Rosanne Bittner's Blog, page 2

         It has been a while I posted a blog. Sorry about that, but I have been mulling over my next newstory as well as being involved in all the hoopla of Thanksgiving,Christmas and New Year’s Eve celebrations.

          I decided to dedicate thisblog to my daughter-in-law, Maria Bittner, who passed away one yearago on New Year’s Eve day at the young age of 54. I will miss herforever. My blog this month is a repeat of the dedication I wrote forMaria that was read at her funeral. She had a huge funeral with apacked sanctuary and a lovely talk by my son about how much he lovedher. The following is my personal memorial to Maria that the ministerread at the funeral. Rest in Peace, Maria. I will miss you forever. Rosanne

          Throughout our lifetimes weall end up attending funerals. The cycle of life makes it impossiblenot to. But most of us expect the funeral to be for an old person,whether our own relative or someone else’s. 

 

Expected. We manage our waythrough those expected ones. Much as we love and will miss thatperson, we are relatively prepared for his or her death.

 

Then comes the unexpected, andit hits like a blow from a baseball bat. There is always the “why?”of it. Here I am 78 years old and Maria was only 54. Why her? I wasblessed to live through my own sons turning into men, my grandsonsturning into men, and now I have been ultra-blessed to be here for mygreat-grandson. I might get to see him grow into a young man, too,but that is up to God. The fact remains that Maria won’t get to seeher grandson or her step-grandchildren become adults. She won’t getto enjoy their children. 

 

          I have decided on the “why?”of it. She was one of the most loving women I have known, and perhapsmy son and my grandsons will remember her patience and her unselfishcaring for them and their little ones. Perhaps her memory will helpthem be good fathers and grandfathers, and will help the women whoknew her be better mothers and grandmothers. Perhaps Maria was sentinto my son and grandsons’ lives simply to help them through thetough years of learning to live in a blended family and to leave aglow in their lives … the glow of warmth and love that will alwaysbe with them, not in the flesh, but in the spirit.  

If we believe that JesusChrist is always among us, and that angels are always among us, thenwe have to believe that the spirits of certain special people arealso among us. After all, death is only in the flesh. I can name afew of my own loved ones who have passed on who I am sure are alwayswith me. Some people just plain can’t help leaving a “forever”memory that doesn’t fade with time. Maria is one of those. We wereas different as the sun and the moon. Other than when I would go to agathering of friends at her and Brock’s home, we never did anythingtogether socially because I was the extrovert and Maria was thestay-at-home introvert. I could give you a long list of ourpersonality differences, but that doesn’t matter. I just loved thatwoman, and she loved me. Although she was step-mom to my grandsonsrather than mom, she loved them just like her own. She had totallove, honor and respect for her husband’s family, and there wasnothing fake about it. You could sense it, feel it. You knew it wasreal.

 

Brock told me Maria often saidshe didn’t really want to live long enough to have to go to ourfunerals. What a thing to say. And she did tell me once that shedid not believe she would live to be an old woman. I don’t know whyshe felt that way, but she seemed to sense that was exactly how itwould be. The morning of the day she died I took her some things sheneeded and felt bad that she wouldn’t be able to go to the belatedfamily Christmas that was to take place later. As bad as she felt,she made me take the gifts she had for the baby, and for my husbandbefore I left. She was thinking about them. I figuredBrock would take her to the hospital and she would get better andnext year we would have a normal Christmas.

       But when I walked out thedoor, something struck me, and I will never forget it. A little voicetold me I might not see her again. I feel so guilty for leaving, butdon’t we all think it’s not possible that a healthy 54-year-oldwoman would die just a few hours later? I told myself that, and Ileft, glad that Brock was going to take her to the hospital. We wouldall celebrate and eat the ham I had in the oven and then Brock wouldtake some home for Maria.

 

We can all look back andthink, “I should have done this, or that.” But God will have Hisway, and no matter what our decisions, His will always rules. So Itell myself not to feel guilty, because Maria Bittner died exactlylike she wanted to die, a happy, happy woman who loved much and liveda giving, unselfish life, and without a jealous bone in her body. Sheloved sunsets, and once told Brock that enjoying a campfire andwatching the sunset with him was like heaven.

 

She is there now, and she diedbefore she had to bear the death of other loved ones. Some of us havethe strength for that, and some of us don’t. Maria would ratherwatch over us from a better place, where she is perfectly happy towait for us to come to her. I will be so glad to see her again, anduntil then, I will miss her as much as any other special loved onewho has gone before me. She was not my daughter-in-law. She was mydaughter.

 

 

        Mostwriters have moments when they suffer from writer’s block. It isvery frustrating, but equally frustrating is having so many storiesto tell you don’t know which one to write first. 

 

        That’smy dilemma. Sometimes I feel like writing all the ideas on separatecards and then tossing them into the air. Whichever card fallsclosest to me is the story I will have to write next. I have had mymoments of thinking about quitting completely, but that is usuallynot from writer’s block. It’s from discouraging sales or fromhurtful comments from an editor who just doesn’t “get” mywriting. One editor’s comments about BLAZE OF GLORY were so bitingthat I decided her real problem was that she hated men. Really. Shedidn’t “get” Jake at all, while 99% of my readers love the manto death. I just ignored her inability to understand men and theaffects of a tortured childhood. So be it. I paid no attention. 

