As Memorial Day approaches in the United States, I’m reminded it was a year ago Pam of Babylon was released.  It is exactly one year ago today Jack called home and told Pam he had to stay in the city overnight because of a late meeting, and  he’d take a train home in the morning.

Pam and her family were preparing for their big annual Memorial Day picnic at their Long Island beach house.  I remember when I wrote about the party, I closed my eyes and thought of holiday picnics I attended over the years.  There were a few lavish spreads, but most were meat on the grill types of parties, with kids running around and too much booze flowing.

I pretend I’m there in Babylon, watching her get ready.Pam rents the entire bed and breakfast down the beach from their house for overnight guests.  She shops continuously and cooks daily for the weeks leading up to the big day.  There is a staff of uniformed waiters and waitresses lined up to serve. They have a fireworks display set off out to sea for the whole community to enjoy.  And she prepares for the party alone.  Jack is supposed to come home Friday night to help her with last minute details, but instead, spends the night in the city with his girlfriend, Sandra.

His inconsiderate, selfish behavior two days before a huge throwdown like the Smith’s Party bothered me more than some of his other indiscretions.  I imagined what it would be like here at the Jenkins household if we were going to have a big party and my husband disappeared. When Jim read the book he said, “Yeah, right!”   It made me so angry  Pam was blase when Jack called to say he’d be staying in the city Friday night.  Later in the evening she couldn’t reach him when she tried his apartment number and his cell phone.

“Come on, Pam! Get real! That jerk is working tonight? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Everything’s ready for the party. I’d rather he took his time getting home in the morning after a good night’s sleep than getting the last train out tonight,” she said to me in my imagination.  In my mind’s eye, Pam floats wherever she goes.  I  think of new scenarios in which she deals with topics that would drive me nuts, but she does so in such a genteel, kindly way.  Haha! Pam is the antithesis of me.

Anyway, June is the one year anniversary of Pam of Babylon going to the publisher.  She is still living in my head, trying to get me to write more about her life, but so far, I’m refusing.  What a heck of ride its been.

My last book to be published, Dream Lover, was called by a reviewer on Kirkus a “gritty, realistic portrait of the aftermath of deceit.”  When I read the review I thought, finally, someone who is not my friend who understands what these books are about. Jack is a character in a Greek fable with an unhappy ending. There isn’t much that is warm and fuzzy about my writing.

For all the lovely reviews the books have gotten, Amazon has picked a negative one to highlight. Why is that? Am I on Amazon’s !@#$%^&* list? There is a discussion taking place on several different groups, including the Indie Author Group on LinkedIn and also Createspace author’s forum regarding the value of reviews.  One person accused another of writing a bogus but horrible review of the author’s work because they were disagreeing with each other in the forum.  I quickly deleted my membership from that group! It brings me back to the negative review; the reviewer started out by saying I could write.  She hated the characters and situations, however…she just didn’t like my book.  I get it! It’s okay. I don’t think she is going to prevent me from getting any sales.  However, her review is right there, first place, for all the world to see.

I went to buy a new book today, Snow Escape by Roberta Goodman, a new friend on Book Blogs. I can’t wait to read it!  But while I was there, I just had to mosey over to my books to see if there were any new reviews.  Yes, there was one. My heart started pounding, I was really frightened that yet another reader was going to be offended by Jack and his antics.  Instead, this is what Deb said about Pam of Babylon.

I won the second book in the series from a giveaway, so the Author generously gave me the kindle edition of this book to read so I would be up to date. Thank you Suzanne Jenkins!! She is now one of my favorite authors, this book was so wonderful! It had me angry, sad, and then happy. Just what a good book does for you, it was a wonderful escape to another world. The lives of these women, so effected by this one man. The characters were so clear and detailed, the world around them was described so beautifully that I wanted to live at the beach with Pam myself. I am so excited to start the second book today! There are also parts of this book that were so surprising and gritty and touched me personally. This book had twists and turns that kept coming at you, keeping your attention and making it so hard to pit it down. It was unexpected, and great. I may have to re-read it to make sure I got it all! It’s that good to me.

