My writing process has evolved over the years, but when I first got some ideas that turned into novels, I had an experience I didn't expect. With every novel I've written (6 so far) each one starts with characters and a vague plot line, and then as I'm thinking about how the story will unfold, a scene flashes in my head - sometimes with dialogue, sometimes not - and I quickly write it down before I lose it. In each case, this scene has become the pivot point in the story, and then a more specific plot line begins to fall into place. I write this down and weave it together with a time line so I know the exact sequence of events. For this reason, I don't think in terms of chapters. I think in terms of events that happen in a character's life on a particular day. That helps me determine what led up to that moment in the story and what consequences will come after that moment. If I know what's going to happen in a scene, I write that scene, but if I need to think about it a while or do research to add authenticity and believability to the scene, I might put it off until I have the other scenes written that are still bouncing around in my brain. As a sort of 'place holder,' I write notes in the manuscript of what will need to happen in this yet-to-be-written scene so I can go back and fill it in later. Fortunately, I'm at a place in my life where I can write all day and all night if I need to get essential scenes on paper, and then ponder and brood over scenes that need more careful attention.
Sometimes some of my best ideas come when I'm in church. Insights and ideas in a talk or lesson relate to something my characters are experiencing, so I make notes and add those ideas later. I don't expect inspiration to plant something in my brain without effort on my part. I seek inspiration and expect it to poke and prod and move forward ideas that have already been generated. If no inspiration comes, I take that to mean the idea isn't worth following. This whole process is a fascinating exercise in the way the right brain (creativity) coordinates with the left brain (analytical). When I'm writing it's all right brain all the time, and when I'm revising, it's left brain.
Once a rough draft is on paper, I start combing through the tangles to smooth it out, making sure the sequence of events is accurate. My goal is polished brevity - saying the most in the fewest words. One of the things I comb out is sentences written in passive voice unless there's a particular plot- or character-driven reason for keeping it passive. I also comb through and revise all sentences that start with 'the.' That sounds quirky, but it makes the prose really sing with a brighter, tighter, more readable way of saying something.
Also, I'm the queen of tweak, and the longer the plot and characters "brew" in my brain, and the longer the manuscript remains in my possession unsold, the more subtleties and refinements I find that add richness to the story and the people.
While writing, I also listen to good music - without words - that stimulates my brain. I pray my way through every project. Above all, it's essential to have readers who will tell you the truth. In my previous writers group, everyone loved me and everything I wrote was wonderful, just wonderful, so I didn't get the feedback I really needed. Now I have several good critics who love me enough to tell me the truth.
A few years ago I interviewed with an editor who asked me why I write and who my audience is. I told him I can't NOT write, but apparently that wasn't good enough. I guess he expected me to say, "LDS women between the ages of 24 and 65 who have a college education and always get their Visiting Teaching done." I can't think in such marketing terms. My mindset comes from what a college professor once told me: "If what you write is good enough, your work will find an audience." I write because it appeals to the crusader in me. I write because I see things being ignored or swept under the rug in our LDS subculture that we ought to be discussing openly among ourselves. If the emperor is naked, I notice and I tend to mention it, and that makes some people uncomfortable, but very often those are the problems we've been in denial about. I write because lives and marriages are falling apart and not very many writers are addressing those issues in fiction. A writer's responsibility is to shine a light, and sometimes that light illuminates dark corners. I write because characters come alive in my brain and won't go away until I've written their story. I write because I have a talent and not to use it would be disrespectful and disappointing to the Creator who gave it to me. Even if I never get published, this exercise enriches my spirit.
For probably 25 or 30 years I've avoided reading fiction by LDS writers because most of it didn't have substance or depth, which left me still hungry. I know other LDS women with that same complaint. So I decided to write for people like me, who are looking for soul-satisfying, sink-your-teeth-into stories that touch our common core values. For that reason, I haven't written fantasy or escape so far. In the last six months, however, since I've started reading more contemporary LDS writers, I'm finding quite a few that I like very much, and I'm recommending them to those friends who gave up on finding good LDS-written fiction. We've come a long way, baby, and that's good.
That's my writing process and my philosophy. All I can say to recommend it is that I have a manuscript pending with a publisher. Talking about this reminds me how very much I miss teaching writing!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Confessions of an Incorrigible Book Buyer
Hi. My name is Pam and I buy books.