 

        Nothingtruly discourages me other than time to write everything I would liketo write. And sometimes I wonder if I should try to write a differentgenre. However, I can’t get away from my love for American historyand the Old West and Native Americans. So, as I explained not longago, I think my next book will be IF I LOVED YOU, an Indian/whitehistorical romance, something people tell me is their favoritestoryline from me.

 

         Meantime,I am re-reading THIS TIME FOREVER to see if it would work for anAmazon reissue. It was published back in 1989 by Warner Books(Popular Library). Wow, that was a long time ago. The story is basedloosely on the true tale of a woman who traveled west with theMormons but was not herself a Mormon. She became a well-known singerand my husband and I visited her mansion years ago in Wyoming. Mycharacter’s name is Lilly Brannigan, from Scotland. The hero isCharles (Chase) Mitchell. Time and circumstances bring them togetherand then apart, and Lilly vows that if she ever finds Chase again,this time it will be forever. I would be interested to know how manyof you remember the book.

        Ifeel blessed that so many of my back issues have been reissued morethan once and with new covers. That has kept me on the virtual“shelves” for years, with many of my very first books stillselling, including SavageDestiny. I expectmost of them will keep selling long after I am gone, which willbenefit my children and grandchildren. That warms my heart, and is away of being with all of you for as long as you keep reading mybooks.

 

        SHADOWTRAIL is doing well, and I can’t help wanting to write more aboutEvie and Brian, since I have never gone deeply into their marriageother than everyone knows what happened to Evie and how Brian handledit. He is such a kind, understanding, patient man – such a contrastto Jake in so many ways. But he has always understood Evie’sadoration of her father, even though Jake is so drastically differentfrom Brian. I love that “We are nothing alike, but I respect you”relationship between Jake and Brian. I have never explored Briandeeply, other than when he had a heart-to-heart with Jake when Jakethought Miranda might die from breast cancer. And, of course, theyhad another talk when Evie was kidnapped by outlaws who so brutallyabused her. It just seems like so much had to happened in all theOutlaw Heartsbooks that I never got the chance to explore that Jake and Brianrelationship. 

        Iguess I am rambling a bit. Just letting you, my very importantreaders, know what writers go through, especially ones like me whoget deeply involved in their characters. I make mine so real that itis important to be sure they remain true to theircharacter/personality through the years that are covered in my seriesbooks. It’s not always easy, but I get inside the head of everysingle character, even many of the cowhands. I would even like towrite more about some of them.

 

        IfI could live another 30 years I would probably write 30 more books. Iam up to 76, so 24 more would make 100, but that will never happen.Still, it’s a nice idea and something to aim for if God allows methe health to do so.

 

Blessings.

 

Rosanne

 

        Mostpeople (and readers) think that writing must be an easy job. Picturegetting up whenever you want, staying in your PJ’s all day, leaningback and sipping hot coffee while you look at what you have justwritten and decide if it’s ok, and think about what your charactersshould do or say next … or maybe deciding to think about thosethings while you sit outside on the patio with your coffee … orthinking maybe you will take a leisurely nap and worry about itlater.  

        Theimages are endless, and usually something to make you sigh as youwork hard at your own job and daydream about the lovely, fulfilledlife of a writer, let alone the money that must come in for such an“easy” job.

 

NOT!!

 

        Youget up early in order to get household things done as well as yardwork outside, or to get shopping done, or the other million-and-onethings EVERYBODY needs to do daily. Most writers also have regularjobs to go to every day. They have families and all the social doingsthat go with kids in school, husbands who want their attention, mealsto cook, sometimes diapers to change, or at the other end of thechild spectrum, teenagers to deal with. They have family challenges,personal problems, health problems. They try to keep in touch withfriends and close relatives, and most of the time, all these thingsare a real burden when trying to focus your brain on a fictitiousstory with fictitious characters who are as real to the author astheir own family. It is a huge matter of focusing amid constantmulti-tasking. 

       Writingis a mental, physical and emotional challenge, and you have to reallylove it to keep doing it while living your “real” life.

 

        Overthe years of facing everything above as well as several majorsurgeries and personal family problems that rise above the norm, Ihave written 76 novels – all very long, very emotional, verydetailed – all requiring hours and hours of research and planning –all full of real history. And most while living the busy lifementioned above. Many nights I stayed up writing until around 2 a.m.while everybody else slept, then was up at 5:30 a.m. to get everybodyoff to school and work (including my own full-time job) all overagain. For years I slept between 3 and 5 hours a night. 

 

        Icould go on for pages and pages about what it takes to write even onebig book. I have written 76 of them. And once-through doesn’t doit. You write the story, go back and re-write it because of changesyou know it needs, then go back and re-write it again because ofediting, then edit it again and make all the corrections, then sendit to an editor who sends it back full of errors and suggestions, soyou do more re-writing and make more corrections. You read it againand catch more errors. (You would be surprised at what the brain“sees” that isn’t there or is incorrect.)