Well, suffice it to say I called my husband in to read it with me and I had a good cry with him.  I keep thinking about how this young woman’s words affected me, and it brought be back around to Karma.  How much power we have over each other!  People tell us not to take negativity personally, but how can you not?

Deb’s kindness regarding the review of my book lit a fire under me to once again to try harder to be kinder, act nicer, treat people more gently, and think of the good more often.  Thank you Deb!

So here’s a little taste of unedited Jack.

Chapter 1

Ashton Hageman was sitting on the steps of the New York Public Library, waiting for his lover to arrive.  He had the Home Style section of the Sunday Times resting on his knees, but it was a prop.  Certain that something important in his life was about to come to an end, the paper was a convenient screen to hide behind if too much thinking lead to tears. I deserve better than this, he thought.  Young and in love, Ashton allowed himself to be at Jack’s beck and call since they were boys, when Jack discovered his friend would do anything for him.  Jack didn’t set out to manipulate him; it just happened. And when he found the ability gave him power over Ashton, he couldn’t help himself.  He would control Ashton until he died.

At precisely the time expected, Jack came into view in his larger than life way.  Exquisitely dressed, Jack drew attention wherever he went.  It was ridiculous really, him strolling down Fifth Avenue, a suit jacket thrown over a shoulder, but Jack pulled it off like he was playing a part in a 1940’s Broadway play.  Ash, his heart rate picking up exponentially watched while people stood aside for the handsome and debonair Jack Smith.  He sauntered down the street, his smile visible all of the way to the steps of the library.  The old fashioned words used to describe a man dressed to perfection were appropriate.  Natty, dapper, suave and elegant; gorgeous Jack knew it about himself, and played it for all it was worth.  He walked like a model on a runway with broad shoulders held still, one hand in his pocket and the other holding on to that jacket.  Women reacted as he got closer, giddy and animated.  Ashton had to smile as he watched the fuss in spite of what he knew was about to take place in his life.  Jack finally made eye contact and turned to dash up the steps.  He held out his hand and pulled Ashton to his feet.  This was nineteen-eighty New York; gay men, especially one about to get married to a woman, did not publicly embrace midtown.

“Were you waiting long?” Jack asked as the two men descended to the sidewalk.  “Thanks for meeting on such short notice.”  Ashton wasn’t as tall as Jack and he fought the urge to look up at him, tears too close to the surface for eye to eye contact.

“You’ve definitely got my curiosity going.  And you’re scaring me.  What’s wrong?”  Ashton asked as they continued walking down Fifth.

“Do you want to get something to drink?  I’m thirsty,” Jack said.  “Don’t be scared.  Our life isn’t going to change that much.”  There, Ash thought, he’s admitted it.  “Let’s get some lunch and we can talk, okay?”  Jack looked sidelong at his companion.  Ashton was clearly struggling to maintain control, breathing deeply, sighing out loud.  Arms touching, Jack could feel the tension in Ashton’s body as they walked along together.  “Let’s go to Faye’s.  We can have some privacy in there.”  Ashton nodded his head.

“How long do you have?”  He looked up at Jack.  “I mean, is this just lunch?”  Jacked nodded his head yes.

“Just lunch, but just for today, okay?  I have to meet with my mother at two,” Jack said, the intention clear.  They were going to start planning Jack’s wedding.  Biting his lip to keep an audible sob from escaping, he thought, how had it come to this? He thought Jack would have at least tried to live a dual life.  If any choosing was to be done, it would be in Ash’s favor.  Wouldn’t it? Not get married. Not abandon him.

