Reading and Writing

I just finished reading the first of four books that I got for Christmas. I took the first book with me on a trip that ruined into a detour to my childhood home because my father, who still lives there, had had a stroke.  I didn’t end up cracking the book open until my flight back home a month later.  I looked forward to getting back to some normalcy, to writing again, marketing my book more.  But when I got back, I found that I had a hard time focusing on my “career”.  I sometimes wonder how I ever held down a full time office job when there’s always so much to do at home.  Rather than grabbing my computer first thing, I thought it was more important to address some issues with the house.  I donned my work clothes and spent day after day outside or on a ladder, doing home repairs.  The couple of days I told myself it would take to finish up a couple of tasks, turned into weeks.
When I couldn’t shut the voice up in my head that screams at me to write, I sat down with my computer and started the drilling and research for ways to market my book.  It took a few days but I was able to get my book requests out to several agencies.  I’d been given a direction to pursue by a friend who suggested I seek out psychological organizations to recommend my book for professionals or to have them review it for inclusion to their magazines.  I felt good after tracking them all down and submitting queries to them.  Feeling like I then had the justification to put my computer down, I did so and went back to work on the house.
A week later, I received an email from a local book store that they wanted to carry my book.  I was so excited that I put my work clothes aside and took a stack of books to the store to drop off.  When I grabbed my work clothes again the very next day, I questioned whether I was avoiding writing.  I looked back to when I stopped writing and thought about my dad in the hospital.  The entire time I was there with him, I wanted to write, to document it all, not just to have the event chronicled but because I was going through so many different feelings and reactions, that I wanted to vent.  With a small computer given to me on loan, I wrote a blog entry just to get myself going and once finished, I started on the events of my father’s stroke.  It was still sitting and waiting on me to finish.  There it was.  I didn’t want to finish it.  I didn’t want to go back to it and have to fill in the remaining few days that I was with him before returning home.  So, I did the next best thing.  I picked my book back up.  I’d gotten about half way through it on the plane ride back home so I didn’t have that far to go to finish it.
I’ve found that the more I write, the more I look at other people’s writing differently.  I notice things more.  There’s little things like font and layout and then bigger things like character introduction, grammar and punctuation, scenery descriptions and layout.  I find myself pausing at times and thinking about the author, which, I’ve actually always done but I tend to do it a bit more often now.  It becomes more of a relationship between author and reader as if they’re sharing something with me. I love that connection, imaginary as it may be.  I ended up finishing the first book in between doing house chores and repairs and decided it was time to get back to my writing.  I finished the story of my father’s stroke and opened up my latest book to continue it.
I found an old friend on Facebook, made a couple of random Tweets on twitter only because it’s required in order not to lose followers.  I checked my reviews – one new one.  I checked my sales channels.  I wrote some restaurant reviews.  I researched a few home improvement items I want.  I read a few articles about people that I went to school with.  So many young people dying.  We are still young.  I called it a day.  I didn’t want to write about my life, the life that was continuing on when so many don’t.  The following day, I wrote a few paragraphs, researched a few contests and wrote a bit more.  I think I’m getting back on track to writing.  And I’m excited about cracking open a new book.

Should I Stay Or I Should I Go?

I’ve found over the past few days that it is practically engrained in us to refuse help. We don’t want to be a bother. Don’t want anyone to have to go out of their way. It’s sometimes hard to decipher what exactly to do. We lean towards wanting to be polite without regard to what we really desire or expect and it usually ends in resentment.

I was discussing this with a close friend today and she said that it’s all a bunch of game playing that we do with ourselves. We talk ourselves into thinking that it’s the other person’s fault for not expressing what they really want when in fact, the fault is our own. If you know what the right thing is to do, then don’t ask the question(s). “Do you want me to come”, “Do you want me to stay”, “Do you want me to go”, etc.

When I first found out my father had a stroke, I didn’t know if I should go be by his side. I wanted to be there. I should’ve said “I’ll be right there”. I didn’t. I asked “Should I come”? As soon as I said it, I thought back to just a few weeks earlier when I’d been on the phone with him, asking if he wanted me to come for the holidays. We went through the same process. He wanted me to come but didn’t want me to bother with it. He wanted me to wait because he wanted to come see me in the spring as if it were a multiple choice selection (he could only have me visit him OR him visit me). He finally suggested that I wait to visit with the caveat that I could come if I really wanted to.

