A book’s surprise literary connection to home

It’s no surprise that Richard Peck is connected to the house my husband and I bought last year.

(At least, it isn’t if you caught my story of a visit from one of the home’s former occupants and my recent ode to Richard Peck.)

I learned in August 2017 that the family from whom we bought our house hosted acclaimed children’s and young adult author Richard Peck, thus christening the guest room as the Peck Room forever after. Because of Peck’s influence on my own reading and writing life, my husband and I carried on the tradition. A plaque outside the bedroom door — gifted to us from the home’s decades-long former family — hangs there today.

Peck Room

You can see from the date that Peck stayed here Oct. 5-6, 2004, during a round of visits to Streator schools and our gorgeous Carnegie library.

That was nearly 14 years ago. Sadly, a week ago today, I read the announcement on Peck’s Facebook page that the 84-year-old author died on May 23 after living with cancer.

20544019_683420473705_927578940396919256_oIn his honor, I decided last week to search my shelves for one of his books I hadn’t yet read. Last summer, during the annual Riverfest used book sale in downtown Ottawa, I stumbled on a copy of “Fair Weather,” a gently worn copy that had been removed from circulation at Streator High School’s library and donated to the sale. (It’s the pale blue spine, eighth from the bottom, just under “Water for Elephants.”)

The title wasn’t even on my radar when I stumbled upon it at the book sale last year. I added it to my stack merely for the sake of the author’s name — I’ve never been let down yet by a Richard Peck book, and like the others, this one didn’t disappoint.

In fact, it came with a bonus surprise.

When I opened to the title page, I found Peck’s blue-inked penmanship:


The note reads, “For Streator H.S. readers – Richard Peck Oct. 6, ’04”

This book was signed for the local high school during Peck’s two-day stay at my home.

I never had the opportunity to meet Richard Peck, and his visit to Streator only accounted for two days out of his 84-year life. But I am endlessly overjoyed every time his visit ripples into my life.

20180531_174513.jpgThis book — particular this specific copy of this book — felt like the appropriate farewell to a beloved writer. It was a fitting conclusion to my brief, distant connection to Peck.

But there will always be a bond between writer and reader when a book is in hand. Every time I crack the well-loved spine of “A Long Way From Chicago,” the divide is closed, because he’ll be right here in the home he visited for two days in 2004, telling me a story.


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Thank you for the stories, Richard Peck

I met Richard Peck through Grandma Dowdel.

She’s not my grandmother. In fact, she’s his. Not in the way you might expect, though.

Grandma Dowdel is a character in Richard Peck’s novels “A Long Way From Chicago,” “A Year Down Yonder,” and “A Season of Gifts.”

I first met Grandma Dowdel when my Aunt Robin — a children’s librarian — gifted “A Long Way From Chicago” to my parents, sisters, and I. The fearless, confident, mischief-making old woman won me over from the first pages. Her spirit of mischief has stuck with me for well over a decade, and I’ve revisited those books numerous times to meet her again.

Grandma Dowdel’s spirit of mischief has heavily influenced all of the Molehill children in my next novel, “The Mountain of Dempsey Molehill.” I keep a copy of Peck’s books close at hand in my writing room.

Peck’s influence on my life as both a reader and a writer made the news of his death this week particularly saddening to me.


Richard Peck has another small influence on my home. When we purchased our house last year, we learned from the previous owners — one of them an English teacher and longtime supporter of the local library — that Peck stayed in their home during his visit to Streator in 2004.

They were honored and overjoyed by having Peck as a guest — so much so that they displayed a plaque in the house and dubbed the guest room as the Peck Room.

They were generous enough to pass the plaque on to us, and it is proudly displayed outside the bedroom door.

Peck Room

After my parents learned of Peck’s connection to my new home, my family became especially devoted fans. Although it’s a small connection, our love of his books made it feel like a bond. One of the housewarming gifts from my parents was Peck’s only picture book, “Monster Night at Grandma’s House.”

Over a 45-year writing career, Peck produced 43 books — nearly a book a year, and the majority of those for children and young adults.

He gave us an extraordinary gift in his stories and writing. I’ll miss seeing his name on newly released titles. But I’m grateful for the literary legacy he left behind.

Thank for the stories, Mr. Peck. Your pen may rest now, as may you.

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Dear Opossums, I owe you an apology

In June 2017, I came home from a late-night shift in the newsroom and found a surprise waiting for me in the garage.

