Female Fortitude

Mothers do not stop to rest
When they're tired or depressed
But grit their teeth and soldier on
Until the dark becomes the dawn

New Beginnings

Good morning to a new day! Fiorella is sequestering herself in her so-called office and working on the book again, which is a little hard after being tied up with everything else in the world for so long. Right now, she's winnowing the best out of eight different versions so that she has one solid story--no line editing along the way.  And, at the same time, she's thinking--there was one other story she had this muliplicity problem with, and she had used the same technique on it, preplanning. It's the way to go, according to romance gurus, but now Fio isn't so sure it's for her. Her former style was to write several pages about the hero and heroine, then get the story started at a spot where they collided, then think "what would logically happen next?" Of course, she always had a vague idea of the plot, and she knew the story would end happily, but she never used calendar charts or any of the other tools many authors live by.

Anyway, to each his own, and Fio is thinking of going back to her beginnings. Yesterday, she read the first chapter of her first published book, which she could never get up the nerve to do before, and was pleasantly surprised at how good it was.  Onward, Fio! Onward and upward!

DBS?

Yes, Fiorella is frustrated.  She's developed essential tremor of the vocal chords, which makes it difficult for her to speak.  Yes, Fio, who acted in plays and taught colleges classes and presided over PTA meetings, sounds like crap, and it's getting worse.  Deep Brain Stimulation--is it for Fio?

Ups and Downs

Husband built a fire in the fireplace, but it fizzled.  Visiting Son, who was feeling good and getting a lot done, came down with bronchitis.  The handyman debacle is still hanging fire.  On the other hand, WHAT THE HEART WANTS sold six more books last week.  Maybe there's hope for the world after all.

Christmas Eve

   

How long and dark the night which swallows day
How frightened, lost, and lonely is my soul
How dim the star, how very far away
I cannot see or hope, I am not whole
No lamp without can light my dark within
No hand can rescue from the Stygian swell
I am the waiting world, awash in sin
I drown in darkness from the sea of hell
The universe is dark, eternal night
We live alone in darkness, and we die
And vain dream of hope, and pray for light
And cry to God and wait for God's reply
     How long, O God, must we await the dawn?
     How long, O God, until out hope is born?

Hope

Fio was hanging over the email yesterday because she knew two big developments could be coming her way.  Or one could fly and the other could flop.  Or they both could go down.  But when the end is yet unknown, one can still hope, which brings her to a sonnet she's run before, but seems appropriate.  Besides, Fiorella's revised it somewhat:
 

      Hope is a snake that curls within my breast,

     That strikes from time to time--a sharp-tongued dart,

     A blood-cold serpent, most unwelcome guest,

     A venomous viper aimed against my heart.

     Hope  is a Scaramouche, a handsome fool

    

     A honeyed braggart, slick, a worthless flirt,

     A quack deceiver, lord of ridicule,

     Who gulls my brain when I am not alert.

     Hope's a misshaped bloom, a crooked tree,

 

     Which grows unbidden in my dismal yard,

     The honey fruit of which will poison me

     If I fall prey to sweet, let down my guard.

          But do not slay it--let the villain be;

          For murder hope and murder all of me.

Given a choice . . .

This world is, yes, an awful place--
I'd rather it present
A sweeter, gentler, fairer face,
A kindlier intent

Yet I ignore the flaming sword
The hate, the pain  strife
As recklessly I leap aboard
The carousel of life

Promise

Somewhere in the world, a child is crying
Somewhere in the world, the sky is gray
Somewhere in the world, a dream is dying
Reduced to dust, and swept away

Somewhere in the world, a child is singing
Somewhere in the world, the sky is blue
Somewhere in the world, the bells are ringing
For life is hope, and God is true

Contentment

Fiorella went to bed last night feeling vaguely dissatisfied, and she woke up this morning to a rainy, dreary-looking day, but she feels good.  Apparently whatever was bothering her got solved by her pop-up toaster brain during the night because today she's hopeful, confident, and optimistic. 

