Please, come play.”

                Thanks to my mother, their pleas fall on deaf ears—or at least ears plugged with iPod earphones.

                Okay, back to Grace.

               I used to be addicted to the movie Peyton Place. When I flipped through the channels and found it on AMC or TMC, I’d stop whatever I was doing—even cleaning—to watch it again. That said, I don’t recommend the movie. Philippians 4:8 comes to mind. You’ll find nothing just, pure, or lovely. You will discover nothing of good report, and there truly is no virtue or anything worthy of the smallest bit of praise.

                In 1959, this woman’s book sold 60,000 copies in ten days. My grandmother bought one. I have the first edition. Peyton Place stayed on the best-sellers list for 59 weeks, and poor Grace couldn’t understand why her New England neighbors took umbrage with her work. Many could distinguish themselves within the pages. And Grace’s characters had little redeeming value.

                How many novels did Mrs. Metalious write? I only know of the one. I’ve not done a lot or research, but Peyton Place has found its own place in history.

                Okay. Okay. I’m getting there.

                So why do I think of Grace every time I clean, while I have the iPod glued to my ears, the music blaring, the characters still on stage in my imagination? Amidst my vacuuming and mopping, I always, without fail, remember a vague tidbit of information I’d learned about the author.

               Supposedly, after the release of Peyton Place, a reporter visited Grace’s New England home to interview her. He had to climb over bags of garbage to knock at her front door. Her home was overrun with filth. He meandered through old newspapers and magazines, around cats—lots and lots of cats—to sit with Grace at her kitchen table where she did most of her writing.

                The idea of writing all day despite the accumulation of dust or a spot on the floor, the extreme thrill of leaving dishes in the sink while I plunk away at the computer, filled my dreams. I could do that. After all, cleaning house earns nothing. [Writers will get that inside joke.] The dogs don’t care about a spot on the floor, and my husband—well, he’s never met a drawer or a cabinet that moves in two directions—only one direction for each:  Out and open. Let’s forget about the toilet seat. Might as well not have one. It would save a lot of arguments.

                Determined to change my habits, I bravely set about my new lifestyle. Write. At all costs, write. Don’t look at the dust on top of the cabinet or lining the television screen you rarely watch any longer. Don’t worry that the dog decided to carry his full dish from one end of the house to the other only to find an empty bowl upon arrival at his destination. Why care if the cat’s hair floats in the breeze to swirl amongst the blades of the ceiling fan.

                 Be free. Write to your heart’s content. You go girl. You might write the next Peyton Place.

                Freedom from my obsession lasted one. . . entire. . . morning. I decided, like Grace, to write at my kitchen table. Really, it’s a nook with a nice view of the back porch and the yard beyond. The table sits on a tile floor. Three-quarters of my home is tile. I used to live in a house with nothing but tile. Obsession for cleanliness is an understatement. My mom had terrazzo. At least I don’t have to wax tile.

                I’m typing away, enjoying my freedom when I make my first mistake.

                I look to the floor.

                There’s a spot.

                I glance away, back to the picture of my character on my laptop. I want to play, but the character’s voice is buried underneath the yammering of the smudge at my feet. Then I begin not to envision my characters on the stage in my mind, but the Tide commercial.  You know, the one where the guy is interviewing for a job, and the interviewer hears nothing he has to say because the spot on the interviewee’s shirt is talking above him.

                I close my eyes. I don’t even have to open them. I recognize the unmistakable sound of the dog picking up his bowl. Plop, splat, plop. I open my eyes and tremble at the sight of the food trailing from the kitchen pantry into my husband’s office. “Look away. It’s too horrible—Friday the 13^th horrible,” I tell myself.

                I turn my attention back to the computer screen. The spot and the dumped food scream for attention. A cat hair floats down, landing on my laptop. It whispers to me in a squeaky little voice, “Thank you, for letting me live.”

                Murder enters my thought process.

                And at this inopportune moment, my husband calls from his office. “Honey, I can’t find my [place the name of everything he owns here.]”

                I count ten. I move around the kitchen counter, careful to stay away from the knife drawer. I manage to keep from squashing the dog’s food beneath my feet. I don’t even close the three drawers and one cabinet my husband has left open.

                I go to stand beside him. I stare at the same spot. Neither can I locate [place the name of everything he owns here]. How can you find anything with a dirty house taunting you?

                I gave up.

                I cleaned.

                I found my husband’s [place the name of everything he owns here].