“Oh God, I don’t know if I am going to survive,” Ash admitted.  In a rare public gesture, Jack put his arm around his shoulders, an innocent movement providing something intimate Ash needed.  They got to the restaurant and Jack took his arm away, opening the door and holding it for him to walk through.  Not bothering to look around to see if they were observed going in, Faye’s was one place in town where they could be together.

“You’ll be fine,” Jack responded shortly.  “I’m not leaving the city, for Christ’s sake.”  Ash didn’t add you might as well be. “What we have is not going to change that much, Ash,” Jack said.  He grabbed menus and led the way to their own table in back of the dark room.  The booths were hard and uncomfortable, but the backs were high, giving them some privacy.  They slid in across from each other.

“I won’t be fine.  And it will change.  Really Jack, you are being a little naïve,” Ashton said.  “For one thing, you won’t be able to sleep over anymore.”  He put his head down on his crossed arms and silently began crying.  Jack grabbed his hand.

“Ash, try to pull it together,” Jack pleaded.  He hated seeing his friend so sad.  But he had to get married.  He wanted a wife and children, a home of his own, a family.  He wanted a normal life.   Jack took Ash’s hand and kissed the fingertips, and then the palm.  “I love you, but you knew it would be this way.  Come on, Ashton,” he said, losing patience. Jack hated drama in spite of being the author of much of it..  “Man up!”  He laughed a light chuckle, just loud enough for their benefit.  But it didn’t work.

“No, I don’t want to,” Ashton complained.  “We’ve been in love since we were twelve.  Why would I think it would ever come to this? Leaving me to get married to a woman.  I think I might throw up.”

“Oh stop it,” Jack said, picking up the menu.  “If you want to spend our lunch together whining, go ahead.  It is what it is.  I want a normal life.  Somehow, I just can’t picture you pushing a baby carriage, or carrying a kid around on your back.”  He started reading the menu.  They had been regulars at Faye’s high school, and it hadn’t changed that much.  “What do you want to eat?”

“Turkey on rye.  Are you going to tell Miss Fabulous about me?”  Ashton provoked.  Jack put the menu down and looked at his face carefully, like he was checking him out for an acne medication commercial, the sort of look Jack gave that withered Ashton’s self-confidence.

“No.  And neither are you.  She isn’t what you think she is, Ashton.  Pam is lovely, gracious and kind.  You will meet her soon, I promise.  Even if you were cruel to her, she wouldn’t get it anyway, so don’t even try.  She’s made of different stuff than you or I,” Jack explained.  “Besides, I might have to kill you if you ever hurt her.”  Jack let go of his hand and picked up the menu again.

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be the one hurting her,” Ashton said.  “Get me a Tab, too.  I have to go the bathroom.  He slid out of the booth.   The bathroom was near the rear of the restaurant, and Ashton let a few sobs out on his way back.  I’m such an !@#$%^&*, he thought.  I’ve wasted all of these years thinking Jack would make the decision that he wouldn’t be able to live without me.  He looked in the wall mirror, at his puffy eyes and swollen lips.  Great.  Just the look to drop a man to his knees.  He washed his face and hands.  Enough, he thought.  He would make it an act of his will to be pleasant and charming, just what Jack liked about him.  And later, if he was lucky, he would take Jack to bed and do things to him that only a man could do.

However, what I am learning is it doesn’t make any difference how much you ‘hire out’ the work. If you want to be a successful self-published author, you had better learn how to update your own website, photo shop a cover mock up for your book, and more. You better reread your final interior proof one hundred times, because no matter how much you pay for copy editing, you will get your hardcopy proof in the mail and find out that you have used that hundreds of times too often, or put commas in too many places, or my worst mistake; use sole rather than soul.

The Greeks of Beaubien Street is in the hands of the new publisher and I am anxiety ridden. Getting used to a new routine and new people, is so difficult. In my former life, I discovered that I preferred to stick with the tried and true rather than venture out. I stayed at a job I didn’t like for years because the fright of starting fresh somewhere else was too difficult.