 

        Awriter is so fixated on the story and the characters that all thoselittle boo-boos just fly right by your attention. After severalreadings and several re-writes, the book must be converted forAmazon’s print and Kindle requirements, and you have to read itAGAIN in that form to make sure nothing was left out or mixed up,make sure the spacing is right, and – again – catch errors. Yes,even at that point you will find tiny errors. People have asked me ifI read my books after they are published. Heavens no! I have alreadyread it 5-6 times by then! Maybe more!

 

        Andthen there are the physical problems from sitting far too long. I amnotorious for not getting up when I should. With my latest book,SHADOW TRAIL, I sat 12-18 hours for 3-4 days in a row trying to getthe final version ready sooner than later because I promised myreaders they would be able to get the book by a certain date. I satso long that my left leg swelled beyond the capacity of the skin tohold all that water and fluid was oozing out through the pores of mylower leg. I learned my lesson on this one and decided I MUST GET UPAND WALK AROUND AND STRETCH, ETC., much more often when writing! Nodue date is worth your health.

         Personalfamily problems also intervened. Believe me, trying to write withheavy personal emotions and worries going on is no picnic.

 

        So… easy? No, writing is not easy. You had better be born to writeand be very devoted to your stories and their characters. It had allbetter be very real for you, so real that you cry when the characterscry, and laugh when they laugh. They should be so real that youforget about all the rules of writing and all the “how-to’s”and you just write from the heart … and from the soul … notcaring about all the advice and suggestions for “How” to writeand what you can and cannot use or say.

 

        Lucrative?No. Most writers don’t make enough to live on, or they make anaverage income they would make at a regular job, making the writingsimply very nice “extra” income. Those who make it big and becomefamous and have movies made from their books are few and far between.

 

        ITIS HARDWORK!So I hope when you read someone’s book, you don’t read it with anattitude of finding out what is wrong with it so you can criticize iton Amazon. I hope you read it with an appreciation for how hard thatauthor worked to get that book out and available for you to read foryour personal entertainment. I hope you enjoy the story for what itis, and because the author wants you to enjoy it. An author can’tget enough “thank-you’s.” Your suggestions are always welcome,but you should never be mean about it. Everyone’s opinions and theway they “see” life is different, which is only food for morestories. If we were all the same, there would be no need for writingstories about “people” at all.

 

        Iworked very, very hard on SHADOW TRAIL – harder than I ever haveworked on any other book, and probably because of personal emotionalthings that were going on and physical problems I had that have neverhappened before. I am, after all, getting old (hate to admit it!) andhave been doing this for 45 years (published 40 years in May 2023).It has been a long, long road that would take another book to writeabout. 

 

        Sufficeit to say, I LOVE TO WRITE. I LOVE MY CHARACTERS. They are extremelyreal to me, and sometimes I feel like I might meet them when I leavethis world and go to the next. I believe some of them really existed.Jake Harkner, the main character in my Outlaw Hearts series, is avery complicated man due to an abusive childhood. I love thepsychological makeup of this man, and I understand him right to hissoul. I live with my characters. I talk with them. I love them and Ivisualize them as real people who really lived.

 

        Ihope you enjoy SHADOW TRAIL, book #6 in my Outlaw Hearts family saga.After all that hard work and all the changes I ended up going throughwith the story, the book has finally been published – August 12,2023, Amazon. And I am already working on my “next” story, titledIF I LOVED YOU.

Enjoy!!

 

 Order Shadow Trail on Amazon

  Iheard a line in a movie once that made me nod my head. The maincharacter was a writer, and he told someone, “I’m 300 pages intothis book and I still don’t know what it’s about.”

Thatprobably sounds strange to those who don’t write, but I identifiedwith it immediately. When I am half-way or even three-quarters of theway into a book I am writing, I start getting paranoid over whetherit’s really any good at all. I’m sure a lot of writers go throughthis. Sometimes I just ask myself, “What the hell are you doing? Isanybody really going to care about this story?”

ApparentlySOMEONE cares, because my books keep selling. But the story (and itscharacters) is so close to me that I begin to wonder if all I amdoing is living with the characters in daily life. Daily life doesnot consist of “plots” and “goal-motivation-conflict” in suchfast movement. All those things happen to us gradually throughout ourlives, and they keep changing, depending on our age and life’scircumstances. I am so close to the story that I don’t give anythought to the common rules of writing. Rather than acarefully-crafted beginning, middle and end, I just walk into thecharacters’ daily lives and continue their story. I never use aoutline.

Iam currently about three-quarters done with SHADOW TRAIL, which isscheduled for a June 30th release. Yikes!I have some fast writing to do! A lot of personal and emotionalthings have been going on for me since January or I would havefinished the book by now. Along with all of that, I have felt verymuch like the quote above. I don’t “plot” my stories. I justmove along in the lives of the characters. I create a problem forthem, and then they have to solve it. Very little mystery andsuspense, other than, with Jake Harkner in this series (this is book#6 for the Outlaw Hearts saga), the suspense is usually, “Will helive or die?”