                I learned that I am the anti-Grace Metalious.  She could live with piles of dirt around her. She didn’t care if the laundry was done or if her husband couldn’t find what he needed. Her writing reflected her lifestyle. Her characters never rose above the dirt.

                No matter how filthy their lives are at the beginning of the story, the majority of my characters must develop virtue and praise God for their journey. My greatest desire is that readers will find something just, pure, lovely, and of good report in my novels. I want readers to see Truth.

                Like my home before I begin to clean, at the start of a novel, my characters are in need of a good scrubbing. They start out messy, maybe even contaminated by the world, tracking some mud into the readers’ lives, but by the end of the story, for the most part the grime is cleaned by the knowledge of or a return to the Savior, Jesus Christ.  Yes, I may leave some of my characters buried in the mire—such is life. Much like my dog, Max, who steals away his full bowl of food only to find it empty when he sits it down, some individuals steal away their lives only to find emptiness at the end of their journey.

                So, I have resolved to forget about Grace Metalious. I will continue to clean my house with fervor and then to sit down and write with abandon because I want the characters God has placed on my heart to mimic my life—forever in need of a good cleansing—the kind of refinement that only our God can do.

                Ask a writer to compare the ups and downs of their life—the excitement as you learn the techniques, attempt to master grammar, then you dissect it and make it work for you. You’re climbing higher and higher. You reach the first peak. You’re not quite on top of the world, but you can see the horizon, confident someone will take notice. For a brief second, you are poised, adrenaline rushing through your veins.  You’re enjoying the view. Then the inner critic speaks, telling you that you aren’t good enough.  Maybe you are. Maybe you aren’t. Your world begins to tilt. You swoosh down a slope of self-pity and loathing. Your heart is in the pit of your stomach.

                A number of events can happen at this point. You may come to a sudden halt. Ride over. Someone might come along and with a couple of words give you the encouragement you need. The ride becomes exhilarating. You’re climbing. Someone believes you can do this. Click, click, click you climb up the track, working hard to reach the pinnacle—the top of the world where everything is rosy and bright, the breeze is cool and refreshing, your dreams are wide open. The ascent is slow, but you can see the rise. You reach it, teetering a little, your hands gripping the rail, your heart thundering in your throat.

                What happens from there depends upon what you do, how resolved you are to finish out the ride. Truth is, at this point, it isn’t safe to jump out. So, you’re there. Another descent could leave you in ruin, especially if you step out at the summit. If you continue to ride, going through the ups and downs, chances are you reach the end of one ride, and you’ll be ready for another, more exhilarating than the last.

                I need to stop you right here.

                When I try to correlate a carnival ride with my writing life, I’m nowhere near the roller coaster or any of those vomit-inducing, head-rushing thrills.  I think of the most embarrassing night of my life—and yes, it occurred at a carnival. Actually, the event was known as the Orange County Fair. I’ve only been to two. There are reasons for that, and they both involve the ride that depicts images of my writing adventure.

                The most harrowing event occurred on a night like any other. My uncle and aunt wanted to attend the fair. They invited me to take along a friend.

                At this point, I pause to give a momentary thought to protecting the innocent.

               Pause for thought over. My friend is going down.

               She is no more innocent in this than I was the day I assured her that jumping into my pool after having her hair straightened wouldn’t cause it to curl. Her dark luxurious strands that I believe had never before been that flat curled right up—and I laughed. I always laugh at catastrophes. That event was a major one. If she wasn’t made of stronger stuff, our friendship would have ended right there.

                Our closeness can be summed up in one image: Psych.  Not as in psychotic, but as in the characters on the television show.  Like Shawn and Gus we could finish each other’s sentences. We knew everything about each other. We teased each other about the future, cried at our failures, and we aided in hilarious events played out against one another—and no I didn’t make her hair re-curl on purpose.

                We also shared our insecurities.  As a teenager I had doubts about everything, and that is why I cannot hold Penny harmless for the outcome of this event. She should have seen it coming, just as I should have foreseen the return of her curls.

                Penny and I arrived at the fair, separating from my aunt and uncle rather quickly. We rambled through the aisles and the carnie barkers to stand in front of “the ride,” but it was not the ride that caught our attention—at least it wasn’t my focus. If I’d been paying attention to the evil contraption, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the thing.  My interest did not concern the ride, but the guy running it. Okay, remember, we were fourteen or fifteen. Guy crazy. Even a carnie barker could look attractive.

                Anyway, I seem to recall absently handing in my ticket. After all, how dangerous could this ride be? 