With so much wishy washyness going on, I figured he really didn’t want me to come so I booked a trip elsewhere. While traveling for that trip, I got the call that he’d had a stroke. Before being told of what had happened, I was asked if I was in a place that I could talk. I looked around the airport terminal and didn’t know how to answer so I didn’t. I stood in the middle of the isle not knowing what to do. It was suggested I sit down, so I did. Imagining what was about to be told to me, I backed up to a wall and slid down until I was squatted down on the floor.

I asked if I should come. He told me I didn’t have to. I was confused. A stroke was bad news. I heard the word paralysis and tried to comprehend what was going on. How could I not go? I was told he was fine. Fine? I looked around and saw people in the seating area of the airport looking at me. I was confused. I said that I needed to get to my destination before I could make arrangements to get to him. I was afraid I would never see my luggage again if I detoured mid-trip, during my layover. But in the time I was trying to comprehend what the hell was going on and what I was supposed to do, my partner had retrieved our bags and rebooked our flight.

I relayed that we were on our way and asked if perhaps my dad didn’t want me to come. It was too much and I broke down. I sobbed at the thought that my dad didn’t want me there. Thankfully, that was not the case and before long, I was on my way. After a long day of travel, I arrived at my dad’s bedside that evening. The first thing he said was “Thank you for coming”.

I learned from my friend today that it’s not about what others want sometimes. I knew what the right thing was to do and rather than questioning it, I should’ve just done it. I am going to go. No more questions.

Now to try and get that through to my dad. He says he’d like a shower and when a nurse comes in, he says it’s ok, he doesn’t need one right that minute thinking that he’s being a bother, so they leave. He gets mad after 10 minutes when they’ve not returned to give him one. We ring the nurse to set up a time. She asks what time and he says it doesn’t matter. He prefers his showers in the evening so when they give him one in the morning, he complains that he doesn’t get them at night. We request them at night and he says anytime is fine.

Now I know where I get it from. There are a lot of people out there that do this same thing. It’s not limited to parents. It encompasses friends, relatives, people in the store. It’s personal, mental game playing that has started to drive me crazy. I want to make a late New Year’s resolution to stop the games.

Music Memories

I was running errands yesterday, doing a bit of Christmas shopping and preparing for the rain storm that is bringing us much needed rain.  I had the Christmas tunes on and something came on that I wasn’t too fond of so I switched over to my favorite local 80’s channel.  It was perfect timing.  I heard the beginning of a familiar song and within a few seconds, I launched into Rapper’s Delight.  I know every hip hop the hippie the hippie to the hip hop part of the song and I love it.  It’s such a fun song to sing and it put me right back on the bus, riding to school with my friends, the music blaring from my boom box that I took everywhere with me.  I go into full hand motions and acting out the song while in my car, not caring who’s looking, hoping that everyone can have as much fun as I can by myself, listening to the radio.

I thought about talking with my friend “Ron” from my book.  I just spoke with him last month.  It was good getting caught up with him.  He said that when he first stepped on that same school bus so many years ago, his life was changed forever.  We laughed.  He said he walked down the isle of the bus and saw me with my friend “Taylor”.  We were sunken down in the oversized bus bench seat, with our knees up on the back of the seat in front of us.  We both had sunglasses on and Taylor’s hair was blown out.  We laughed again because it was so right, our memories.  I could see us all.  When the two of us saw Ron, I flipped my sunglasses up and said “hi”.

Back in my car, I could see all of this in my head without missing a beat or a word of the song.  It was such a long time ago and the regrets pained my heart.  I introduced “Ron” to more than two crazy girls and rap music.

The song ended as I pulled into the grocery store parking lot.  Sheila E. came on.  I was transported from the bus to my living room, practicing dance moves with “Faith”, my best friend.  We were inseparable.  I sang about the Glamorous Life and pictured us, always clowning around, eating and forever dancing.  Best friends forever was really best friends for a little while or maybe best friends until things get tough or indifferent or complicated.

When I returned to the car, I was heading to the mall when Jam On It came on. Yeah, yeah, we know, we know.  I’m not the least bit embarrassed that I used to break dance.  I saw myself “popping” and wished I was still as good as I was then.  As each year passes in my life, I wonder what the oldest dancer has ever been to start a career, not considering endurance, flexibility, skill or any of the other important requirements that are needed to be a dancer.

There’s lots of things I want to be.  There’s lots of things I’ve been.  I’m going to go make dinner.