I often describe myself as an old broken-down English major because I learned to love and appreciate literature at that impressionable time in my life, and although my tastes have changed over the years, it's a habit I can't break. There's something compelling about a story, but really, as someone said, the meaningful experience in all literature takes place in the white spaces between the words. Maybe that's where story and reader connect.
A defining moment came the day AFTER graduation. I'd been through the English majors reading list, passed the exam and had my diploma in hand. As I passed through the campus bookstore and looked down that long line of racks and racks of paperback novels, I nearly swooned. I could read! I was literate! More importantly, I wasn't tied to a list of books somebody else required me to read. At last I could choose for myself. It was in the days when an expensive paperback might cost as much as $3, and those were no-nos for me, but I remember taking eight books to the checkout and spending a whopping, unheard of, budget-busting $12. This is significant because I was blissfully unemployed at the time.
Nevertheless, I went home and began to devour my treasures with the degree of self-indulgence one can only know when one is bone-weary of doing what other people want and expect one to do. These were all the best sellers that I'd agonizingly ignored while I was finishing the reading list to pass the test and graduate, but now it was my turn – nay, my right – to get caught up with the world of popular fiction.
In the years since graduation, I have not been inclined to borrow books from the public library because it's too restrictive; it puts me again on somebody else's timetable. I want the freedom to put a book down for a few weeks and pick it up later when the mood strikes again, to glance at it occasionally and know that inside the covers is a treat waiting for me. I have a reader friend who sometimes has as many as five books going at once, fiction as well as non-fiction, and she keeps them nicely balanced in her mind.
No, I'm the kind of reader who must possess books. When we moved last year after 33 years in one place, we passed a lot of our books on to other people because we knew space would be limited in our new place. In fact, in our old home, the bathrooms were the only places that didn't have bookshelves. In our much smaller new place, our books nearly filled the three big new bookcases we bought, but I still buy books. I'll decide later which ones are keepers and pass the others on to friends who will appreciate them, where they'll have a good home and be loved.
Unfortunately, or fortunately if you're the author of books I buy, I have what I'd call story staying power. I like books that go on into sequels and trilogies. I'm even into one series that goes to a fourth book, and another series that's supposed to have seven eventually. It's like making new friends.
As for the classics, I like Dickens, the Brontes and Austen interpreted and illustrated for television – perhaps it's due to a shrinking attention span no longer compatible with that prose style – but the characters are always welcome in my imagination, and I don't feel compelled to possess these volumes in my own library. My favorite novel, which I cannot do without, is The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I purchased a new copy recently because I'd worn out the original I'd had since college. No one writes more luscious prose.
In our new place, I've found a home in our local book club, reading some books I probably wouldn't have chosen for myself, and being pleasantly surprised. I'm just glad I don't have to analyze the plot and the characters and the subplots and the socio-political influences and write papers about them and worry if I've second-guessed the teacher sufficiently to get a good grade. I can simply enjoy them as new friends. On second thought, maybe I should have majored in something I didn't love so much. It was a lot of hoop-jumping to fit somebody else's view of what an English major should know.
But that's another thought for another time. For now... My name is Pam and I buy books.
I often describe myself as an old broken-down English major because I learned to love and appreciate literature at that impressionable time in my life, and although my tastes have changed over the years, it's a habit I can't break. There's something compelling about a story, but really, as someone said, the meaningful experience in all literature takes place in the white spaces between the words. Maybe that's where story and reader connect.
A defining moment came the day AFTER graduation. I'd been through the English majors reading list, passed the exam and had my diploma in hand. As I passed through the campus bookstore and looked down that long line of racks and racks of paperback novels, I nearly swooned. I could read! I was literate! More importantly, I wasn't tied to a list of books somebody else required me to read. At last I could choose for myself. It was in the days when an expensive paperback might cost as much as $3, and those were no-nos for me, but I remember taking eight books to the checkout and spending a whopping, unheard of, budget-busting $12. This is significant because I was blissfully unemployed at the time.
Nevertheless, I went home and began to devour my treasures with the degree of self-indulgence one can only know when one is bone-weary of doing what other people want and expect one to do. These were all the best sellers that I'd agonizingly ignored while I was finishing the reading list to pass the test and graduate, but now it was my turn – nay, my right – to get caught up with the world of popular fiction.
