I know I am late with this but the season premiere of Grey’s Anatomy got me thinking about friendship. What defines a friendship? Is it making a connection with someone who “gets” you? Is it a shared situation or a convenient presence?
If you are familiar with the show you know that two of the main characters, Meredith Grey and Christina Yang are friends. Let me take that back. They are more than friends. They are “the one” for each other. As in, the one person that gets them. The person that accepts you for who you are. Flaws and all. I like to call it your “Ride or Die”.
Everyone should have a “ride or die” person in their life. Take an inventory of the people in your inner circle. I bet you can pick out the one you know will hold you down no matter what. It may not be your significant other either. I would suspect that for most people it isn’t their significant other.
Take the Grey’s episode as an example. Each character was having an issue with their spouse which could be stripped down to their men not totally “getting” them. Something bad happened and the dudes couldn’t deal. It was as if they suddenly forgot the person they married. The ladies turned to each other. Meredith confronted Owen on Christina’s behalf. Christina helped Meredith when she panicked and disappeared with Zola. No judgement, no conditions. That’s the type of friend you want in your corner.
Are you that friend in return? My sister and I discussed this and she made a profound statement. “Most people think they are “Ride or Die”, she said. “But they really aren’t. And they may never have a reason to prove it.”
I agree. You may never have an opportunity to step up and show how the person you love that you have their back no matter what. But you just might. What will that situation reveal about you? Are you a “Ride or Die” friend?
I like to think that I am one.
What I’m listening to on the iPod right now: “In Your Eyes” – Peter Gabriel
I was reading the November 2011 issue of “The Writer” magazine and discovered this software that will eliminate the need for notebooks, post-its and index cards. The name of the software is Evernote and the best thing about it is that it’s FREE.
Evernote is a program that lets you keep all of your research on one site and it automatically syncs across all of your computers and devices. So, you can create a note on your laptop, refer to it on you smartphone or blackberry and then pull it up again on another computer. Never be without your notes again when inspiration hits.
I downloaded it yesterday and I have already added all my notes and web pages for my current novel. The only glitch is that I can’t get it to clip webpages. However, the website has a tutorial video and other ways to help introduce you to the product.
To all my writer friends, give it a try. Evermore, so you can remember everything!
When I initially finished my novel, Moment of Truth, it was written in the first person voice of the main character. Based on advice from my editor, I decided to reedit the story and write it in third person. Third person has its advantages in that it allows you to write “outside” of the story and add more layers to secondary characters. This method has been a struggle for me and I have finally figured out why.
This story, Adrienne’s story, revolves around her life and the consequences of her decision to marry the wrong man. All of the other characters are important but Adrienne is the center of the conflict. It is her voice in my head. The best way for me to tell it is from a first person point of view. But how do I include and add more depth to the other characters? The answer came to me by reading another book.
I am the type of writer that reads constantly. I not only read for pleasure but to study technique. I try to take note of everything from sentence structure, descriptions, how the author foreshadows the ending, dialogue, etc. It is routine for me to read three to four books in a week the entire time I am writing my own story. I just finished reading “Sing You Home” by Jodi Picoult. I enjoy all of Jodi’s books and this one did not disappoint. (If you haven’t read anything by her I suggest you pick them up.) But what stood out to me is the way she told the story. She used the first person point of view for all of the main characters in alternating fashion. The main focus of the story centers on Zoe Baxter’s life but the other characters each tell their story. The reader gets to see the issues from their point of view as well. It was a revelation to me.
This weekend I began to restructure my story. I am removing the third person edits and going back to my initial work. I am still working out which character will speak in each part of the story. I have my blueprint and I feel good about the direction.
My good friend, ME, and I had a debut last week about single mothers raising sons. Needless to say, our opinions are different.
First, some background. ME has an adult son that she raised without any help from his father. I am married and the mother of two girls. Our conversation started when I told her the advice I gave my sister about her son. My nephew’s father has been asking for his son to come and live with him in another state. He wants his son with him as he starts middle school and begins to navigate those murky teenage years. She is against it. I told her she should consider it for the good of her son.
ME shook her head in disbelief. “But that’s her child,” she said. “It’s his child too,” I countered. She asked if I could do it. If I would let my child go live with his father. I said I would. And here is the reason why.
Raising children is hard. As a mother, I can appreciate how hard it is and the frustrations that are multiplied when you have to supply everything your child needs on your own. I think it is especially hard when that child is a male. Women of course are built different. We think different. We show love different. We discipline different. How can a woman show a boy how to be a man? We can’t. We find a strong male influence be it a grandfather, uncle, trusted coach, or friend. Don’t get me wrong. Women have and continue to raise boys that grow to be fine upstanding men. But I assure you that she had help along the way. What if that help can come in the form of the boy’s father? A good father that wants his son and wants only the best for him. The only catch is that due to circumstances, that father lives in another state. Would you let your son go? A better question is, how could you not?
Time for another installment of story soundtrack. This is the feature where I take a song and write the story or scene that would go along with it. Up next, Kelly Price “Tired”.
THE PRICE OF FREEDOM
The sunlight felt like an invasion as it chased away the last peaceful remnants of sleep. I braced for the reprimand, the admonishment that I couldn’t do anything right. A forceful reminder that I couldn’t even remember to close the blinds to keep the light from shining in your face. When one doesn’t come, I released the breath I was holding. Then I remembered. You are not here.