  • Want to hear more?  Check out my book ‘A Series of Events’ available in trade paperback and on kindle from Amazon at 


The past few days have been horrific.  I announced the release of my book to friends and family which got me jazzed, sharing in the excitement and wonderment of all that I’ve been working on since our move and my departure from my tech job.  Then they started to buy it and worse, read it.  There’s intimate details of my life in my book.  That’s what memoirs are for, right?  I suddenly felt exposed and frightened.  I considered pulling it from the shelf, giving up, starting back on looking for a regular job – whatever that means.  And while all of this was pounding me down, making my world a dark place, I kept putting it out there.  I updated LinkedIn to say that I’ve been a writer for the past year and am now a self published author.  The doubt patronizing me, telling me that I’m not really a writer.  I’m nothing.  I’m just a person that wrote a book that a handful of people will read.  I tried to shut it up by entering more contests.  That’s what I’ve been doing in order to get some exposure.  If I can get published in a magazine or some other lit, it would open my book up to other audiences besides my friends and family.  All I could think of to write about was the darkness, the hurt, the hopelessness that I carry around like a suitcase strapped to my back.  I’m no writer.  Maybe I’m a thinker.  I don’t know what I am.  And so I got the book pushed to iBooks.  Then I worked on my business cards.  I hope they turn out well.  I researched bookstores to drop some off at when they come in.  They shipped today.  I hope people will use them as a bookmark.  I made them glossy just for that purpose.  Maybe I’ll ride my bike to some coffee shops to leave them.

A bike ride sounded good.  I changed, putting on my new bike shirt that I got when we went to Napa.  It was hotter than I expected.  I had some chicken for lunch which I thought would give me some fuel to burn.  5 miles into my ride, I thought I was going to throw up.  I wanted to keep going.  I needed to clear my head although there’s been no clearing it.  I just wanted to be out and about for a minute.  I was hot.  Too hot.  I kept swigging on my water but could only think of that chicken and that I was about to see it in a whole new light.  I returned home and put away my bike without losing my lunch.  I thought I was going to pass out before I made it into the house though.  I opened the door, closed it behind me and laid down on the floor just inside.  Bette Midler sang to me in my headphones as I laid there.  I started to feel human again so I got up and showered.  I didn’t feel like cooking dinner.  I grabbed the computer and looked through my files.  I saw Part II – Master.  I opened it and started reading.  I laughed and started typing when I got to the end.  I got to page 7 of the next book in the series of my life.  I stopped so I could start on dinner.

A body in motion tends to stay in motion while a body at rest tends to stay at rest.  I never really understood that saying until I didn’t have a job.  I get it now.  I feel better today.  More active.  I want to go ride but it’s wicked hot again today.  I snipped at my tomato plant for a bit and watered my herbs.  It’s supposed to cool off some soon.  I’ll go then.


“A Series of Events” is available on Amazon in trade paperback and Kindle – and in the iBooks store –

You can follow me on Twitter – @MichelleRStoner


In coming up with market analysis, some sort of a bio, edits, researching self publishing and publishers, I wonder if writing a memoir is narcissistic.  I’ve been questioning why anyone would really care about what I have to say or what has happened to me throughout my life.  I try to focus on all of the books I’ve read of people I’ve never heard of and of those that are famous.  I’ve enjoyed them all.  I’ve related and empathized.  Maybe mine won’t be any different.  Other people will read it and understand.

Empathy is a major part of my life.  I feel others pain and happiness.  I carry it around like a backpack. Sometimes my own issues are too much so I drop them on the floor for a bit just to pick them all back up and carry them around some more.  I found a place to put it all, in the book.  It doesn’t take it away.  I still carry it all around but it packages a lot of it in a neat place to house it all.

I started thinking that I hope people that read my blog or pick up my book don’t think that it’s all about me because it’s really not.  It’s far from it.  It’s more about sharing with others.  Bringing people into my life.  But, I thought it might be a good idea to get the focus off of me.  I get so obsessed day after day of reading reviews, reading how to’s, researching, writing here and there that I just needed away from the computer.  I went and volunteered at the Second Harvest Food Bank.  It got me off my butt and out of my head for a bit.

I guess a memoir is narcissistic to an extent.  A narcissistic, empathetic attempt to share oneself with others.