In the years since graduation, I have not been inclined to borrow books from the public library because it's too restrictive; it puts me again on somebody else's timetable. I want the freedom to put a book down for a few weeks and pick it up later when the mood strikes again, to glance at it occasionally and know that inside the covers is a treat waiting for me. I have a reader friend who sometimes has as many as five books going at once, fiction as well as non-fiction, and she keeps them nicely balanced in her mind.
No, I'm the kind of reader who must possess books. When we moved last year after 33 years in one place, we passed a lot of our books on to other people because we knew space would be limited in our new place. In fact, in our old home, the bathrooms were the only places that didn't have bookshelves. In our much smaller new place, our books nearly filled the three big new bookcases we bought, but I still buy books. I'll decide later which ones are keepers and pass the others on to friends who will appreciate them, where they'll have a good home and be loved.
Unfortunately, or fortunately if you're the author of books I buy, I have what I'd call story staying power. I like books that go on into sequels and trilogies. I'm even into one series that goes to a fourth book, and another series that's supposed to have seven eventually. It's like making new friends.
As for the classics, I like Dickens, the Brontes and Austen interpreted and illustrated for television – perhaps it's due to a shrinking attention span no longer compatible with that prose style – but the characters are always welcome in my imagination, and I don't feel compelled to possess these volumes in my own library. My favorite novel, which I cannot do without, is The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I purchased a new copy recently because I'd worn out the original I'd had since college. No one writes more luscious prose.
In our new place, I've found a home in our local book club, reading some books I probably wouldn't have chosen for myself, and being pleasantly surprised. I'm just glad I don't have to analyze the plot and the characters and the subplots and the socio-political influences and write papers about them and worry if I've second-guessed the teacher sufficiently to get a good grade. I can simply enjoy them as new friends. On second thought, maybe I should have majored in something I didn't love so much. It was a lot of hoop-jumping to fit somebody else's view of what an English major should know.
But that's another thought for another time. For now... My name is Pam and I buy books.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
My Romance With Words
When I was in the ninth grade, Mrs. Breckenridge assigned us to write an essay every week. She evaluated our work, consulted with us, handed the papers back, and we would revise. It was where I learned the joy of writing the perfectly honed sentence. Occasionally, since then, I’ve written a few more, and the hope of achieving a well-written sentence keeps me going. When the mind is as blank as the page. I discovered that the real writing comes in the revision. In fact, the word “revision” means to look or see again, and in that process, re-thinking also takes place; careful writing demands careful thinking.
One of the joys of the language is the fun of spoonerisms (saying blushing crow instead of crushing blow), malapropisms (“We get along so well; we have a great repertoire…”) and other “in” jokes language lovers share. I love puns. Once my college roommates mounted on one of the odd ceiling angles in our attic apartment a bigger-than-life-size poster of a famous Russian ballet dancer. They were all waiting to see my reaction to this handsome bigger-than-life-size face with piercing eyes greeting me as I walked in the door. Their conversation stopped as I stood and frowned at it for a moment. With one hand on my hip, and in mock disgust, I said in frozen tones, “Well, you’ve got your Nureyev!”
My mother’s use of mind-numbing clichés is legendary in our family. She had them all in easy reach in every conversation, including a few she made up. She never swore, except to declare, “Son of a biscuit-eater!” When she sometimes stumbled over words, she described it as saying things 'bass-ackwards' or 'getting my tang all tungled up.' Whenever we drove anywhere, she narrated. If there had just been a heavy rain, she’d say, “Boy, they’ve sure had a gullywasher through here.” She knew the names of all the wildflowers, the history of the town we were passing through, told her previous experiences there, and named people she knew who lived there, or had lived there, or planned to live there. Because it was endlessly interesting, and always hilarious, we learned to forgive the clichés.