My little problems are nothing compared to what my friends are going through right now. Life threatening illness, the loss of a spouse, unemployment, legal issues, the list is endless.  What I have noticed is how one reacts to the trouble says a lot. I have a friend who is bald from chemotherapy for breast cancer, and everyday she crawls out of bed and drives an hour to her very physical kind of job. It’s not one at which she is able to sit at a desk. She alone supports her household, and the job provides her health insurance, so she doesn’t have the option to stay home when she feels bad.  In spite of her situation, my friend is the most upbeat woman I know. She hasn’t whined or complained once, and the only way I will know that she is feeling less than stellar is she won’t talk about herself.  I  imagine myself in her situation and the complaining I would do. We talked this week and she said that if she makes being upbeat and positive an act of her will, she is successful, and then she feels better. If she gives in to self-pity, the effect is immediate; she feels awful and makes everyone around her feel awful, too. She still has children at home and an aged mother who lives with her and its important to her that her family stays hopeful, as well.  Cancer is not her identity, nor are her other problems. We have to work at not allowing those things which will tear us down to become our identity. Because if we do, we succumb to feeling sorry for ourselves. Someone else is always worse off.

So the pressure is on. My husband told me yesterday when he was listening to me having a disagreement with the person who designed my website that I am turning into a real !@#$%^&* and he is glad we don’t work together.  That got me thinking about the fine line there is between standing up for yourself or being an aggressive shrew, being positive or feeling so sorry for yourself that it paralyzes you.  There is just so much a stake right now, and I’ve spent so much money and put so much work into everything that I want to get it right. I can’t afford to have any craziness around me, or any negativity. At different times in my life  my friends have been there for me when my glass was half empty, and now I need to knock it off, belly up to the bar, and get it right.

I cooked a hot meal for almost each night of the first forty years of my marriage.  My husband doesn’t remember saying this to me, but he once complimented me on it.  When he worked in Manhattan, the whole family waited until he walked through the door at almost seven-thirty each night to eat.  I think it was my son who said something to me about the family not eating dinner together.  I almost fainted.  Really?  He forgot already?

I had a few standard meals that we loved back then. It’s so strange how your palate changes, and food trends definitely have something to do with it.  Shake and Bake chicken, baked potato and peas with Parmesan cheese was a staple.  Or broiled steaks with some kind of frozen vegetable in a sauce and baked potato and sour cream.  I had to be careful how the meat looked; it there was any gristle or fat hanging off it, or skin on poultry, Jen wouldn’t eat it.

Working in the OR with a bunch of women and Tim, the only guy who cooked,  was wonderful; someone was always talking about food and what they were cooking that night.  One day in July, we started talking about Thanksgiving dinner.  On the way home that night, I stopped at the Acme, got a turkey breast and all the trimmin’s.  By the time Jim got homet, we had a mini Thanksgiving dinner.

I’m just not motivated anymore.  For one thing, the constant battle with my weight and now my diminished appetite, if you can believe it, makes trying to plan a meal difficult.  A small piece of meat and a veggie is all I need.  Add a pizza, and Jim would be fine.  But old habits die hard, and I start the day off with “What’s for dinner?”  Thank God for the crock pot and all the new sites that concentrate on crock pot recipes.  My favorite is Chef in Training. Just through into the crock pot any meat with a package of Knorr rice mix and two cups of liquid is a guarantee for success, even if the rice does get a little globby.  I would settle for a salad every night, but my S/O would hate it. Fortunately, there are several great, inexpensive restaurants close by.  Our favorite is Ida Red’s Cottage.  However, they’re only open Thursday through Sunday and only until two.  And when the people from Chicago come up, we don’t bother.  So that leaves a local joint; Christo’s Roadhouse.  We don’t mind Madonna and Cher on the jukebox. The food is simple bar food, with chili and veggie burgers and salads thrown in. We’ve already been there this week, but I think it’s where my dinner is coming from later.

So what’s for dinner at your house tonight?