Somehow, a baby opossum Houdini’ed its way inside and was perched on the hood of my husband’s car.

Baby Possum

It took some work to shoo this guy out of the garage. Particularly since it adopted an “If I can’t see you, you can’t see me” method of hiding and tucked its nose in the corner farthest from the door to cower. Some gentle nudging with a broom eventually steered it out the door.

Having grown up in rural soybean-and-cornfield Illinois, ‘possums and I are no stranger to each other. They were frequent visitors to my childhood home year-round, often displacing our barn cats from their warm pet houses in the winter and forcing us to regularly evict them from the straw-and-blanket-lined pet homes.

In fact, they’re still frequent visitors to my parents’ home. That’s where my niece, Katy, first encountered them … and was terrified by them and “their ugly triangle heads,” as she put it.

Katy’s fear of opossums is what inspired the opossum army in “Sarah & Katy and the Imagination Blankets.” In the imaginary land of Katarah, opossums are the antagonist who are trying to take over the kingdom.

Possum Army

The Sarah & Katy books were written for my nieces Sarah and Katy, so the incorporation of fearsome opossums was a nod to the real Katy’s fear — and the book gave her a chance to see read about herself overcoming them in the story. Unfortunately, I’ve also done opossums a disservice by reinforcing the scary stereotype.

Even though opossums are fierce on the surface (I have to confess it’s a little off-putting when you’re in close quarters with a hissing ‘possum who seems to unhinge its entire face when it opens its mouth), they get an unnecessarily bad reputation.

The National Opossum Society reports this North American marsupial keeps a clean environment from which we benefit, calling them “nature’s little sanitation engineers.” They eat insects, carrion, and overripe fruit, plus catch and consume small rodents around the  yard. They also eat 90 percent of ticks they encounter, consuming as many as 5,000 in a season, according to the Cary Institute of Ecosystem Studies. If there’s one critter I consider my mortal enemy, it’s a tick … so the enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?

Like most wildlife, they can carry fleas, but they don’t carry rabies and are impervious to Lyme disease. And they’re not likely to bite you, anyway. The Cary Institute reports their first line of defense is drooling and hissing as a bluff. The big-bad-possum act works … especially on Katy. But when it fails, the opossum’s next line of defense is fainting and … well, playing possum.

Sure, possums aren’t cute and cuddly looking like cats, rabbits, and raccoons. At best, they’re just so ugly they’re almost cute. But they’re largely harmless, beneficial, and pretty interesting fellows. (Did you know opossum ancestors were alive while dinosaurs roamed the earth? Read more here.)

A few more tidbits, courtesy of the Opossum Awareness & Advocacy blog:

  • Opossums are North America’s only marsupial, carrying their newborns in a pouch. (Fun fact: They can have around 25 babies, or joeys, in one litter. Not so fun fact: Only about a dozen survive.)
  • Female opossums are called jills. Males are called jacks.
  • They’re nomadic and nocturnal.
  • The O at the beginning of their name is important. The possum is a mammal native to Australia; the opossum is native to North America.

Making Amends

As an apology to making out opossums as a vicious army, I’m taking two steps. The first is a donation to the Opossum Awareness & Advocacy nonprofit based in Vermont, which shares the following mission statement:

Our mission is to spread awareness about opossums’ many attributes, including the fact they kill ticks and mice that carry Lyme and other infectious diseases, and in doing so to improve the public’s regard and treatment of this very undervalued marsupial.

We also seek to complement other awareness and advocacy efforts, including but not limited to, the appreciation and preservation of wildlife, and the awareness and amelioration of Lyme Disease.

The second step is sharing opossum education and advocacy groups, including:

  • Opossum Awareness & Advocacy: An opossum advocacy group launched in May 2017. www.opossumpower.org Follow on Facebook at fb.com/opossumawarenessandadvocacy.
  • The National Opossum Society is full of trivia and information to help you learn about our marsupial friends at opossum.org.
  • Opossum Society of the United States: Under the General Information tab on this group’s website, there’s information about what to do for orphaned or injured opossums, tips for coexisting with them, and information for wildlife rehabilitators and veterinarians. Follow at opossumsocietyus.org.
  • See the cute and loveable side of opossums at fb.com/possumcore. You’ll find photos and memes galore.