In our family we have developed a few twists and turns in the language, too, especially regarding names. It makes us unique, binds us together, and is one way our children tolerate their old broken-down English major parents. Our son Jordan has become Fjord, and in the spirit of 'right back atcha,' his sister Jennifer is Fjen. Our non-‘J’ daughter Elin has even become Fjelin. Jordan’s blog name is fjordypants. They have come up with dozens of names for me, probably because Pam is an easier name to play with; therefore, Dad – Roger – is always Dad. They tried once to refer to us affectionately as their pets – Rogerbil and Pamster – but only my nickname stuck. When I’m not Mom, I’ve also become Pamalamadingdong, Pamalino, Pammie-Wammie, or any number of variations on the theme. When Elin married, her intended asked me if I wanted him to call me Mom or Pam. I said either was fine, but Chickie Babe was probably not appropriate. Both our sons-in-law call me The Pamster.
In our conversations, and as we play games together, we fondly recall common experiences, stealing phrases from a movie or video that we can remake to suit our circumstances. With us, Star Wars, Singing in the Rain, The Great Race, The Farley Family Reunion or other favorite movies are part of the language smorgasbord we nibble from. Ultimately there is a right and wrong to grammar, although some of us have been known to reply, when asked a preference, “It don’t make no nevermind to me.” Strangers listening to us might think we’ve developed our own language, or just arrived from another planet.
When I teach creative writing, I always read from The Great Gatsby the description of the parties Gatsby throws. It’s as thrilling a passage of prose as a person can find in American literature. Fitzgerald describes the people and the scene without using the words spoiled, lavish, excessive, or prodigal, and yet the reader comes away thinking those words. That's fine writing. In the spirit of saying it that way, I once wrote an essay on the perils of being short without using the word ‘short.’ It reads pretty well.
I love the sounds of words as well as the meanings. On my blog I have a list of my favorite words, and although it’s incomplete, it still tells a great deal about me and my brain: wonky, imprimatur, absquatulate, crapulence, rendezvous, fracas, ephemeral, ethereal, cinnamon, carbuncle, polliwog, murmur, tarnation, chiaroscuro, credenza, glissando, ubermensch, summer afternoon. And I’m just getting started.
Some language-poor readers of one of my novels, reading a manuscript copy, didn't get the humor of the malapropisms used by one lovable character with a penchant for mangled language. She says, for instance, her daughters’ homes have leatherneck furniture and granola countertops, while her big old Victorian home has become a milestone around her neck. Her cruise ship passed through the Panama Corral, and she describes the food as laminated in honey and soy sauce. She got a nasty garfunkle on her foot and almost missed the dance. We should understand when she says to her niece, "I'm glad you found your glitch in life." I was surprised that some people reading a manuscript copy of the book have written corrections in the margins. I feel sorry for people who can’t or don’t have fun with language.
Words can thrill – “We hold these truths to be self-evident…” – or frighten – “We regret to inform you…” or send chills – “I am the light of the world.” To master the use of words is a great gift, but to appreciate words is an even greater gift. And I salute Mrs. Breckenridge for being the kind of teacher who could put me on the path to a language-rich world.
One of the joys of the language is the fun of spoonerisms (saying blushing crow instead of crushing blow), malapropisms (“We get along so well; we have a great repertoire…”) and other “in” jokes language lovers share. I love puns. Once my college roommates mounted on one of the odd ceiling angles in our attic apartment a bigger-than-life-size poster of a famous Russian ballet dancer. They were all waiting to see my reaction to this handsome bigger-than-life-size face with piercing eyes greeting me as I walked in the door. Their conversation stopped as I stood and frowned at it for a moment. With one hand on my hip, and in mock disgust, I said in frozen tones, “Well, you’ve got your Nureyev!”
My mother’s use of mind-numbing clichés is legendary in our family. She had them all in easy reach in every conversation, including a few she made up. She never swore, except to declare, “Son of a biscuit-eater!” When she sometimes stumbled over words, she described it as saying things 'bass-ackwards' or 'getting my tang all tungled up.' Whenever we drove anywhere, she narrated. If there had just been a heavy rain, she’d say, “Boy, they’ve sure had a gullywasher through here.” She knew the names of all the wildflowers, the history of the town we were passing through, told her previous experiences there, and named people she knew who lived there, or had lived there, or planned to live there. Because it was endlessly interesting, and always hilarious, we learned to forgive the clichés.