Ithink I have a good story here. According to one of my beta readers,it’s the best one of the series. I hope she is right. “Life”has forced me to write this one hit-and-miss. I usually write fastand straight through, so having to stop for days, or even a week ortwo at a time, has made it difficult for me to stay coordinated withthis story, which brought to mind the above quote. Of course, I doknow what it’s about – Jake’s past has revisited him in a wholenew and surprising way, forcing Jake to admit something to his wifethat he’s kept a secret for 37 years. Now he has to take care ofsomething that is a total surprise to him, and he will face a lot ofdanger in doing so.

Iguess if I stay true to Jake’s character (and his wife’s andson’s), I can’t lose, because all of you wonderful, supportivereaders love these characters. I am working hard to get this bookdone so you can enjoy the story by the end of June. I already haveideas for a book about Lloyd and Katie, and after that, a story abouta grown-up “young Jake,” so I can promise more from this saga. Iam just venting through this blog about how, sometimes, authors begindoubting their own story and wonder if it is developing in a way thatwill keep readers coming back for more.

Beprepared! Jake is coming back into your lives the end of June!

 

 

         Helloto all, and happy SPRING!! I have all my outdoor cleaning up finishedin my garden and all around the rest of the house. Lots of hard work,but at my age, it’s best to keep busy. I already have 1” sproutson all my rose bushes, and color is coming back into the stems of myhardwood shrubs. The grass is greening up beautifully after a reallyhard rain last week, so the mower is out and gassed up for that firstmowing job, which I also do myself.

 

         Meantime,during some WINTER cleaning in my office, I came across notes I madeyears and years ago, in the 70’s and 80’s. I am going to sharesome of them with you in the next couple of blogs. The first one mustbe from around 1979. I didn’t date it, but I’m sure it is fromour first trip to the American West, where I have always felt Ibelong. But I was born here in Michigan, all my family is here, andmy German husband, who has farming in his blood and loves theMichigan woods, would not be happy living anywhere else.

 

        So,here I am – in Michigan, which certainly has its own beauty. Partof me belongs here because of my Potawatomi blood. However, all ofyou know how in love I am with the American West and how attached Ifeel to that part of the country, which is why I write about it. Thatfirst time I got to see it for myself, I felt as though I belongedthere, came from there … that my spirit still lived there. I waseither a pioneer woman, or lived there among a Native American tribe.

 

        Iwant to share with you what I wrote and how I felt about the GreatWest the first time I visited. I made these notes while travelingthrough Wyoming and the Rocky Mountains:

 

        “Thereis a peace here unlike any you can find anyplace else. It is not justquiet. It is total silence, except when the wind blows through thepines. The wind often picks up suddenly, surging violently down fromhigher peaks ahead of a storm, giving no warning, and diminishing inminutes.

 

        “Weare in northern Wyoming, and it feels like home to me. I have beenhere in some other life, some other time frame. Perhaps my soulbelongs to Sacajawea, or to Annie Oakley. Whoever has moved into thisearthly body to live for whatever years God will grant me, she camefrom this place, just as surely as I live and breathe today. Some dayI will live here again, if not in the flesh, then in spirit. My boneswill be buried here, or my ashes scattered here, and I will at lastbe home again.

 

        “Thereis a life to this land I never could have imagined. What at firstseems like desolation becomes something of beauty. What lookslifeless comes alive, and each time I come here in the future, I knowwhy those who live here love it, as I, too, feel a love for it. Ifeel drawn to it. This is home, this Great West, all of it, from thearid deserts of Arizona to the snow-covered peaks of Colorado andMontana, from the green, rolling hills of eastern and middle Wyomingto Yellowstone.

 

        “Thereis truly nothing like our West in all the world, not one place thatcan match its beauty, its endless horizons, its thousands of miles ofsnowy peaks, its delicate ecology. It is wide and wild and beautiful.It is colorful and full of a unique history unmatched in its rapidgrowth, its untamed territories and once-rugged and hard-edgedsettlements. I can understand why those who came here first, forwhatever reason, gold, free land, investments, exploration, or to getrich quick, ended up coming back again and again, or settled here permanently.

 

        “IfI could, I would never go home. Never.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Many of you have been asking to read my short story, THE TOUCH OF LOVE, from my Mystic Indian series. The story was previously only available by download from Mightywords.com (who have been out of business for years), but I am makingit available again for free as a thank-you to my loyal readers. In action, it falls between MYSTIC VISIONSand MYSTIC WARRIORS(Books 2 & 3).

    THE TOUCH OF LOVE is a 46-page novella about Confederate Army doctor Robert Kingsley, the half-Lakota boy raised by Rising Eagle, schooled at the University of Michigan, and uncertain exactly where he actually belonged. Then, he saved the life of Rebecca Brady after she had been bitten by a rattlesnake, and the world changed for both of them. You can read this missing link to the Mystic Indian trilogy at: 

 http://www.rosannebittner.com/the-touch-of-love.pdf

    One of the questions I hear frequently is, where do you get the ideas for your story? The Mystic Indian stories came about because of an article I read in a flyer I received from the Wind River Indian Reservation many years ago. The article described a stone medicine wheel on the top of Medicine Mountain in the Big Horn Mountains of northern Wyoming. What fascinated me was, no one is certain which Native Americans built this medicine wheel, or even when.