A final note

You’ll be happy to know my niece no longer finds opossums terrifying. In fact, the last one Katy found wandering around my parents’ property was christened Louise. Who could be afraid of a critter named Louise?

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A Spot of Childhood Still Exists


In December 1992, I was given a very special task: I got to help Mom wrap a Christmas present for my older sister, Jenny.

In July of that year, Disney released the VHS cassette of “101 Dalmatians.” Unbeknownst to me at the time, the Disney classic was to be one of our Christmas gifts. Because of the movie’s release, stores were full of plush Dalmatian toys that holiday season, and Mom commissioned me to help wrap one such toy puppy for Jenny.

There are few details I remember about wrapping that present. I can’t tell you the color or pattern of the Christmas gift wrap. I don’t remember if I filled out the gift tag or if Mom wrote “To Jenny.” I don’t even recall if the gift was meant to be from me (I suppose it was, since I was let in on the secret).

Two details, however, stand out now that 26 years stand between then and now:

  1. I was absolutely green-eyed with jealousy, because I wanted that Dalmatian.
  2. I was too young to realize that Mom’s general method of gift-buying was if one daughter got a toy, the other daughters got a similar one.

Spot CroppedMy green eyes faded back to their usual blue on Christmas morning when I unwrapped my own stuffed Dalmatian. And with a five-year-old’s usual brand of creativity, I christened him Spot. (This was a step above my stuffed hippo named Mr. Hippo, and my carnival goldfish named Fish.)

Spot was THE toy of my childhood. He was the velveteen rabbit to my Boy. (And, quite inspired by that book, I wholeheartedly believed that if I loved him enough, he would turn Real, with a capital R.)

And oh, how Spot was loved. From my fifth Christmas onward, we were inseparable. Not a night passed that Spot wasn’t cradled in my arm, his head tucked under my chin. If I awoke in the middle of the night and he had fallen from the bed, I panicked until he was recovered. (I remember one particular tearful night when Spot got kicked down to the end of the bed beneath my covers, and I assumed he had fallen on the floor. I was in hysterics and had the bedroom light blazing, searching under my bed and Jenny’s and generally tearing the room apart until Mom woke up and came to the rescue.)

Teddy bear defender

Stuffed animals: Defenders of dreamers, protectors of sleepers

He was my companion — and, often, my guard dog. His tail got stretched to twice its length from my habit of swinging him like a mace to bop my sisters any time they picked on or displeased me. His plastic nose detached after one too many whacks, which led to another batch of hysterics until Mom sewed the hole on his face and drew a new nose with permanent black marker.

And, as every child with a stuffed animal knows, Spot protected me at night from the monsters in the shadows. As long as your arms are under the blankets and your stuffed animal is in bed, you’re safe.

There was almost never a night without him. He came on every vacation — and bless Mom for double, triple, and quadruple checking he was safely stowed in the car before we drove home. When college rolled around, he came with me. (There was one agonizing week without him … Mom suggested I leave him home because my floormates might tease my graying, ratty, bald-at-the-seams childhood toy. On move-in day, nearly everyone in my dorm could be seen carrying their loved-to-tatters childhood companions; my parents delivered Spot the next weekend.)

Even when my husband and I first lived together, Spot was in the crook of my arm those first few nights. Nineteen years of falling asleep with Spot was a tough habit to break, but finally he got retired to a shelf for his own protection.

Adults and Their Toys

Spot still lives on a shelf today, where every so often I pick him, squeeze my fingers into his once-soft, now-coarse fur, and let myself soak in the nostalgia.

Not everyone is so nostalgic about their childhood toys, though. Last week I read Christopher Milne’s memoir “The Enchanted Places: A Memoir of the Real Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh,” when I came upon this passage:

So, if I am asked, ‘Aren’t you sad that the animals [his childhood stuffed toys] are not in their glass case with you today?’ I must answer ‘Not really,’ and hope that this doesn’t seem too unkind. I like to have around me the things I like today, not the things I once liked many years ago. I don’t want a house to be a museum. When I grew out of my old First Eleven blazer, it was thrown away, not lovingly preserved to remind me of the proud day I won it with a score of 13 not out. Every child has his Pooh, but one would think it odd if every man still kept his Pooh to remind him of his childhood.

pooh group1628604

Christopher Robin Milne’s original Winnie-the-Pooh toys on display at New York Public Library.