In our family we have developed a few twists and turns in the language, too, especially regarding names. It makes us unique, binds us together, and is one way our children tolerate their old broken-down English major parents. Our son Jordan has become Fjord, and in the spirit of 'right back atcha,' his sister Jennifer is Fjen. Our non-‘J’ daughter Elin has even become Fjelin. Jordan’s blog name is fjordypants. They have come up with dozens of names for me, probably because Pam is an easier name to play with; therefore, Dad – Roger – is always Dad. They tried once to refer to us affectionately as their pets – Rogerbil and Pamster – but only my nickname stuck. When I’m not Mom, I’ve also become Pamalamadingdong, Pamalino, Pammie-Wammie, or any number of variations on the theme. When Elin married, her intended asked me if I wanted him to call me Mom or Pam. I said either was fine, but Chickie Babe was probably not appropriate. Both our sons-in-law call me The Pamster.
In our conversations, and as we play games together, we fondly recall common experiences, stealing phrases from a movie or video that we can remake to suit our circumstances. With us, Star Wars, Singing in the Rain, The Great Race, The Farley Family Reunion or other favorite movies are part of the language smorgasbord we nibble from. Ultimately there is a right and wrong to grammar, although some of us have been known to reply, when asked a preference, “It don’t make no nevermind to me.” Strangers listening to us might think we’ve developed our own language, or just arrived from another planet.
When I teach creative writing, I always read from The Great Gatsby the description of the parties Gatsby throws. It’s as thrilling a passage of prose as a person can find in American literature. Fitzgerald describes the people and the scene without using the words spoiled, lavish, excessive, or prodigal, and yet the reader comes away thinking those words. That's fine writing. In the spirit of saying it that way, I once wrote an essay on the perils of being short without using the word ‘short.’ It reads pretty well.
I love the sounds of words as well as the meanings. On my blog I have a list of my favorite words, and although it’s incomplete, it still tells a great deal about me and my brain: wonky, imprimatur, absquatulate, crapulence, rendezvous, fracas, ephemeral, ethereal, cinnamon, carbuncle, polliwog, murmur, tarnation, chiaroscuro, credenza, glissando, ubermensch, summer afternoon. And I’m just getting started.
Some language-poor readers of one of my novels, reading a manuscript copy, didn't get the humor of the malapropisms used by one lovable character with a penchant for mangled language. She says, for instance, her daughters’ homes have leatherneck furniture and granola countertops, while her big old Victorian home has become a milestone around her neck. Her cruise ship passed through the Panama Corral, and she describes the food as laminated in honey and soy sauce. She got a nasty garfunkle on her foot and almost missed the dance. We should understand when she says to her niece, "I'm glad you found your glitch in life." I was surprised that some people reading a manuscript copy of the book have written corrections in the margins. I feel sorry for people who can’t or don’t have fun with language.
Words can thrill – “We hold these truths to be self-evident…” – or frighten – “We regret to inform you…” or send chills – “I am the light of the world.” To master the use of words is a great gift, but to appreciate words is an even greater gift. And I salute Mrs. Breckenridge for being the kind of teacher who could put me on the path to a language-rich world.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Plotting the Next Move
Having done it myself, I know the mechanics of plotting a novel, but when I read someone else's work I marvel again at the genius of different authors to make plots airtight, believable, and compelling.
Josi Kilpack has done it so well in her Sadie Hoffmiller culinary mystery series. In Lemon Tart, English Trifle and Devil's Food Cake, things happen fast, which is what keeps mystery readers involved. I've never been a great mystery fan, although I'm married to one, so this normally isn't my genre. However, these are published by Deseret Book so they're clean, and I appreciate that. It's one thing to go for gritty realism, but it's such a relief to read a good story without foul, offensive language.
Sadie is fastidious almost to a fault, and that's what makes her such a good detective, albeit amateur, able to know what to do when she finds herself in situations where the police may be absent or incompetent or resentful of her involvement. She doesn't really try to inject herself into police work, but somehow things happen to Sadie that keep her life from getting dull. Once involved, she knows when to dance around the truth and when to be unrelentingly honest.
Usually the surface is calm for Sadie, the 56-year-old widow just trying to keep up with her two college-age children and her charity work, but underneath is a layer of uncertainty and impending catastrophe that keeps a mystery reader going. There's a good balance of dramatic tension to move the story along and laugh-out-loud humor to give relief and keep the characters interesting. Although I haven't tried any of the recipes scattered throughout the text, some of the less caloric have practical appeal for my lifestyle. These dishes are an integral part of the story.