    At the top of a nearby mountain peak is a stone arrow pointing to the medicine wheel, which I found even more fascinating, because at the time someone created these places out of stones, there were no airplanes. There would be no way to see the arrow pointing to the medicine wheel except from above. Native Americans consider the medicine wheel sacred, believing only spirits from above would see it. There is a central cairn, with spokes coming out to join in a circle of stones so that the entire site looks just like a wagon wheel. 

    My husband and I took a trip to see the medicine wheel, and the first time we went there we had to drive up a very dangerous, one-lane (side of the mountain- no guard rail) road to get o the site. The second time we went to see it, the national park service had made a better road, but it goes only part way up and then you have to walk the rest of the way. The wheel itself is now fenced off because of (I call them jerks) people stealing stones from the site. When you go there, you get a chilling feeling of spirituality, as though you have just walked into an ancient mysterious past. And the view on top of Medicine Mountain is SPECTACULAR!!

    The moment I read about this stone medicine wheel, I knew I wanted to write a book that would be based around this sacred site. That book is MYSTIC DREAMERS, and on the original hard cover book jacket there is a picture of the actual stone medicine wheel. After that first book I knew I needed to continue the story of Stalking Wolf and Buffalo Dreamer, so I wrote book #2 MYSTIC VISIONS and then #3 MYSTIC WARRIORS, which follows the Sioux nation into the Custer battle. All three books are filled with real Native American history, customs and beliefs, and a good share of mystic spirituality, the third book ending with a very spiritual and mysterious event that (I hope) leaves readers wondering if this really could happen. I personally believe it could.

    Book 1, MYSTIC DREAMERS: In 1833, Star Dancer, a Sichangu (Brulé Sioux), is promised in marriage to Stalking Wolf, an Oglala warrior whom she has never met. What begins as a loveless union develops into a moving story of a man and a woman led by powers beyond their control. Dreams, visions, and mystic experiences fill this provocative love story that launches a saga about the Lakota and their first meeting with the White Man.

    Book 2: MYSTIC VISIONS follows Buffalo Dreamer, Rising Eagle, and their children through the great Indian wars and the settling of the West, where, in addition to the risks and rewards of daily life, they and their Lakota tribe must face the influx of white settlers and soldiers into their lands and into their lives. In Mustic Visions, we experience Buffalo Dreamer's increasingly powerful visions of the bluecoats and a coming war. We learn the fate of Little Big Boy and Never Sleeps, and of Never Sleeps's mother, Fall Leaf Woman. And we meet the one who is destined to lead the Lakota People in their greatest trial ever, Crazy Horse!

    Book 3: MYSTIC WARRIORS: The white buffalo is a sacred and holy creature to the Lakota. Buffalo Dreamer, a holy woman, and her husband, Rising Eagle, have not only been blessed to see the white buffalo, they have eaten of its heart and have been told by the sacred beast that as long as the Lakota have the white buffalo hide, all will be well.

    But all is not well. White hunters have stolen the sacred white robe and great misfortune has befallen the Lakota. Settlers continue to invade Lakota territory, backed by vicious cavalry forces that massacre women and children. The Lakota are starving and their anger is growing.

    Led by Rising Eagle, a great force of Lakota and other tribes wage war upon the white man. Together they battle to regain the land stolen from them, to protect the precious buffalo the white man wantonly destroys, and to search for the sacred white robe.

    You can read more about this series, including links for ordering in both print and ebook formats, on the Mystic Indian Series page of my website: http://www.rosannebittner.com/mystic.html

 

My Dedication at the Memorial for my daughter-in-law, Maria Bittner, who died an untimely death on January 31, 2022, at the age of 54. She had a huge funeral with a packed sanctuary and a lovely talk by my son about how much he loved her. The following is my personal memorial to Maria that the minister read at the funeral. Rest in Peace, Maria. I will miss you forever. Rosanne

Throughout our lifetimes we all end up attending funerals. The cycle of life makes it impossible not to. But most of us expect the funeral to be for an old person, whether our own relative or someone else’s.

Expected. We manage our way through those expected ones. Much as we love and will miss that person, we are relatively prepared for his or her death.

Then comes the unexpected, and it hits like a blow from a baseball bat. There is always the “why?” of it. Here I am 78 years old and Maria was only 54. Why her? I was blessed to live through my own sons turning into men, my grandsons turning into men, and now I have been ultra-blessed to be here for my great-grandson. I might get to see him grow into a young man, too, but that is up to God. The fact remains that Maria won’t get to see her grandson or her step-grandchildren become adults. She won’t get to enjoy theirchildren. 