I felt a certain measure of embarrassment when I read those words, because I knew upstairs I had my own Pooh as my totem of childhood. Whereas Christopher Milne (the son of A.A. Milne, upon whom Christopher Robin is based in the Winnie-the-Pooh books) detached from his childhood toys and donated them to New York Public Library, I quite happily kept mine. If he were alive today to meet me, it’s probable he would think me odd.

A Reddit thread about what adults did with their childhood toys has a range of answers. Some adults expressed little to no attachment to pieces of childhood. Others donated or sold the majority of old belongings, keeping just one or two particularly meaningful items. Among the 41 responses:

  • I didn’t have many significant toys, but when I went away to college the process of getting rid of them was set rolling. The stuff I didn’t really care about was donated at that time. Later, when my mum was trying to sell her house, I had to make the harder decisions. I kept the stuff that was really special (like my baby blanket/stuffed animals). […]
  • I was actually really lucky. My parents sold everything of mine that I couldn’t carry with me when I moved out so I didn’t have this problem [of deciding what to do with toys] at all.
  • The childhood mementos I still have are in a box in a safe dry place. I’d probably never let a kid near them. I don’t want to think of those lovely things with bite marks, scuffs, missing parts, sticky matted fur, etc. Maybe if I hold on to them long enough, they’ll become worth something and I can sell them to an adult who can see the value in them.
  • I have a lot of old toys lying around my parents’ house too, and they may be selling it sometime in the next couple of years now that my brother and I have moved out, so I have to get rid of most of them. I have been selling quite a few on eBay. […]
  • Most of my toys have gone to second hand shops. The sentimental ones I keep on a shelf in my room and a few went to my young cousins and nieces.
  • I still have the ones that were meaningful to me. My family and I donated everything else as I outgrew them. Nobody’s going to want the ones I still have now. (Seriously, I’m sure the kids will be killing each other over a grungy 30 year old stuffed horse)
  • Most of my stuff got sold off in garage sales as I got too old for them. The only things that are left now are stuffed animals. As my niece gets a little older I’m going to let her have her pick of them and then donate the rest. I’m keeping the ones that are the most important to me and I’ll probably never get rid of those.
  • I lugged my toys around for years. It wasn’t until I was in my last place that I finally said – I gotta get rid of these! […]
  • I wasn’t much of a fan of toys even as a kid. I’d get a few, maybe play with them a bit, then hand them down to my siblings or give them to thrift shops. If I really liked them, I just set them on my desk or dresser or something as decoration. I certainly don’t lug them along into my adult life. Really, I got rid of most everything I had when I joined the Army at 18. Now my only “toys” are an old stuffed bear a police officer gave me when I was 11 after taking pictures of my then-recent bullet wound (long story) which I keep in the corner of my room, and a few Mass Effect figurines (which are not for playing with) that decorate my desk and shelves. If you like your toys, keep them. If you don’t have space for them, box them up and store them. There’s no reason to have to give them away if that’s not what you want to do.

While not all of the responders above enthusiastically hold onto childhood mementos, most display some level of sentimentality over at least one or two possessions from youth. Christopher Milne would have plenty of others besides me to consider odd for keeping mementos of childhood.

A Chicago Tribune report  reassured me and somewhat reinforced my sentimentality for Spot. Psychologist and author David Palmiter said of sentimental childhood objects: “There isn’t really a mandate to give it up. It will naturally become less important or used when they no longer need it.”

Although I no longer need Spot to fall asleep or to keep teasing sisters at bay, on a deeper level, I believe I’ll always need him. And though his role has changed, I don’t consider him less important. Spot is a link to childhood, which is a time of life I hope never to lose touch with. Reason and logic and practicality have their place in adulthood, but so does a childlike lens of viewing the world. There is a magic, a hope, a sense of endless possibility and wonder in childhood to which I hug as tightly as I ever hugged Spot.

There comes a comfort in the knowledge that a corner of a shelf — a spot in my house — is reserved for a tangible piece of childhood.

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The power and importance of constructive criticism


When I finished writing my second novel in seventh grade, I was appalled at the idea of an editor suggesting changes to my masterpiece.

“I’m never going to let an editor change my work,” I vowed back then.

Erm … ahem. That’s a vow I’ve broken in the years since.