Love Easy

Hmm, that’s a great title for a story.  I might use that sometime.  Need to write myself a note.  Anyway, I was thinking while driving the other day about my childhood friends and those that have come into my life and left an imprint.  There’s been so many people that it made me realize that I love easy.  I trust people and usually end up sharing a piece of me with them and them with me.  That sharing always causes a connection.  It’s hard not to love when there’s that connection.  I have childhood friends that I still consider so close that I’d do anything for them.  I don’t know if the feeling is always reciprocated but it doesn’t matter.  When we were little, I loved them.  We’d play, talk, take care of one another, be there through just about anything we got ourselves into.  That love doesn’t just disappear because we don’t see each other every day.  Time does not erase memories or take away the events that shape our lives.  I carry this love around with me every day.  Sometimes it’s too much.  I want to offload it but I can’t.  I can’t forget someone or cross them off of the friends list.  I think about the times we spent together.  The laughs, the tears.  I miss people which makes me sad.  It’s so much easier to keep in touch through social media these days but it’s not the same.  It’s not like sitting across from one another at a table and catching up.  It is a nice container.  I have everyone in one place that I can go to get to them.  And it’s not just childhood friends.  It’s adult friends too.  Some that I consider family members now, I met while I was an adult.  I don’t know what I’d do without these people.  It’s hard for me to make friends but when I do, I hold them close.  I think about them often, I worry about them, I sympathize and empathize with them across the miles.  I probably think about them too much but that’s just me.  I don’t think it’s a bad thing to love easy, but it does cause heartache over time.  I hope those that I do love know that I love them.


I wonder what goes through people’s minds when they shoulder-check others just to get in front of them.  When they race ahead on the highway and squeeze in.  When they drive to the end of the merge lane just to get a few more cars ahead.  When they white line.  Do they really feel entitled?  Do people really think they’re better than others?

I’m no saint.  I drive too fast, I’ve cut people off, squeezed ahead.  I get really mad when I think people feel they’re entitled but when I do these things, I don’t feel entitled.  I try to remember that I too have not realized a lane was ending until I was at the part where it was merging.  Do people think that I think I’m entitled?  It’s almost like you can tell if they think they’re entitled.  I don’t know.  I’m not perfect.  I get it.  I’ve not white lined before but can understand that I’d rather do that than sit in sweltering heat dying.  But then again, if you can’t handle it, maybe having a motorcycle is not the right vehicle.  I’m often in a hurry and want to run the senior citizen off the road because they’re going too slow.  If I were to witness someone doing that to my mom, I’d want to kill them.  I’m not even sure I’m in a hurry.  I just like to drive fast.

I think people start to believe their own hype.  Maybe they’re a CEO or some important or famous person and they get used to that sort of treatment, so when they get around regular folk, they just don’t know how to act.

It happens every day.  People have road rage.  Others flip and beat the shit out of someone on the street.  Maybe there’s just too much emphasis on getting ahead.  Being first.

Bike Crash

I don’t think there’s anything worse than seeing a loved one hurt.  Being the good dobies that we are, we’ve been wanting to get more exercise since sitting behind a computer causes big a behind.  We went in search of bicycles and after about a month of trying on, shopping online, and price comparisons, we finally each got one.  Our first ride was last week and it was great.  It was nice to be outside and the evening after work gave us perfect temperatures and conditions for a leisurely ride to get used to our new bikes.

With the return of Monday, we hopped on right after work once again.  As we approached one section of the trail, I pulled over and asked if we should go to the left or the right.  On our previous ride, we went to the left and found a single lane trail just after a blind turn.  I was uneasy about it and expressed it to my partner.  She said that we should just go slow.  It would be fine.  I made my way slowly down the hill wishing that I could fly down it because downhills are the best part of bike riding but I was cautious.  I tapped my brakes until I got just to the corner and saw that no one was in the lane.  I took off to hurry and get to the other side before more people came.  There was a man on a bike on the other side but I was sure that he would stop, seeing us in the lane.  He crept closer and closer to the entrance as I sped through the tunnel.  There was a concrete wall on my right and a thick wooden fence on my left that separated the trail from water leading up to a dam.  Just as I got to the corner of making it through, he was at the entrance and still creeping into the single lane of the tunnel.  I quickly and sharply turned to the right so as not to hit him and thought for sure my handgrip was going to hit the concrete wall.  As I cleared both the wall and the other rider, my tire hit the embankment just on the other side of the wall and shot me hard to the left.  I recovered quickly and let a “Wooooo!”  I couldn’t believe I didn’t bite it.