   I have decided on the “why?” of it. She was one of the most loving women I have known, and perhaps my son and my grandsons will remember her patience and her unselfish caring for them and their little ones. Perhaps her memory will help them be good fathers and grandfathers, and will help the women who knew her be better mothers and grandmothers. Perhaps Maria was sent into my son and grandsons’ lives simply to help them through the tough years of learning to live in a blended family and to leave a glow in their lives … the glow of warmth and love that will always be with them, not in the flesh, but in the spirit.

  If we believe that Jesus Christ is always among us, and that angels are always among us, then we have to believe that the spirits of certain special people are also among us. After all, death is only in the flesh. I can name a few of my own loved ones who have passed on who I am sure are always with me. Some people just plain can’t help leaving a “forever” memory that doesn’t fade with time. Maria is one of those. We were as different as the sun and the moon. Other than when I would go to a gathering of friends at her and Brock’s home, we never did anything together socially because I was the extrovert and Maria was the stay-at-home introvert. I could give you a long list of our personality differences, but that doesn’t matter. I just loved that woman, and she loved me. Although she was step-mom to my grandsons rather than mom, she loved them just like her own. She had total love, honor and respect for her husband’s family, and there was nothing fake about it. You could sense it, feel it. You knew it was real.

 Brock told me Maria often said she didn’t really want to live long enough to have to go to ourfunerals. What a thing to say. And she did tell me once that she did not believe she would live to be an old woman. I don’t know why she felt that way, but she seemed to sense that was exactly how it would be. The morning of the day she died I took her some things she needed and felt bad that she wouldn’t be able to go to the belated family Christmas that was to take place later. As bad as she felt, she made me take the gifts she had for the baby, and for my husband before I left. She was thinking about them. I figured Brock would take her to the hospital and she would get better and next year we would have a normal Christmas.

       But when I walked out the door, something struck me, and I will never forget it. A little voice told me I might not see her again. I feel so guilty for leaving, but don’t we all think it’s not possible that a healthy 54-year-old woman would die just a few hours later? I told myself that, and I left, glad that Brock was going to take her to the hospital. We would all celebrate and eat the ham I had in the oven and then Brock would take some home for Maria.

       We can all look back and think, “I should have done this, or that.” But God will have His way, and no matter what our decisions, His will always rules. So I tell myself not to feel guilty, because Maria Bittner died exactly like she wanted to die, a happy, happy woman who loved much and lived a giving, unselfish life, and without a jealous bone in her body. She loved sunsets, and once told Brock that enjoying a campfire and watching the sunset with him was like heaven.

She is there now, and she died before she had to bear the death of other loved ones. Some of us have the strength for that, and some of us don’t. Maria would rather watch over us from a better place, where she is perfectly happy to wait for us to come to her. I will be so glad to see her again, and until then, I will miss her as much as any other special loved one who has gone before me. She was not my daughter-in-law. She was my daughter.

 

 

        Strange title, I know, but as a writer, we sometimes get the reality of our stories mixed up with the reality of life. One of the most common comments I get from readers is, “Your story was so real.” “Your characters are so real. Did they really exist?” “I could feel your characters’ pain.” “I laughed and I cried right along with your characters.”

        That’s all good to hear, because it means I am doing something right. Even I get so wrapped up in my characters that I laugh and cry with them. Writing about how much they love each other, and how devastating it would be for a certain character to lose the one he or she loves, brings out my own genuine tears. There I sit, bawling over someone who never actually existed, but in my mind, they are so real. I even cry when I know this is the last book I will write about a certain character.

        Recently, the reality of the pain of loss through death hit hard when my own daughter-in-law suddenly died … out of a clear, blue sky. I had seen and talked to her that morning, and by 3:00 pm, she was gone. 54 years old. No sickness. No warning. No reason to worry about something that dramatic. She simply bled to death without realizing it. She was going through menopause, and every 3 months or so she would have very heavy bleeding. This one was worse than usual, and she became very short of breath. My son was helping get her ready to go to the hospital when she died in his arms. Loss of blood had put too much strain on her heart and organs.

        Maria was a wonderful mother, wife, daughter and grandmother – a beautiful spirit. She loved her grandbabies so much. One was her own, and two were step-grandbabies, but you would never know any difference. I am so sad that my great-grandson, Bannon, is still so young that he won’t remember her.

        I was deliberating having a certain person die in my latest work in progress (no worries, dear readers – it’s not who you think). Now, if I write it, it will be far more real for me than I thought. I’m not sure I can write it at all now. I might have to change my story.

        My point is, when I write such reality, it takes a toll on me emotionally. I cry over every character who dies, even the minor ones (except the “bad guys,” of course). I also cry over leaving certain characters behind and moving on. Sometimes characters come into my stories who become so important that they start to take over the story. I have to write them out of the story or play them down more because I don’t want to take away from the major characters. I “save” such characters for their own stories.