               I’d forgotten my first and only other time in a funhouse. There had been nothing joyful about the event. My father took me. He had a girlfriend with him. I remember not liking the girlfriend, but hey, I was with my dad. The date must have been a set up for him because I can’t imagine he liked her very much either. He sent her into the funhouse with me.  Her shoelace got stuck in a turning pole.  And if you’re wondering—I laughed. If she liked me before the laughter, she really didn’t like me afterward. 

                I hadn’t learned my lesson about the evil nature of a funhouse.

                Now good-looking carnie is at the end of the journey of fun, not at the beginning. That’s probably why I didn’t see the problem needing considerable analytical study before beginning the expedition. You see, I’m a thinker. I overwork problems and usually come to the conclusion that something won’t work for me. Not on this faithful night. Oh, no. The brain was not engaged. All I wanted to do was work my way through and get to the last obstacle—to see Mr. Barker up close.

                Penny and I weaved our way through the twists and turns, made our way past the mirrors, and wobbled over the hanging bridge. Fun, yes, until we reached the desired destination. I stopped. My brain engaged. Serious trouble lay before me.

                The carnie stood at the edge of a tunnel—not just any type of tunnel, a carnivorous, churning mass of steel. He beckoned Penny forward.  I grasped her arm. “You’re not leaving me.”

                It’s at this point that I imagine Penny’s smile, and I think, “She planned my demise. Paybacks aren’t pretty.”  Now, to be honest, I don’t know what was running through my dear friend’s head at this point, but she knew me well enough to recognize stark terror on my face when she saw it.

                I remembered my dad’s girlfriend.

                That didn’t end well. They had to shut down the ride and cut her shoe off her foot to pull it out of the ride.

                “You can make it.” Penny pranced across the tunnel.  I should tell you that Penny is a fantastic dancer. On the other hand, my lack of athletic ability and rhythm are matters better left to scientific explanation. I have trouble walking on a sidewalk.

                Carnival worker didn’t look too handsome as he barked at me to move through.

                My mind engaged again. I assessed the situation.  Like Shawn on Psych, hand to head, looking at the shiny red tube and the speed with which it turned, assessing all possible scenarios. I took a deep breath. Plan ready to deploy. It is at this moment that I should tell you, I am not the Shawn of this friendship. I am Gus.  Disaster was imminent.

                I stepped onto the spinning tunnel, ready to engage in my devised protocol:

               Stand still for a second.

               Reach out to brace against the tunnel’s side.

                Move forward.

                I said I was analytical. I didn’t tell you that my hypotheses work. In fact, they seldom do.

                Bracing your hand against a spinning tube does not move one forward. It allows one to slant with the roll and fall against the side.

                Not one of my smarter ideas.

                An earsplitting squeak hit the air—the sound of my hand as it slid downward, taking my body with it. Then the sickening thuds began, not once, but each time the tube pushed me upward only to knock me back down. Thud. Thud. Thud. You get the picture.

                A roar of the laughter reached my ears.

                I’d become a carnival attraction.

               Through the haze of embarrassment I look to the crowd.  I thought I knew everything about Penny, but I never realized she could laugh that hard. She was the only one of us laughing.

                The now not-so-attractive carnival worker tried to help me up. Why didn’t the hideous fiend just help me walk across in the first place? When he was finally able to get me off the ground and to a non-moving platform, I straightened my twisted clothing and made my way toward my aunt and uncle who’d been attracted to the ride by the merriment of the multitude.

                For days, the embarrassment burned my cheeks. No laughing matter for me. No end of amusement for Penny.

                No more carnivals in my lifetime. Never again.

                Sometime later, I heard the most profound wisdom. “You know, there will always be another time when you do something stupid. This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. Your name is Fay Thompson for goodness sakes. There isn’t a chance you’ll live through life without embarrassing yourself over and over again. Get over it.”

                Thank you, Mom.

                Remembering the time I fell into the large tank of live shrimp at the Titusville Pier, causing my father to fish me out and pull the creatures out of my hair, I realized the woman had uncanny insight. I got over it. I moved toward my next embarrassing moments—but those are stories for other times.

                So, when I imagine my life as a writer. I think of the funhouse tunnel pulling me upward only to drop be back to earth with a resounding thud. I think of my friend’s laughter—the laughter of the crowd.

                One thing for sure—I’d made quite an impression.

                Then someone picked me up and set me on my feet. I wasted precious time in misery before my mother said what I needed to hear, and I took her advice.