My new favorite TV program is Million Dollar Listing.  It follows three very different, young male real estate agents through the maze of Manhattan real estate sales.  One of them is an obnoxious Swedish guy who used to do Gay porn.  Not that one thing has anything to do with the other.  He has a driver who takes him to his appointments in a Porsche, and wears shirts that cost $700.  I remembered this as I got into my now eleven year old car wearing designer jeans I bought at the Salvation Army.  (Having money is not the goal of my discussion.)   As much as he gets on my nerves, he said something that hit home.  He said he was successful in his business life because he got up two hours earlier than everyone else and went to bed two hours later. This got me thinking about myself and my lady friends who accomplish a lot in their day.  I know that if I get up a 4 in the morning, my friend Michele will be awake, and probably Jill and my sister, Liz. We get up at that ungodly hour because our minds are racing with things we have and want to do. (Or a dog or cat woke up us and now we can’t get back to sleep. Regardless, we’re up.)

When I was younger, if I didn’t have to go to work that day, I would go out to my studio and work. Textile art can be hard, often dangerous work.  My carder can take off a finger if I’m not careful, or grab a handful of my hair and hold me captive until Jim misses me.  He works California hours, however, so I may have to stand trapped until after ten. Or, as I almost discovered this week, lifting a dye pot of boiling dandelion flowers can have disastrous results if the pot handle breaks when you are trying to get it off the burner. Fortunately, it didn’t dump all over me, but just narrowly.  So rather than watch TV or waste my time buying underwear or yarn on ebay, when I get up at 4, I write.  Maybe that’s why I finished five books in a year. That’s a lotta insomnia.

When I was a young mother, I could spend an entire weekend cuddling on the couch watching TV and reading with my kids. We called them veg days. Now I can only do that if I’m sick. I hate wasting time.  Everyone I know who has something to show for the time follows a list. They may make their list first thing in the morning, or follow one that is ongoing.  I’m in the later group.

My mother was a great list writer. But she often defeated herself by making a list that included some items you’d expect to accomplish over a lifetime. For instance, on the same list she’d write ‘buy  milk and crackers, organize receipts for taxes, find roofer, landscape the side yard’.  She told me to be careful not to put so much on my list that I would be unable to get at least one thing done.  Our conversations in the evening regularly began with ‘I didn’t get my list done today.’ Liz found lists among my mother’s effects when she died. I treasure those pieces of paper.

Now my lists include one item from each ‘food group’.  I have to write something, work for at least fifteen minutes in the studio, do something domestic, finish at least one dreaded chore, and talk to a friend. I’m trying to add some exercise into the mix.  Today my dreaded chore is to enter checks received into the business Quick Books account. Yuck.

My friends inspire me with their activities.  Jill’s gardening stories prompted me to do a little myself.  Liz’s business accomplishments inspire me to be more organized about my own.  Betty’s exercise plan encourages me to do some myself.  Judy’s calls to her aged aunt reminds me to get in touch with neglected friends and family. We are so interwoven in our lives, I forget I can have a positive influence on my friends like they do for me.  Thank you!

I love pinterest, and pinned the books there, and actually got some repinnings.  Now I am doing a book giveaway on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads and my Suzanne Jenkins website.  I will do it here, too.  All you have to do is comment and I’ll enter you in the contest.  My readers have faithfully shown up, read the droning and commented or not.   So this is sort of an apology for blasting you day in and day out with book stuff.  I’m a writer, not a marketer, but I must do it or stop publishing. And that would be no fun!!!  I love you, friends.

