A few weeks ago Pam did a blog post on being a slow reader and her love for long epic fantasies. I was really inspired to write a similar post, but as I wrote I started thinking of all the books I’d read that really made me fall in love with reading.

And I realized I never really did. Fall in love with reading that is—not at first.

For me it was a genuine desire to escape into a new world. The best genre for that (for me) was science fiction. At ten I became a huge fan of Star Trek and in fifth and sixth grade I became addicted to the tie-in books in that universe. In eight grade I read Dune. I also liked sad animal books. You know the ones: Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows. I raised guide dogs for the blind (a volunteer project that followed me into adulthood) and so I knew what it was like to lose a furry friend. With very few other kids my age with the same experience to talk to, I used the made-up worlds as my counselors.

Except for one problem. I didn’t read very well. I had pretty poor comprehension (as tests showed throughout my school career). When I’d read out loud, it was choppy and disconnected. If I read something out loud, I couldn’t really understand what I’d read. It was as if my brain turned off. I always read slowly. I’d read the same paragraphs over and over, and never really retain all the details in a story…but I kept at it. My love for wonder outweighed my struggle.

I wrote slowly, too. I misspelled simple words over and over. I had difficulty learning another language. To this day I have a list of words (some of them pretty common) that are hard for me to pronounce correctly. Grammar baffled me. I knew all the major rules, but when it came to applying them I found it very difficult. As it got harder and as teachers become more frustrated, I gave up reading for pleasure. Most of my time in high school and beyond was dedicated to reading the texts I was assigned. I’d have to read a book or a history chapter several times to comprehend the basic information. I got headaches from staring at writing for too long.

My vision was checked several times.

I didn’t need glasses.

Notes taken while people were talking would mostly come out as sloppy gibberish.

I had a few charms going for me. I took theatre, so reading the same thing over and over and performing it taught me some classics that I’ll know inside and out (probably forever)—most of it Shakespeare. I could draw really well. I was good at math. And I really loved learning. Learning everything.

I took remedial English in college. I went to the writing center for help writing papers. Often my in-class work and homework were vastly different in quality. I’ve been accused of cheating several times. My boyfriend (now husband) had been accused of writing papers for me. His response? “I barely have time to do my own work.”

I loved his response. He proof-read my papers for me and offered corrections only some times, but after a while I stopped asking, because people assumed my high grades were in some way connected to his effort in helping me and it simply wasn’t true.

English teachers were confused by me and also frustrated with me. “You obviously struggle with this,” they would say. They’d see my immense effort on a project and it must have looked like I’d maxed out on my IQ ability in that particular area. A lot would refuse to give up insisting that writing is a skill we use the rest of our lives, but many, towards the end would try to pat me on the back and assure me that it was not important. I wasn’t going to be a writer. It didn’t matter.

I was never encouraged to write my ideas down. I had never been told some day I’d be good at this. I was never compared to well known or loved authors. I was nobody’s pick at a future profession in storytelling.

I know I’m not the typical “how I became a writer” fairytale.

When I was young I’d read a good book and instantly think of my own story to tell. I had piles of piles of stapled together books where I’d draw pictures for the scenes. The place where the words would go would be blank. I’d buy notebooks and sketch story ideas. For my eighth grade project I wrote the first chapter to a middle grade novel. My high school project I wrote and illustrated a children’s book. For my graduate thesis I studied subjective grading methods in writing and using a rubric to help students improve. I was very obviously interested in writing, but putting words to paper terrified me. Reduced me to tears. Every paper was an opportunity to explain to a teacher that I was not the bright student they expected based on my interactions in class. That I preferred audiobooks (when I could find them) and cliff notes as my go-to study aids. I had professors write me nasty notes on my assignments alluding to my lack intellectual ability. At the same time I graduated in the top five percent of my college, with honors in my major (undergrad), distinction (graduate school), and probably more scholarships than most students are blessed with. I was surely a confusing puzzle.

In college I was diagnosed with dyslexia. I have a strong family history of dyslexia. Several members in my family have been diagnosed. I have a very specific kind and I’m lucky that I have coping strategies and workarounds that enabled me to get as far as I had. At the point of my diagnosis I felt that I’d used every tool at my disposal and I’d nearly accepted I had hit the peak of what I was capable of.

What saved me? First, finding out I was dyslexic felt like newfound freedom. Like I had been drowning under a frozen lake and broke through the ice. A lot of people hate diagnosis, hate labels. It’s a fifty-fifty shot. Sometimes it holds people back and other times it gives them the room to grow. For me it was the latter. Dyslexia is different for different people. There are different types, different shades on the spectrum. I also have some sensory integration issues (mostly with sound). Every person has different body chemistry and different history. So what worked for me, or my story might not to translate others with the same diagnosis.

Second, it was working with dyslexic students. I was working on my graduates degree in school psychology and I diagnosed and treated children with learning, behavioral, and emotional disabilities. Which was pretty damn convenient for my professors after they diagnosed me. I suddenly had a full caseload of kids with reading problems to come up with treatment plans for. The catch? I had to do the tasks and assignments right along with them. I read Overcoming Dyslexia by Sally Shaywitz and other really great books on the subject to help come up with unique treatment plans. One little girl had a great spirit; she reminded me of myself at that age. This kid never gave up and always stayed after school to ask her teacher for ways to make up work she did poorly on. She wasn’t afraid to work hard, so why would I be?