                Will I make more embarrassing mistakes in my writing career?

                I’ve analyzed the situation, and my hypothesis says the funniest moments are yet to arrive. I no longer waste time dwelling upon it.  I pick myself up or hold out a hand for rescue. I’ve survived every time. I now look forward to these situations.  I need something to laugh about, to share with others, and well laughing at others and sharing their most awkward moments, as I’m prone to do, isn’t a good way to keep friends.

                Unless your friend is Penny—someone who has laughed with and at you through the years—someone who made much of that laughter possible. Hats off to you, my friend, and may we have more days like those and new friends to share them with as we continue our adventures in writing.

                Sometimes I get these little ideas, like a seed planted somewhere in the back of my head. The stalk peeks out from beneath the mass of brain matter, and the notion remains. A bud soon appears then it blossoms into this beautifully conceived plan.

               Most women know this feeling. It begins when she looks around her living room or her bedroom and something says, “Wouldn’t the couch look better over there.” A couple of days later, her husband tries to maneuver his way through the darkened room and finds himself sprawled on the floor because the ottoman is where no ottoman should ever be found. At least that was my husband’s claim.

                Well, a germ of a thought took hold of me a couple days ago. “Why don’t I curl my hair and see what it looks like. There’s a writers’ conference coming up next month, and maybe you can stun the crowd with a personally designed hairdo.” The seed opened and produced a stem. “Hey what about those sponge rollers you bought some time back and never used?”

                Now, not only is my hair straight, but over the years I’ve come to understand why my mother always kept it cropped short. There are worse things than having someone ask your grandmother how old her grandson is. Being mistaken for Cousin It ranks further up the mortification scale, I believe.  Still, I’m wearing my hair a little longer these days, despite the fact that I believe I look like an actress not known for her beauty–but more on that in a few.

                My hair is so thick. . . How thick, you might ask? My hair is so thick my hairstylist complains when I ask her to style it. Time is money she says, and she loses money when she spends thirty minutes blow drying the mop to get it from wet to damp.  Hey, she needs to give me a break. I can hardly brush my hair without having a disaster, brush dangling from tangled hair, etc.  My blow dryer is the least used appliance in my house. I’m a wash-and-wear type of gal.  Having my hair styled is luxury.

                So the bud in my brain sprang up last night, and it whispered, “In the morning when you wash your hair, let’s take out those sponge rollers and give them a try.” This morning the bud blossomed (a poisonous Oleander, I’m thinking), and it said, “Pulled out your rollers.”  These are the round sponges with plastic clamps you snap over your hair once you wind strips of your mane around the sponge.

                Sounds easy enough and much better than using bobby-pins.  I get my straight hair from my mother, and in her Monk-like existence, every night she wrapped her hair in little circles and used two bobby-pins to keep it in place–bobby pins and a turban. (If she wore that today, she’d never be allowed through the checkpoint at the airport.)  When she’d remove the bobby-pins the next morning and run a brush through the tight kinks, they’d bounce out in perfect curls. She reminded me of Joan Crawford—Mommy Dearest, and all.

               I discovered from this ludicrous adventure that rolling your hair is not a project for the faint of heart or for those who begin major projects only to stop them in mid-stride.

                So, I’m standing and looking at my mirror image. I sort of remember watching my mother divide her hair. You know, make little vertical parts then divide them horizontally. They would look  like a garden separated for planting. Besides imitating Joan Crawford, Mom was a master gardener, too.

               How hard could that be? Apparently for me, the difficulty level is up there with planting an actual garden. I have no gardening ability. Cactus tremble before me.

                I started on the left side of my head which was my right because mirrors are backwards–a cause for much consternation. I’m left/right dyslexic. This made the entire plan a little like driving in a car with someone who expects me to tell them to turn left or right rather than to simply point.  But cruising along–I shoveled all but the hair just above my ear over to the right then I lifted a patch of that hair intending to place it on the roller and draw it tightly against my scalp.

               What was up with the hair already on the sponge? Had I used these before? Had the memory horrified me so much I blocked out the entire episode?

                I pressed on. I placed the sponge at the very tip of the strand I’d chosen, and I began to twirl it, wrapping my hair up on it.

                Have you ever tried to return an unfurled roll of paper towels back together only to find that they move up each time you turn it, leaving you a circle of towels without a holder?

                Well, hair is a lot like that roll of paper towels.  I rolled the strands to my scalp with one serious problem. It also covered the plastic clamp—the one that should hold the hair supposedly wrapped solely around the sponge.