        When you write emotions, I think it helps to have been through a lot yourself. That’s where the reality comes from. I’ve been through a lot of loss, an older sister who I wish so much I had been closer to, a super father, a mother I never quite understood, a grandmother who was my whole world, an aunt who was simply a loving, memorable person who treated me like her own, a son on drugs who has destroyed his life and is just now realizing it, all the goods and bads of marriage, all those stages of life that teach you lessons – all the stupid decisions one makes in life, and all the good ones. I know the love of being a friend, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a mother, a grandmother, now a great-grandmother. Memories are wonderful, but they can also hurt when you realize all the things you should have done differently and now will never get the chance. I should have spent more time with Maria. We were as different as night and day as far as personalities, but we always got along because she was so giving and unselfish. She took care of me after my hip surgery, and she had a bookshelf right by her front door that had every one of my books in it. She kept it on display. No other relative has done that.

             The reality I try to bring out in my stories has become too real. I can understand my son’s sorrow, and when I write similar reality, I will understand the sorrow of that kind of death.

        I don’t mean to make this a morbid blog. I just want to use it to celebrate life and remind my readers and other writers how precious that life is. I can’t get over thinking how it should have been me. I am 78 and I have had my turn at being a grandmother and even now a great-grandmother. But we can’t argue the choices God makes. Maria is in a much better place now, and she is definitely with all of us in spirit. Sounds strange, but I often feel the characters in my books really lived and are also with me. But then we writers are strange characters ourselves.

        All writers have days when the ideas just won’t come, or they are flat-out not in the mood to write. Or some days we are just stuck at a spot in our story where we can’t figure out where to go from there. I call it “writing myself into a corner.” What seems to be a great idea flows out of us and into an exciting story, but sometimes we fail to consider how that particular event or decision will affect the rest of the book.

        No matter what the problem, I often find that listening to my “mood music” often pulls me out of whatever has slowed my writing. When I listen to music like the theme songs from Lonesome Dove or Open Range, I can so easily “see” the magnificent western landscape, and seeing it and feeling it through music instantly brings up new ideas and the desire to write something grand and memorable. It helps me describe that beautiful mountain view or the wide-open grasslands with endless horizons. That, in turn, creates new ideas, an inspiration to write a story that fits the bold panorama of the American West.

        Listening to the theme song from The Big Country brings up visions of Jake and Lloyd Harkner herding cattle over yellow grass and the vast slopes of J&L land, with the Rockies in the background. I can stand on a high ridge and look down at the sparkling water of a stream below. I can scan the horizon for miles, looking for stray cattle or rustlers. Such big country helps me envision the big men it took to tame it, and the strength the women of such a land needed to survive it. Then, of course, there is Native American music, which I use to help me envision warriors and villages and herds of buffalo. I can “see” a band of painted natives in full regalia and riding painted horses across the expansive spaces of the high plains.

        I don’t know what I would do without my mood music. I used it a lot in Dancing Beneath You, because the hero, Ben, is trained in professional singing and dancing, and he founded a youth group that he molded into a song and dance group much like Glee.I can see Ben or the youth group singing every song I list in my book, and it makes me eager to tell more of their story, which I will do in the sequel, Walking Beside You.

        Another story I want to write is called. If I Loved You. It is based on the song of the same title from the musical, Carousel. Most of my mood music is theme songs from great westerns, as well as songs by Josh Groban and David Phelps. The list is long. I have over 600 songs in my phone. I get them through Apple Music. They are constantly playing when I drive, and I keep earphones in my office and at my bedside so I can listen whenever I am in the mood. When I listen to If I Loved You, sung by Josh Groban and Audra McDonald, I see a young pioneer girl who has fallen in love with a young Cheyenne warrior. Her father finds out and forces them apart, and during the song I see her wagon pulling away with the wagon train, the young girl sitting on the wagon gate crying and watching her Cheyenne lover ride away with a band of other young men. They disappear over a rise, both thinking they will probably never see each other again. I cry every time I picture that when I am listening to that song.

        Whenever you are feeling low, or are sick of boring TV shows, and even sicker over today’s news, try listening to songs you love. They can be up-beat songs that make you want to get up and dance, or simply soft music that relaxes you, or songs that bring up visions of things you love most. I know music has been a big part of my writing and always will be.

        Listen and imagine. They are the two major keys to writing.

 

 

        Iwas making Rice Krispie treats a couple of days ago, and I thoughtwhat a pleasant, comforting time I had doing so. You melt butter andpuffy marshmallows, throw in the Rice Krispies and gradually rollthem into the white sugary cloud of melted marshmallows and thensmooth it into a pan and slice it up and eat it. Kids love it. Adultslove it. And it is so simple to make.

        Thatwhole incident reminded me that in spite of all the madness going onout there in the world today and all the stressful and oftendepressing news that bombards our TV sets, radios and newspapers, weneed to remind ourselves of the things that comfort us and make ushappy ��� things like baking pies and playing with our pets and/orwith our children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

        Ilove to watch old movies, especially the black and white ones. Theyremind us of the old America, of manners and classy clothing, thewild enthusiasm for baseball and how people dressed up to go to thosegames. In old movies we often see what our big cities used to looklike during a time when law and order prevailed, when boys stood onstreet corners hawking newspapers and milk wagons and street carsdominated the streets. I love the old MGM Grand musicals, where hugestages were used to perform incredibly beautifully choreographeddance routines with fifty dancers or more moving toperfectly-coordinated routines, all done against magnificentbackdrops and with the dancers wearing glamorous feathers andglitter.