And then it hit me.  Oh no.  I turned around to look behind me just in time to see my partner hitting the ground.  She’d done exactly what I’d done but had not made it.  The guy was in the tunnel when I looked up.  I hopped off my bike, laying it down on the embankment and ran back to her.  I asked if she was ok.  She didn’t say anything and kept looking herself over.  I asked again.  She said she thought she was ok and then asked why he didn’t stop.  I told her I didn’t know.  I looked up to see him on the other end of the tunnel.  He yelled “Are you ok?”  I wanted to run towards him and beat the shit out of him.  I couldn’t muster an answer and thought I shouldn’t focus on him anyway.  I asked her to bend her elbows and her knees to see if anything was broken.  It didn’t appear to be so I told her we needed to get her up.  She asked that I give her a minute but I couldn’t.  She was right in the middle of the path along with her bike.  I was terrified someone was going to come down around that corner and hit her.  I went over and moved her bike to give her a second.  I tried to help her up but was afraid to hurt her more, not knowing where I could touch.  I pulled on one of her arms and we got her up and off to the side.  A couple of people stopped but more raced by without uttering a word.  It was nice that some people were concerned.  I kept asking for bandaids but no one had them.  Everyone had ibuprofen though.  We figured we’d wait until we got home for that.  I got her some water and let her sit while I checked out her bike.  It was a little scuffed up but seemed to be in pretty good shape otherwise.  Another guy stopped and thankfully had bandaids.  He gave us three big ones.  We pulled them apart and put them on the worst spots.  We were able to get her up and walking.  I couldn’t believe what a trooper she was being.  She rode the whole way back home.  We had to stop once to fix her bag under her seat.  I just took it off and strapped it to my bike.  I’ll give the bike a once over at some point.

It was hard to think that I could’ve prevented the crash.  If I hadn’t pushed us to squeeze through, it wouldn’t have happened.  I don’t know what the guy on the bike was thinking.  I was sure that he returned later but couldn’t say for sure.  He was with a woman then to whom I’m sure he never mentioned that he was the one that caused the accident.  It just keeps going through my head that it’s not right, not fair.  I can’t let it go.  The bikes were her idea.  She’s been so excited about riding and then she wrecks her new bike.  And let me just say that bikes are really expensive these days.  The bike is ok.  It’s just the premise.  I see her sitting there, bleeding and hurting and it hurts me.  She’s ok.  She has road rash on her knee.  We thought there might be bone exposed but we think it’s just really deep in a few spots which is making it white whereas the rest of it is red.  She has several gear punctures on the inside of her leg.  I thought for sure she was going to need stitches.  Those are what we put the bandaids on but they stopped bleeding.  We have to work on them some more tonight because it appears there’s bike grease in them.  She has a few abrasions on her arms and two fingers on her left hand are really swollen and hurting from bracing against the boards.  She thought she was going swimming so basically stopped herself with her hand after her handle bar grip hit the concrete wall.

I want to fix it.  Make it like it didn’t happen.  She says she wants to go riding again.  I believe her since she rode all the way back home.  I just hate that image in my head of her sitting there.  It’s like a horror movie replaying in my head.  I think we’ll stay in tonight.

Deep Down Inside

Going through all of the edits for my book have been eye opening.  I started one round and noticed another change I needed to make.  That led to another and then another.  I didn’t think I was ever going to finish.  But I did.  We’re reading through it one last time before sending out to publishers.  The changes coming in from my personal editor (aka spouse) seem to be dwindling which is great to see.

Over the past few days, I’ve been reminded again and again that no matter what, an artist, which I’ve realized being a writer is, must continually perform their art.  I read an article that offered the challenge to writers of writing every day.  Every day.  When I first read it, I thought, that’s just ridiculous.  I can’t write every day.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I want to write every day.  It nags at me if I go too long without doing it.  In fact, it’s why I wanted to do yet another blog.  I’ve even started thinking of my next book.  I want to get it going and I’ve not gotten my first book through the process.  It almost doesn’t matter.

Over the weekend, I had an appointment in the city.  Afterwards, we had lunch and then went to The Walt Disney Family Museum.  I love Disney.  I love the premise, the man, the parks.  Everything about Disney makes such sense to me.  I was excited to go to the museum since I’d not been there before.  It was larger than I expected but there were two things that hit home to me.  In one of the interviews, Mary Blaire, one of the Disney artists, who also has an exhibit at the museum, was talking about drawing.  She said something like, there were three things that she did each day.  She would take care of her home, take care of her family and draw.  It was followed up by Walt saying that the artists had to draw, draw, draw.  It was all of their passion.  Each person there loved to draw, did it every day and you could see and hear the passion in them.  I likened it to writing.  It painted my own picture that perhaps I’m meant to be a writer.  I’ve always felt it deep down inside and am excited that I feel like I have a new direction in life.  I could be a writer.

Finally, the last inspiration I had over the weekend was that Disney doesn’t make movies for children or adults but for people to find, if only for a little bit, the goodness and unspoiled kindness that we each have from our beginning and to revel in it and maybe feel it again if we’ve not for some time.