The book I am currently working on, The Greeks of Beaubien Street is about a Greek family who live in an apartment above their grocery store.  All the children are grown , most with kids and grandkids and are going through adult situational crisis. I remember that silly term from nursing school mental health classes.  What does it mean? Losing a job, getting divorced, spouse dying, kids hating you, illness, betrayal; the list is endless.  So I interpret it as meaning living. If you are living, and not a TV evangelist, you have trouble somewhere in your life. It might be as simple as your wonderful homestead slowly becoming surrounded by people who don’t care about the environment the same way you do, or losing touch with someone who formerly meant the world to you. Many of us have had that dilemma; you can feel an old friendship slipping away through a change of lifestyle or for an unknown reason, and are powerless to do anything about it.   I once had a beloved friend who stopped calling when she married a man with four children from another marriage.  I did what I could to facilitate a relationship with her; had them for dinner, drove the hour to her house as often as I could, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. Then the coup de grace; her car was parked on my street one summer day and I was stymied until I realized she was at a neighborhood Bible Study that I wasn’t invited to. She had driven an hour and didn’t stop in to say hello.  I finally got it through my thick skull that it wasn’t the marriage or the kids or the distance that was causing us to drift apart.  It was me.  She didn’t want to know me anymore.  Once I accepted it, it took about twenty years to recover from. When we moved from New Jersey to Michigan I found a box of her belongings that must have been left behind when she lived with me briefly during a rough time in her life.  I debated for a year about trying to get in touch; I’d heard they had moved to Maine.  And in a  moment of, I don’t know what, maybe glee, or revenge, I gave the box to the Goodwill. It felt so delicious.

So to get back to my story, one of the wives goes on a cleaning rampage and discovers boxes her husband stashed in a storage area under the eaves in his office.  Here’s the excerpt.

She [Paula] came across a box of Nick’s memorabilia that his mother had assembled for him over the years, and when he finally got his own place, she [Eleni] felt safe handing it over to him. The words ‘Nickie’s Treasures’ written in her careful hand across the top flap,  the box didn’t look like he had opened it again .  Paula rummaged through it and saw that it was nothing more than some old schoolwork papers, drawings he had done as a small child, awards he had received for good behavior, and a few silly mementos.  Basically, it was a box of junk only a mother would care about. When she couldn’t throw it away, she left it to the son’s wife to do so.  Paula wondered if Liz and Anna had similar boxes in their houses.  She shook her head in disgust; her mother-in-law was a peasant.

I don’t know what it was about this scene, but I started to cry as I was writing it.  The process of going through my children’s mementos when we moved was difficult because the truth is, you can’t keep everything. Having to throw away their school work was so difficult, but neither of them wanted it, and I had saved boxes and boxes. My husband, Jim packed a box for Andy with movies he ‘d made as a teenager, and few collectible toys we kept and shipped it to him.  For the rest of the stuff,  I  bought large, clear Rubbermaid containers with tight fitting lids and as I sorted through old photos and mementos, I made each kid their own box. I decided to keep them here and when I die, the kids can retrieve their boxes of mementos.

The process of aging is intense.  I am aware of the changes I”m going through because of the pain, and the mortification of seeing my face in my cell phone when my grandchild and I do Face Time. Oh my God, who is that sagging, asymmetrical, bad dye job hag looking back at me?  The fact that the lighting makes me look slightly blue doesn’t help.  I have to make sure my hair and make-up are done early every day just in case Jen calls, and now my friend Betty calls me, too and I never know if she has one of her many man-friends looking over her shoulder to see the cool gadget. My new computer has a camera in it. If I ever get used to the key board, I will tape a piece of cardboard over it, just in case.

My dear friend Jill had her garden tilled today.  My wonderful neighbors, Kirk and Terry, not of Great Dane fame, are thinking about their garden already, too.  Last year they supplied us with vegetables all summer.

Tomorrow is my dear, late mother’s birthday.  She would have been eighty-four.  The return of the wild turkey to Michigan was especially exciting for her.  Last spring she saw a gaggle or flock, or whatever they are called, near her house and because of the haze of the sun, and her failing eyesight, she said at first glance she thought it was a group of men standing around talking, they were so tall.  She would be thrilled to see my pictures of this trio of males.  Happy birthday, Mom! I miss you.