There's also an ongoing hint of romance, although that isn't as important as the food. Sadie knows some interesting men and isn't entirely opposed to having a close relationship again, but even after twenty years as a widow she hasn't forgotten her first love. Her ambivalence gets in the way at crucial moments.
Extraordinary things happen to ordinary people in these books, and that's the subtle brilliance of plotting an imaginative piece of fiction. I look forward to the next in the series, Key Lime Pie, which is due out in the fall. In the meantime, I'm going to pick up another Kilpack novel next time I'm in the bookstore.
Josi Kilpack has done it so well in her Sadie Hoffmiller culinary mystery series. In Lemon Tart, English Trifle and Devil's Food Cake, things happen fast, which is what keeps mystery readers involved. I've never been a great mystery fan, although I'm married to one, so this normally isn't my genre. However, these are published by Deseret Book so they're clean, and I appreciate that. It's one thing to go for gritty realism, but it's such a relief to read a good story without foul, offensive language.
Sadie is fastidious almost to a fault, and that's what makes her such a good detective, albeit amateur, able to know what to do when she finds herself in situations where the police may be absent or incompetent or resentful of her involvement. She doesn't really try to inject herself into police work, but somehow things happen to Sadie that keep her life from getting dull. Once involved, she knows when to dance around the truth and when to be unrelentingly honest.
Usually the surface is calm for Sadie, the 56-year-old widow just trying to keep up with her two college-age children and her charity work, but underneath is a layer of uncertainty and impending catastrophe that keeps a mystery reader going. There's a good balance of dramatic tension to move the story along and laugh-out-loud humor to give relief and keep the characters interesting. Although I haven't tried any of the recipes scattered throughout the text, some of the less caloric have practical appeal for my lifestyle. These dishes are an integral part of the story.
There's also an ongoing hint of romance, although that isn't as important as the food. Sadie knows some interesting men and isn't entirely opposed to having a close relationship again, but even after twenty years as a widow she hasn't forgotten her first love. Her ambivalence gets in the way at crucial moments.
Extraordinary things happen to ordinary people in these books, and that's the subtle brilliance of plotting an imaginative piece of fiction. I look forward to the next in the series, Key Lime Pie, which is due out in the fall. In the meantime, I'm going to pick up another Kilpack novel next time I'm in the bookstore.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sailing Away Again
Well, they talked us into it. We thought he was kidding when a brother-in-law, Gary, asked us if we were going on the Panama Canal cruise with the rest of the family. But he wasn't. Howard, the other brother-in-law, is really good at finding deals and doing all the business end of things for us, so he's booking it this week. They already have 50% occupancy. We're going to get veranda staterooms this time. Howard's parents are going, too, and he's notifying the rest of the family. Six of the seven Williams siblings and their spouses went on a one-week cruise a couple of years ago. For me it was BKRS (Before Knee Replacement Surgery) so I did okay on the ship but not so much on shore, especially in the heat. (HATED Jamaica!) Now I'm doing really well and will probably get along much better with various activities, so I'm looking forward to it. Isn't this what people are supposed to do when they're retired?
Here's the rundown:
Friday, April 29 - depart Miami FL
Saturday and Sunday - at sea
Monday, May 2 - docked at Cartagena, Colombia
Tuesday, May 3 - docked at Colon, Panama
Wednesday, May 4 - cruising through the Panama Canal
Thursday, May 5 - at sea
Friday, May 6 - dock at Puntarenas, Costa Rica
Saturday, May 7 - at sea
Sunday, May 8 - dock at Puerto Quetzal, Guatemala
Monday, May 9 - at sea
Tuesday, May 10 - dock at Acapulco, Mexico
Wednesday, May 11 - at sea
Thursday, May 12 - dock at Cabo San Lucas, Mexico
Friday, May 13 - at sea
Saturday, May 14 - arrive at San Diego CA
We'll need passports, and new luggage, and… Excuse me while I start making lists.