                I began to unwrap my hair.

                Ouch.

                The roller wouldn’t budge. I turned it this way. I turned it that way. Don’t ask me if I turned it left or right. I can’t tell you. Dyslexic. Remember.

               Nothing. My hair would not cooperate.

                I tugged, pulling at it, foot on the counter, back to the wall, the horrifying memory of my last battle returning with vivid detail.

                I had done this war dance before. Luckily, the vision didn’t involve blood.

                Not to be deterred, I tugged, and heaved, and screamed until I grasped the roller, my hair, and pieces of my scalp in hand. Fighting back tears and wincing in pain I took the hair left in my head and tried again.  Roll, roll, roll your hair.

                With it neatly in place, all on the sponge, I flipped over the clamp to hold it into place.

                The clamp broke.

                Persevering, I yanked the curler off my head and twirled it on the sponge  again. The clamp slipped in place.  I danced in triumph.

                I worked my way through the one side of parted hair, only to find that when I combed another strip of parted hair over, it tangled with the work I’d already done.

                Gingerly, very gingerly, I lifted the portions of strands I needed. I repeated the process noted above—exactly—unfurling, yanking, screaming, staring at the pieces of scalp, rewrapping, and dancing in victory.

                One hour later, yes, one full hour later I had most of my hair in rollers. The remaining strands, those still on my head and not laying in patches all over my bathroom counter, hissed at me like the snakes on Medusa’s head.  They didn’t frighten me. I rolled each strand—one hair at a time if the occasion called for it, then stood back to view the masterpiece.

                Think Picasso—all out for proportion. Small rollers next to large rollers, on top of medium rollers all around my head. Some rollers have a thin little string of multi-colored brown, red, and silver–one little hair.  I’d take a picture, but I don’t want it used against me—ever.

                Then this laughing voice could be heard—the evil Oleander blossom in my brain.  “Na-na-na-na-na. You rolled your hair up and not under.” 

               Farah Fawcett’s hairstyle came to mind. But I’m no Farah Fawcett. When I leave the hairstylist, I always grasp her arms and beg for the truth. “Are you sure I don’t look like Angelica Houston? I swear I saw her staring back at me in the mirror–and not Morticia Adams, but the school master in Daddy Day Care.”  Imagine Angelica Houston with the feathered hair of Farah Fawcett.  There’s no way to make that pretty.  That is ripe for one of those Godzilla movies.  The Creature with the Rolled Hair vs. Godzilla. Believe me, movie-goers would be cheering for Godzilla.

                But I’m not going through the roll, roll, roll your hair routine again, and since it’s a matter of pride, I will not let the curlers win. They remain affixed to my head, even now.

               My husband’s buddies and their wives are getting together this evening. We’re going out on the town. In familiar elements, I love being the life of the party even if it means being the center of all the jokes. Besides, I know of at least one buddy who told my husband twenty years ago he was crazy to marry me. Tonight, I just might prove him right.

                And there’s always the strong possibility that what’s left of my hair when I snatch out the rollers six hours from now will still be wet and straight.  It doesn’t dry in a ponytail, what made me think it would dry in sponge curlers? I’ll tell you what made me think it would: A crazy Oleander in my brain.

               Come September and the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Conference, I think I’ll lean on the miracle of whatever color combination my stylist mixes for me prior to the writer’s conference, and I’ll wear it straight—thank you very much.

                By God’s design, I am a loner, content to spend hours in a small room, laptop open and fingers gliding across the keys.

                As a teenager—yes, in the dark ages—you know, the era when Bill Gates took his sweet time in his basement or garage developing the technology that would change the world—I’d write twenty or thirty pages a night by hand. While cheerleaders lifted their pom poms in salute to my athletic schoolmates like Cris Collinsworth and Wilber Marshall, I sat in my room making up my own universe.

                While the surfers strolled the white sand of Playalinda Beach searching for the perfect two-foot to glassy waves, with pen in my cramped hand, I filled white pages with words that formed character-driven scenes—words no one else could read. When you write that much, penmanship doesn’t have a sliver of a chance.

                Hard to believe, I know, but the high school dating scene ignored me. Walked right past me, thumbing up its snooty nose.  Those of you who went to school with me, I hear the snickers. Yes, you’re absolutely right. There was a very good reason for that.