Even though most writers go through the mood swings of “My latest work is great!” and “This is the most garbage piece of writing in existence,” by the time we hand off a work-in-progress to a beta reader, critique partner, or editor, there’s that voice in the back of our minds uttering a hopeful chant of, “Please like this. Please think it’s brilliant. Please don’t slaughter the page with a red ink pen. Please say it’s beautiful and perfect.”

That’s the fear of rejection talking. Sometimes it takes some effort to push past that fear and bring reason to the forefront. Because reason will tell you, “I’m handing my work off to these people to polish it up. I want it to be its shiny best before I share it with the world. I hope they find it to be a worthy draft, but I also hope they come back with a lot of feedback.”

No draft is perfect in its first form. Not even that book I wrote in seventh grade that I vowed would never see an editor’s touch. (Although, to be honest, it hasn’t seen an editor’s touch. Mostly because it’s such a rambling, random, aimless mess that there’s very little worth salvaging.)

A tale of two critiques

When I attended the 2017 Prairie Writers and Illustrators Day in November, I signed up for a Chapter One critique from a professional editor. A couple months before the day-long conference, I sealed my first ten pages in an envelope and sent it off with a stamp and a prayer. (My prayer mostly being, “Please don’t hate this and tell me I’m a talentless hack.”)

On the morning of the conference, I picked up my critique at check-in. I carried it around in its folder for quite a while before I opened it. After many deep breaths, I delved into the feedback I received on the opening pages of The Mountain of Dempsey Molehill.

There was a healthy dose of positive feedback … and a healthier dose of constructive criticism.

My heart sank slightly when I first saw the list of items that needed work. But as I read each bulleted item, I felt as though someone had cleared a path through the dark, murky writer’s forest for me. When I’m in the thick of writing or self-editing, its easy to miss things hidden behind the trees. There are flaws I don’t see. But when a fresh set of eyes takes a look at the story, they can clear out some of the trees and help me see a better path through the story.

In Mt. Dempsey, one of the most crucial bits of feedback I received is that the story is told through Dempsey’s point of view, but the earliest drafts had Dempsey positioned as a bystander. He was simply telling the story and reporting what he saw. Readers weren’t getting to know him on a personal level. They weren’t getting his thoughts or reactions. In a first-person narrative, it’s important to filter the story through the narrator.

I couldn’t see that missing detail. I was bogged down with plot and overlooked a piece of characterization.

That’s the importance of handing writing over to a qualified critical eye. They’ll spot the weaknesses (and no matter how much we don’t want there to be weaknesses, they’re unavoidable). Once those flaws are spotted, we can patch them up with edits.

At the aforementioned Prairie Writers conference, I crossed paths with a local teacher and fellow writer who has since become my critique partner for Mt. Dempsey. Once again, handing pages over to a new set of eyes was nerve-wracking at first. However, having a teacher who works with my target audience on a daily basis brings an invaluable expertise to the table. The devil is in the details, and she’s able to spot little lurking devils such as word choice that doesn’t fit the age group’s vocabulary, falling into the trap of  cliches or stereotypes (such as one scene that falls into the “big dumb bully” trope), and content that isn’t PC for the target market.

There’s also value in learning a reader’s reaction versus writer’s intention. In our most recent critique session, my partner mentioned how she finds Dempsey’s mother unlikable. That’s not the intention (Mama Molehill is meant to be strict, but not cruel). But hearing a reader’s reasons for why she isn’t a likable character helps me to go back and soften the character’s rough edges.

The value of outside eyes & opinions

A critical reading is part of the process for any traditionally published author, who frequently goes through an agent as well as publishing house editors. For independent authors (like me), critiques are just as vital to seek out. Even though independent authors are able to sidestep publishing industry gatekeepers who might otherwise reject a novel, that’s no reason to dodge the type of service they provide. After all, most novels get rejected for a reason. Self-published books deserve the same polishing as traditionally published works, even if that means extra work on the writer to revise, revise, revise.