Here's the rundown:
Friday, April 29 - depart Miami FL
Saturday and Sunday - at sea
Monday, May 2 - docked at Cartagena, Colombia
Tuesday, May 3 - docked at Colon, Panama
Wednesday, May 4 - cruising through the Panama Canal
Thursday, May 5 - at sea
Friday, May 6 - dock at Puntarenas, Costa Rica
Saturday, May 7 - at sea
Sunday, May 8 - dock at Puerto Quetzal, Guatemala
Monday, May 9 - at sea
Tuesday, May 10 - dock at Acapulco, Mexico
Wednesday, May 11 - at sea
Thursday, May 12 - dock at Cabo San Lucas, Mexico
Friday, May 13 - at sea
Saturday, May 14 - arrive at San Diego CA
We'll need passports, and new luggage, and… Excuse me while I start making lists.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Moving On
Okay, folks, move along, nothing to see here.
Yep, the surgery came and went, annoying while it lasted. Waiting is the worst part when television is boring and you can't concentrate to read. All I could do was stare at my toes and contemplate the terrible pedicure I had. It was supposed to be at 3:30 Monday but I finally got into the OR about 5:30, out by 8 or so, and left the hospital at 3 Tuesday afternoon pain free. Still a little swelling in the throat and some hoarseness but nothing serious. Haven't tried to sing yet, although while in the hospital I had a dream about singing – remembered the alto line of The Lord is My Shepherd, but not the right sequence of verses.
Having been from my primary to a specialist to a surgeon in this little adventure, I have to say I'm very impressed with the quality of medical care I've found here. If I still lived in Sevier Valley, I would probably still not yet be diagnosed. My primary saw the bulge on my neck the first time I consulted with her. She sent me for tests, palpated, and recommended an endocrinologist. It took me two months to get in to see the specialist, but she did an ultrasound and needle biopsy to diagnose toxic multinodular goiter. Nodules sometimes develop in the thyroid and start sending out mixed signals. Mine were huge. So the endo sent me to a surgeon, and less than three weeks later I was in surgery. Today I go for a post-op checkup and expect to get onto thyroid hormone treatment soon. Then we do the dance of getting it balanced which takes a few weeks or months.
For my next feat of derring-do, I will conquer the known world.
Yep, the surgery came and went, annoying while it lasted. Waiting is the worst part when television is boring and you can't concentrate to read. All I could do was stare at my toes and contemplate the terrible pedicure I had. It was supposed to be at 3:30 Monday but I finally got into the OR about 5:30, out by 8 or so, and left the hospital at 3 Tuesday afternoon pain free. Still a little swelling in the throat and some hoarseness but nothing serious. Haven't tried to sing yet, although while in the hospital I had a dream about singing – remembered the alto line of The Lord is My Shepherd, but not the right sequence of verses.
Having been from my primary to a specialist to a surgeon in this little adventure, I have to say I'm very impressed with the quality of medical care I've found here. If I still lived in Sevier Valley, I would probably still not yet be diagnosed. My primary saw the bulge on my neck the first time I consulted with her. She sent me for tests, palpated, and recommended an endocrinologist. It took me two months to get in to see the specialist, but she did an ultrasound and needle biopsy to diagnose toxic multinodular goiter. Nodules sometimes develop in the thyroid and start sending out mixed signals. Mine were huge. So the endo sent me to a surgeon, and less than three weeks later I was in surgery. Today I go for a post-op checkup and expect to get onto thyroid hormone treatment soon. Then we do the dance of getting it balanced which takes a few weeks or months.
For my next feat of derring-do, I will conquer the known world.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
A Cut-Throat Business
Eighteen months ago I had two total knee replacement surgeries, and now, much too soon, I am facing another surgery, on June 7. A thyroidectomy has become necessary since the diagnosis of toxic multinodular goiter. My thyroid is toxic, apparently, because nodules of varying sizes (the largest being 15.8mm) have developed there, and they're each doing their own thing which is very confusing to the rest of the gland, so it just says "What's the use?" and stops trying. I am told, however, that it's a minor blip on the radar screen. This is now considered same-day surgery, so I won't be in the hospital very long, and I'll have a sore throat for a few days, but within a couple of weeks I should be back up to speed. That's good; I've got stuff to do and miles to go before I sleep. A needle biopsy revealed no malignancy, but that's to be expected in 95% of these cases. I kind of like singing in the church choir, and I hope I can still carry a tune and sing alto when this is over. If I've become basso profundo, however – looking on the bright side – I can sit next to Roger.
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