Yesterday began as an ordinary day. I made your breakfast and ironed your clothes. You left without saying good bye. I went about doing my chores; making the house spotless to avoid a rebuke. I was making your dinner when the call came. It was your sister, Margaret, sounding hysterical. I could barely understand her; only catching the words “accident” and “hospital”.
I had begun to dislike hospitals. As a nurse, I spent too much time in them. One accident after another had me there whether I was working or not. So, when you insisted that I quit, I didn’t argue. Even though I had worked for fourteen years and was promoted to Head Nurse of Pediatrics. I quit because you told me too. I always did what you told me too.
At the hospital that day I was greeted by a new receptionist. She didn’t inquiry about my health the way the old one did every time our shifts coincided. This new one just took my name and escorted me to a room in the emergency area. I stepped inside and saw Margaret. Her eyes were red and she was shredding tissue, the pieces falling to the floor like snow.
“He’s gone,” she repeated the phrase over and over.
I saw you then. You were lying on the gurney with your favorite golf shirt ripped down the center. A tube was down your throat and the electrodes were still taped to your body. I felt as if a boulder landed on my chest. My feet were cemented to the floor but I somehow find myself standing over you.
You were such a good looking man. It was the uniform that got my attention. You looked so strong and brave. An everyday hero. You became my hero. Until you became something else.
“What are we going to do?” Margaret was wailing. As her older brother, she looked up to you while she looked down on me. She thought I wasn’t good enough for you.
“Why?” Margaret continued. She collapsed in the chair beside the bed. “He was a good man, Lord. Why a heart attack now? Why?”
I ignored Margaret hysterics and peered down at your walnut colored face. Saw the scar over your left eye and the stubble on your chin. And even though your eyes were closed, I still saw the coldness that resided there.
“Where was he?” I asked.
Margaret talks to the floor. She didn’t have the courage to lie to my face. “They say he was with some friends and collapsed. Some buddies from work. They don’t know what happened.”
Buddies from work, I thought. That must have been the woman I noticed crying in the waiting room. A woman half my age and body weight. The woman that I knew you were seeing for the past three months. The latest fling in a history that kept repeating.
I turned back to you expecting to see your lips turned up into a sneer. But they were still. They had become the lips that used to kiss me and thrill me. In death, your body reverted back into the one I fell in love with. The chest that swelled in anger became the chest that I used to lie against and feel safe. The large, calloused hands were no longer fists but were the ones that used to stroke me tenderly. It was then that I cried. My tears were not shed in regret and lost like Margaret’s. My tears were a mixture of relief and anxiety. Without you to tell me who I am, who would I be? I stood there weeping. Tears dropped on your face. A baptism of forgiveness.
The door slid open and Connie entered. A friend from my nursing days. In her hands were papers that needed my signature and questions that needed answers. I did my best. Signed the forms where she pointed and accepted her condolences. Told her I would call if I needed anything. Connie was always dependable.
I left you there and went home. The first thing I did was open all the blinds. Let light into a house that was kept in the dark. But I could still smell you. Your presence was everywhere. So, I stripped the bed and put on fresh sheets. I got the cleaning supplies and wiped and scrubbed every surface. I threw away your newspapers and magazines. I boxed up your awards and plagues. I removed your pictures. And when I was sweaty and weary, I took a shower and climbed into the middle of the bed. I had the first peaceful sleep in twelve years of our marriage.
So, on the first day without you, I lounged in bed awhile. I painted my toenails a shade of red you wouldn’t approve of and I styled my hair like the girls in the movies. I found the makeup I had hidden away and brushed my face with the mocha colored hue that accents my cheekbones. I put on the skirt that showed off my legs and the blouse that hugged my breasts but covered up the last and final bruise. I modeled in the mirror and I smiled at what I saw.
The phone doesn’t ring all day and this time I don’t mind. Mother has been gone for four years and I never knew my father. We don’t have any friends. Well, I don’t have any friends. You made sure of that. I made a mental note to start making friends and went into the kitchen to make coffee and find something for lunch. I spent the rest of the day stretching out the new me. Freedom is a dizzying sensation that requires an adjustment period.
On the second day without you, I am up and dressed early. I planned to venture out and test my new sense of self. See how the world responds to the uninhibited and unafraid me. The doorbell rang. I am expecting the funeral home people; I still have to plan your service. But I am not surprised to see the guys from your precinct. The boys in blue stick together.
I invited them in. They expressed their sorrow for my lost. Told me what a good guy you were. A decorated officer. They couldn’t believe that a guy in relative good health could have a heart attack. One officer told me how he talked to the coroner personally and the toxic screen didn’t show anything abnormal. They agreed that your death was a tragedy. They talked and talked and I listened quietly and nodded at the proper times. You taught me not to interrupt when the brothers in blue were gathered. When they finally got up to leave, they promised to look out for me. Told me you would want it that way. I wondered why they never helped me before. Why did they turn a blind eye to my suffering? Since they pretended not to see what was going on then, I continued the charade. I didn’t tell them that potassium chloride causes heart attacks. I didn’t share that I got it from the hospital the last time I visited Connie. That secret will remain between you and me, my husband. A small price to pay for freedom.