       Ilike to look at old pictures of my grandmother, aunts and uncles,parents and siblings and remember big potluck picnics andget-togethers where everyone brought their favorite dish. There isnothing better than gathering at a big Sicilian reunion or a weddingwhere there is home-made pasta dishes and sesame cookies. I alsoremember going to an aunt���s house where food was the number onerecreation. I had an aunt on the non-Italian side of the family whoshould have owned her own restaurant, where she could serve herfabulous southern pecan pie and the best home-made vegetable soup inthe state.

        Myhusband and I go for a lot of rides down back country roads, wherethings are quiet and people still live away from all the turmoil ofinterstate highways and big cities. We see tractors and huge discsand blueberry pickers and cherry shakers. We see corn fields andblueberries, asparagus fields, peach orchards, cherry and appleorchards, fields of squash and pumpkins. We come across fruit standswhere we can buy super fresh fruits and vegetables. I feel blessed tolive in the country, and all of America is beautiful. We havetraveled everywhere in this country, and you can���t beat themagnificent majesty of the Rocky Mountains and the Sierras,Yellowstone Park and Grand Canyon, or the Black Hills of SouthDakota.  

       Ihave an old Betty Crocker cookbook ��� probably 50 years old. And Ihave an old Bible that has rose petals pressed between the pages.They still smell wonderful. And there is nothing so comforting assmells ��� the smell of an old, old book, the smell of pine atChristmas, of cookies baking in the oven, or of home-made popcorn orhome-made bread. I remember the smell of my grandmother���s perfume.I don���t know what it was, but it had a bit of a spicy scent, mixedwith some kind of flower I can���t pinpoint. Every once in a while Ipick up that scent, and immediately, I feel Grandma with me.

        Ienjoy listening to music from the 40���s, so many war songs aboutpride and patriotism. And back then, songs were so much moreromantic, plus you could actually understand the lyrics. I takecomfort in old Christmas carols and in paintings of farm Christmasesby Grandma Moses. How many kids today have even heard of GrandmaMoses?

         Ilove big-band music and remember a ballroom that once existed here inmy hometown, where famous bands like Lawrence Welk and Glen Millervisited. Their music could be heard in the air at night, and peoplecame from miles around, some from a couple of hundred miles, just tobe there and dance to the music, women wearing beautiful dresses andmen in suits. You don���t see that anymore. Nor do you hear reallygood, easy-singing artists like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin.

        Rememberthe night time talk shows, like Johnny Carson? I never watch today���slate-night entertainment. It is no longer entertainment at all. Iused to laugh at every joke and every prank, and I enjoyed the guestsbecause they talked about fun things instead of ranting aboutpolitics. Are there any programs left that don���t talk aboutpolitics? It is all over the news, the sitcoms, the talk shows, thenewspapers and magazines, and I am sick of listening. I prefer doingother things, things that make me happy and contented. I watch verylittle TV, unless it is old movies and old sitcoms in which thefamily unit and morals and manners prevailed.

        Iwonder if there are any young people who know what high fidelity is ���or know what an iron is ��� a percolator ��� a can opener ��� a meatgrinder ��� an eggbeater, a rumble seat, driving with a clutch, orwhen car starters were a button on the floor. How many know how tocook a big meal? Do you remember drinking out of a hose? Playing onrope swings? Do you remember having chores and having to earn yourtoys and goodies? Nothing has ever been ���given��� to me. I had toearn everything I had, including my school clothes and my class ringand class trip. I worked summers since I was fourteen years old.

        Thereis a Bon Jovi song that talks about wanting to ���go back��� ��� to���when we were beautiful, before the world got small, before we knewit all. Back, to when we were innocent. I wonder where it went. Let���sgo back and find it.���

        Ioften want to go back to those days myself. Innocence can actually bea good thing, something joyful. That���s why children find so muchjoy in every new thing they learn, every new friend, every newobject, every new game. The world is a wonder to them, and Isometimes wish it could be that way for all of us. The sad part isthat now schools and modern-day teaching steals a child���s innocencelong before he or she should lose it, teaching them things that onlyparents should have the right to teach them, the right to decide whenand how they will do so.

         Weneed to preserve the past and our history as best we can, and thebest way to do that is to talk to our children and grandchildrenabout what things used to be like. Hand down our heritage and ourhistory the way the Native Americans do. In spite of how hard thegovernment and others tried to take away their language, theirreligion, their cultural beliefs, Native Americans hung on to allthat was vitally important to their heritage. Many have preservedtheir language and teachings and now teach it to their youth. That isall due to the Old Ones handing down their stories and wisdom.  

        Weshould do the same. We should write down the things we remember sothey are never lost. They can take the history out of our movies andtextbooks and teachings, but they can���t steal our memories.Preserve those memories, and hand them down to your descendants. Andteach them what a wonderful, free country we live in and that it isour job, and theirs, to make sure we never lose real America.