                Still, God in his infinite wisdom gave to me one dear friend who shared my love of words. For her, I am eternally grateful. No one else would put up with me.  God also gave me an imagination that made alone time my playground.  (I almost said “Wonderland,” but even I’m not that crazy).

                Then Bill Gates got his act together, came out of his basement with a new toy that changed history and made my playground easier to access. I’d taken typing in school—no fool this one. I knew what my future held.  So, the slow tap, tap, tap of “words per minute”  became “computer words per minute,” and well, not to brag, but my fingers, aided by the quickest backspace maneuver you’ll ever see, are faster than Jessica Rabbitt or Mae West or Katherine Turner in the movie, Body Heat.

                With the invention of personal computers and the Internet (thank you Al Gore, you lovable global-warming fool, you), I began to broaden my horizons. I met people online. Not just any group of people, but a subculture of amazing beings who are a little difficult to define . . . lovers of words . . . people with intangible friends in equally intangible worlds . . .people who think like me. Well almost.

                I do stand out a bit. When you’ve got a psyche that travels like mine, others tend to wonder about you, hang back a bit, wait to see if you’re just an eccentric or if you’re really all that bizarre.  Even writers tend to want to invent peculiar characters, not actually meet them.

                Over the last year or so, I’ve stepped out of my self-imposed cocoon to become a social-network butterfly. People have started to tell me they’d like to meet me.

               Me?

               My writer’s heart leaps at the chance to know these truly wonderful folks, but my loner’s soul steps back in the shadows.

               I get the impression that my cyber friends expect to find a Blue Monarch when in reality I’m just a simple mothy-like creature made so much better online.  Think Jason Alexander in the Brad Paisley video.

                Still, the girl who sat alone in her room during high school did manage to nab one of the most popular guys from the rival high school across town. Not so bad for a crazy writer, huh? Maybe I won’t do so badly in person after all.

                Look out real world. Here I come.

         So, I lost my glasses. No big deal except that I need them to see. They are continually perched upon my nose, except when I’m on the computer turning mundane words into what I believe is beautiful prose.
         Okay, but other than writing, I still have ten hours of the day when they’re desperately needed.
         Well, I do sleep without them.
         Now, I’m down to the remaining four hours, and well, I need them to watch television. Oh, and that seven minute drive to anywhere in my small town can be a dangerous few for anyone on the road when I’m driving blind.
         My friend, Linda, said God took my glasses. Linda reminds me of the light you turn on in the darkness, but you’re still unable to see because of the brilliance filling the room. Linda is that bright.
         “Why would he do that?” I wanted her to share her vast knowledge with me. What wickedness had I done that would cause God to take away my ability to watch a favorite rerun?
        Okay. I answered my own question.
        Moving on . . .
        Linda said, “You just complained on Facebook that you were having trouble with writing a synopsis. You said you were giving up and watching television. God wants you to write.”
        Darn my impulsive posts on Facebook, and curse Linda who, with the brilliance of her statement, treaded into the darkness of my mood.
        Not to be deterred from my mission to vegetate, I ignored my mother’s childhood admonition that sitting too close to the television would ruin my eyesight. I dragged my old rocking chair as close to the television as I could get. I contend that my mother had known that most everyone needs glasses after age forty. It was just her luck that I’ve needed glasses since the age of sixteen. Mother always rejoiced in being right, and since the first words I learned to spell were “general” and ”electric” because I sat so close to the old black and white too often and because no one else in our family needed glasses that young, who was I to argue?
        Settling into the rocking chair, I reached for the remote and squinted my eyes to focus on the power button. With thumb at the ready, my cell phone sitting across the room chimed announcing a rare text message.
        Curious, I struggled from the rocking monster and grabbed my phone—a first-time-ever text from my cousin Bob, answering a technical question I’d asked him on . . .
        Wait for it . . .
        Facebook.
        Bob and I texted back and forth for nearly an hour and by the end of the conversation, I had an assignment to write an article for Wings of Hope, an online magazine. I know, apple trees don’t grow oranges, but technical questions to my cousin grow praises and hallelujahs—and work for him.
        While I contend that God’s hand didn’t actually reach down and yank my glasses away, I do believe He used my absent-mindedness to hide them from me.  Apparently, I don’t need them to read in the ”library” either, but that’s a story for another time, or maybe not.  What’s important is I did not locate them until I’d completed two articles, never once turning on the television.
        And Bob also agreed to help me formulate a website, including this blog.
        Linda’s declaration was true. God did want me to write. He can take my glasses anytime. Spiritually, I see better without them.