Authors can be too close to their own story. Impartial readers can spot things like:

  • Inconsistencies. One time I had an extremely minor character whose name I decided to change midway through the draft. A reader spotted a few places where I forgot to replace the name. Whenever I skimmed the pages, I knew who it was, but the name change threw the reader for a loop. If you’re a slower writer like me, it may be weeks or months between writing a scene and then referencing it later in the book. Readers are going to consume the pages must faster than you write them, and they’re likely to catch when story elements don’t balance.
  • Confusion. Just because a passage makes sense to me doesn’t mean it will come across to the reader. I know all of the backstory as well as the intent of everything that happens in the book. Having someone indicate places that need clarification is helpful.
  • Bor-ing. It wasn’t until after I released “Sarah & Katy and the Imagination Blankets” that I discovered the opening of Chapter 16 got bogged down in description and the action screeched to a halt. How did I discover this error? When reading aloud to my nieces, one of them rolled her eyes and drawled, “Bor-ring.” Ouch. As much as the criticism stung, it’s good to have someone point out (before publication, ideally) which spots lose the reader’s interest. As much as I enjoyed describing the scene of the safari, the book would have been much better served if it were whittled down.
  • “This just doesn’t work.” Chances are we’ve all heard the phrase “kill your darlings” by now. But it’s hard to make that decision yourself. Maybe you love a character, but they just don’t fit in that particular book. In your heart of hearts you may even know it, but you keep trying to force it to work. Sometimes you need another person to hand you the knife and guide your hand at slashing away passages, scenes, chapters, or full characters and story arcs.
  • Unintentional messages. Remember my aforementioned Mama Molehill example? How a character or plot thread come across in print may not be how the writer intended it.
  • Accidental harm. For certain writers, it may help to seek the aid of a sensitivity reader. For example, a heterosexual writer incorporating LGBTQ+ characters may want to run the book by a reader from the appropriate community to flag any offensive elements. It’s unfortunately easy to accidentally include a line or scene that misrepresents or hurts readers from backgrounds outside our own experience. I once used a simile in a scene featuring a black character that a beta reader fortunately flagged before publication because the phrase could have been received as racially disparaging. I would never intend to represent another race, culture, or community in a derogatory manner, but intent doesn’t matter once the words are in ink and the damage is done. Another set of eyes can save readers from being wounded by misused words and can save authors from losing trust and respect.
  • The nuts and bolts. Critiques from fellow genre writers can dig into the nitty-gritty elements specific to your genre. Is this plot thread falling into an overused trope? Is the language not age-appropriate? Plus, there’s the obvious little elements such as grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Another set of eyes improves chances of cleaning up the writing. I have a bad habit of omitting words when I’m having an inspired writing session, and when I reread the chapter, my brain tends to insert the word I know should be there even when it’s not in front of my eyes. A different reader is more likely to stumble over my missing words and make a note to add it.

If you’re critiquing for another writer

The University of North Carolina’s Writing Center provides an excellent list of guidelines to assist writers and beta readers in critiquing someone else’s work. The full set of suggestions can be found here. Below, I’ve quoted several passages I find especially helpful.

For each type of critique, it’s important to state your praise, criticism, and suggestions politely, but with the appropriate level of strength. The following language structures should help you achieve this challenging task.

A strategy called “hedging” will help you express praise or criticism with varying levels of strength. It will also help you express varying levels of certainty in your own assertions. Grammatical structures used for hedging include:

Modal verbs
Using modal verbs (could, can, may, might, etc.) allows you to soften an absolute statement. […]

Qualifying adjectives and adverbs
Using qualifying adjectives and adverbs (possible, likely, possibly, somewhat, etc.) allows you to introduce a level of probability into your comments. […]

Tentative verbs
Using tentative verbs (seems, indicates, suggests, etc.) also allows you to soften an absolute statement. […]

Whether you are critiquing a published or unpublished text, you are expected to point out problems and suggest solutions. If you are critiquing an unpublished manuscript, the author can use your suggestions to revise. Your suggestions have the potential to become real actions.

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The woe behind one pink line

As a writer, I love words. I love letters and combining them to build meaning.

But there are four letters I don’t like when arranged in a certain order.


The acronym doesn’t roll off the tongue. It’s an unpronounceable blob of letters that probably don’t mean much to the majority of readers.

But to me, they have a meaning: polycystic ovarian syndrome.

And they have an underlying meaning: fertility struggles.

Woman hand holding pregnancy test and result is not pregnant

It’s not something I’ve talked about publicly. In fact, it’s not something I’ve talked about much at all. Aside from a handful of family and friends, most people who know me don’t know about the PCOS diagnosis.

It’s a mostly invisible health issue. The only outward signs I show are a thin patch of hair on my scalp (yep, hair loss is a symptom), slightly oily skin, and weight gain (which I’m slowly but surely overcoming … six pounds down, about a hundred more to go …).