Sonia may have piled the remains of her rawhide bones in her water dish and eaten the feather duster.  There may be a leak in the roof above the kitchen sink.  Fio may not have gotten together all her business expenses yet, but all is well.  And all will be well.

Hope Abounds

Pregnant women and birthdays are sacred to Fiorella. Come to think of it, they're both about the same thing--hope, which Fio values mightily. She's been through some pretty tough times, and there will probably be more to come, but it's that tiny glimmer in the distance that keeps her going.

Right now the flame is burning brightly. Older Son has had the knee replacement surgery he's needed for so long, and he has exciting career plans. Younger son has picked up a job he enjoys which has great potential. At the same time, he's launching an art line Fio thinks will take off big. Daughter, newly married, loves her new job. Husband's experimental lupus treatment seems to be working. And yours truly is revising Princess of Bosque Bend for an interested agent.

Nothing is guaranteed, but we all have hope.

Kamikaze

I'm flying on wings of wax
Right on up to the sun!
Look out, Icarus,
Here comes another one!

Has Fio shown you this little lyric before? She wrote it when she was in high school, and, since Fio hasn't changed much since then, it still holds true. Right now, she's as high as a kite because a literary agent wants to talk to her about edits to Princess of Bosque Bend.

Pray for Fiorella, that she doesn't crash and burn.

Turn the Page

Fio has had an overwhelming month--Friend Nicole's death, her own hip problem, Younger Son's birthday, preparing for Christmas, designing and mailing cards, Daughter's wedding, Older Son's pneumonia--so it was not surprising that losing her purse, a big Christmas gift, and another, smaller, one had her down and out last night. After all she still had half the house to decorate and it was just four days till Christmas.

Then, before bed, she had a talk with Son, who was totally depressed about his job situation--he has none. Fiorella couldn't sleep. Instead she prayed and prayed and prayed. Begged and prayed, cried and prayed. Finally she got up to go downstairs. On the way down, she lifted a piece of paper from her art desk to reveal three family history books she's been looking for since forever. All she'd had to do the whole time was lift one piece of paper to find them.

If that was all it took, maybe she COULD find the missing Christmas gifts, maybe she COULD find her purse, maybe she COULD get everything done before Christmas. Maybe Son COULD find a job.

If we'd just turn the page.

Further Portents

Not only did it rain on Saturday, but Fio received an email announcement of Nephew Barney's marriage, And the custom picture frame she's making seems to be working out. And there's the possibility of an eye operation to repair a scarred macula, restoring Fio's depth vision.

Surely that literary agent is right around the corner.

Wet Portent

It was like British rain when it began yesterday afternoon, genteel and ladylike. Then it strengthened to an all-American downpour, lasting for about an hour. For the first day in what--three months?--Fio didn't have to hand water. Her spirits soared. The deluge was unpredicted and unexpected, which opens Fio's imagination to other possibilities. Maybe she will land an agent and a publisher. Maybe her children will continue the family line. Maybe the drought will end.

What Fio was calling fiction yesterday is what she embraces as hope today.

Back to Semi-normal

Fiorella's world has taken a turn for the better. Younger Son has a job interview tomorrow. And her new laptop is beginning to shape up.

Whew. Maybe there's hope after all.

From the Flames

Apparently Fiorella the firestarter has a fair amount of babushka in her, those shawled old women who gathered firewood in Eastern European forests. Yes, Fio can't take a walk up to the mailbox without spotting promising branches which she breaks up and lugs back to the family woodpiles.

Fiorella doesn't like to see anything go to waste, you see, particularly in this economy, and those branches are just lying there all over the ground, especially after a windy day.

But today she came back with something even better, a feather that she found lying in the driveway. Husband said it was from a buzzard, but Fio knows better. It was from a phoenix.

Our country will rise again, and so will Fiorella.