None of those signs shout to the world, “This person is dealing with a health issue.” Especially since the thin patch of hair can be hidden by pulling my hair into a ponytail and the oily skin can be scrubbed and patted down with a matte makeup.

And it’s not like anyone can see my irregular (see also: practically nonexistent) menstrual cycles. Having four to five in a given year is a plethora where I’m concerned.

And where there are few menstrual cycles, there are slim opportunities to get pregnant.

My husband and I have been trying for several years now to expand our family of two into a family of three or more. Over the years, I’ve tried to keep my eye on the bright side. When we got promotions, I told myself it was good we hadn’t had kids yet because now we would be more financially stable. When we bought a house, I told myself it was good we had “waited” (ha … as if my body had given us a choice) until we were settled into our new home because now we had a spare room to serve as a nursery. Not to mention we finally had a home a family could grow into.

But all of those paper-thin excuses got torn to shreds every time another Facebook friend made an “I’m pregnant!” post and I felt simultaneous pangs of jealousy and guilt over not being happy for them.

The twinges of watching everyone else’s pregnancies pales in comparison to the pains of what I’ve come to call the “ups-and-downs,” though.

Hope spelled out in wood lettersThe ups-and-downs are a regular cycle for me now. A menstrual cycle starts. There’s hope of ovulation. We try to get pregnant, and up go our hopes. Then I take a pregnancy test, and there’s one pink line telling me Not Pregnant, and down crashes hope. Until the next menstrual cycle. Then up again and down again.

The most recent heartbreak was after a third round of Clomid, an estrogen modulator drug used to treat infertility. The husband and I diligently counted days in my cycle, and on Day 21 I had some spotting. Since I read implantation can occur on Day 22 in a standard 28-day cycle, hope radiated from me. Could it be implantation bleeding?!

I waited for Day 28, and then I started counting forward. I told myself I wouldn’t buy a pregnancy test until 10 days later to give time for the HCG hormone to build up in my system in case I was pregnant.

On the tenth day (January 3), I was unbearably excited to go to the store and pick up the pregnancy test. I got out of bed, got dressed, fixed my hair, fetched my coat and purse and keys …

Out of habit, I stopped in the bathroom before heading out the door. (All those years of Mom making us go to the bathroom before getting in the car sticks with me today.) That stop in the bathroom ended my plans to go to the store. Because the toilet paper had a streak of red on it.

Another cycle started. Down crashes hope.

Reset to Day 1.

On the bright side, I suppose, I saved a little money that morning. And I was spared another disappointing two minutes of hoping and praying and pleading for two pink lines to show up on a plastic stick.

Because there are never two pink lines. It’s one pink line. Over and over and over. Month after month after month.

My 31st birthday came and went in the midst of the latest infertility disappointment. Each passing year adds to my silent fear that the opportunity for pregnancy will pass us by once and for all.

But I keep telling myself there will be another cycle. There will be another chance.

Maybe there will be a day when PCOS stops meaning infertility and a baby in my arms means I overcame it.

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New year, same old story

2018 is already more than a week old.

Meanwhile, I’m blinking and flabbergasted, wondering, “Where is the time going?”

A year ago, I set a goal to finish writing “The Mountain of Dempsey Molehill” within the 365-day time frame of 2017. A year later, I’m looking at a new calendar but still working on the same ol’ novel. All the while, ideas for new projects are clattering around in my head. It’s getting crowded in there with story ideas.

Today marks the first time I’ve settled in at the keyboard since the holidays concluded. I’m breathing a small sigh of relief now that the Christmas tree is hauled back down to the basement for another year and the nutcrackers and Santa Clauses are tucked away in their respective boxes at the back of a closet. (Although the tree skirt is still in a jumble on the living room floor. At some point I’ll pick it up, fold it, and store it away.) The leftovers are eaten, the fridge is empty (darn it … I should probably grocery shop today), and life is returning to normal.

Phew. Now to get back on track with a regular writing schedule.

I won’t jinx myself this year by saying I plan to finish Mt. Dempsey, but I have a good feeling about 2018 where Dempsey is concerned.

Even though finishing the Molehills’ tale is No. 1 on my writing priority list, a few other projects are in my goals for the year. There’s another middle grade novel competing for my attention, plus a poetry project I hope to tackle in April for the A to Z Challenge. And it wouldn’t hurt to do a better job at keeping up with my blog this year.

So. 2018. Let’s do this.

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