Third, I picked up reading again. At first it was with audiobooks, then I went to the store and browsed the fiction section. Weary of titles and back covers that all sounded the same, I saw one that was perfect. It had fantasy, Scottish history (I’m a sucker for men in kilts; one of my never-written stories as a child featured a Scottish girl traveling across country by herself searching for her parents), romance, and it was long and epic! It sat on my self for a year before I read it. I think I read a hundred romance books before I finally got up the guts to read Outlander (that epic, fantasy, Scottish history, romance, and all around amazing book that is now a show).

This is the hardest experience for me to write about, or even talk about. Especially among other writers—because they know me now. They know I’m “not that bad” and I’m “too hard on myself” or “I use dyslexia as an excuse to continue to be lazy with grammar.” I’m sure it really does look that way. Fifteen years ago my writing looked very different. There is a handful of people who know my real journey and only because they knew me then (and corrected my notes of grammar/spelling errors when we’d pass them between class—you know who you are). And so when my parents, siblings, family, long time close friends, or my husband says they see my improvement, or that they’re proud of me—it’s the only time I get choked up about it. Because they know.

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There are two kinds of travel. Only two. Travel with kids and travel without. I’m a fan of the latter. Traveling with kids is a lot like how I imagine a circus going wheels up and trekking to the next town. There’s snacks to consider, sleep schedules, encounters with wacko strangers—and then of course entertaining them during long boring car, plane, or train rides.

We had no idea what this sign meant. The bricks didn’t seem any different with the “anti-climb paint” on them. We even tested it. Yes. we tested it. Something we would have not done with kids in tow.

The last two weeks my husband and I remembered what it was like to travel sans kids. We took a plane to London (a ten hour flight) and eyed each other when we’d come across some obstacle we knew our kids wouldn’t have faired well with. First it was the plane food (they would not have liked anything served), then we knew they’d never have slept well in the tiny seats, and the amount of walking required to get to various destinations would have been a battle.

Once that feeling of comparing every moment to child-filled travel wore off we experienced a state of travel nirvana.

Travel nirvana is when you realize you can do anything you wish. I plotted parts of a novel, made corrections on stories, and edited a novel on the plane ride to London. I read a whole book on the plane ride back. Every breath I took became less tight, every step less heavy. We didn’t worry about getting lost, because we had plenty of time to get there.

And when I got there they had glitter toilets. If ever I felt the decadence of travel, it was sitting on this designer throne. I bet this looks exactly like the Queen’s.

Imagine sitting on one of these beauties.

Some people hate to travel, childless or not. There are lots of reasons to be annoyed.

Long lines? Yep. But I could daydream new plots and watch people for ideas.

Yelling, screaming kids? Sure, but they’re not my kids.

Rude pushy, shovey people? I worked hard to avoid them, but when I couldn’t they left my mind as quick as they appeared. It’s not like I’d have to deal with them ever again. So I consoled myself with breathtaking views of Eastern Wales, walled cities, and thousand-year old churches.

The inner arch was part of the original abby which was built sometime around 1092 AD.

I touched an arch that was a thousand years old. And don’t tell anyone, but I snuck a few feels of some old things in a museum too. It said “don’t touch” if my kids where watching I’d have probably behaved. Probably.

I rode a boat in a canal built by the Romans. I walked the path from the British Museum to the flat where I’d lived over a decade ago. It was a lot like a salmon swimming upstream to spawn—we remembered the way as if we’d never left. And sure, my flat was torn down and luxury apartments were being built in its place, but our favorite restaurants were still there. It tasted awesome.

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.

After the trip was over, we flew home. We thought of all the things our kids would have loved to see, which is how we knew it was the right amount of time to be gone when we started missing them. Next time we go on a trip it will be with them.

Even though we don’t always hit the travel nirvana state with children, when they are there they bring a special energy with them. A few times we longed for that energy.

Until we’d see a tantruming kid, then we’d get over that feeling quick.

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Where my hometown and pen name intersect.

I brought the kids up to my parent’s house this week. Driving down the driveway for the first time after the fire was different than I’d imagined. I’ve seen a ton of pictures and for some reason I thought that would prepare me, but I wasn’t prepared for how much bigger it felt as I drove up the driveway. At the same time the rooms were smaller.

In college I moved around several times. It’s always weird how when a room devoid of things looks so tiny, but magically fits a bed, a dresser (or desk), a side table. When all the things are in a room then it feels right, it feels confortable. So seeing the outline of where the rooms once were seemed off. Where the rooms always this small? How did we ever fit so many things in here? My parents, their four kids, and all our various friends—that house always felt like it could cram another dozen people in it.

I peeked in the window where we stay with the kids and the beds are a pile of ash. The closet where my mom had stored my wedding dress in hopes my daughter would want to wear it was also gone. I thought it would be no big deal, sad, but that I’d already prepared myself. I was over at my in-laws visiting and I asked my sister-in-law if she wanted to come. I’m glad she was there. It was nice to have someone to share the shock with.

As I write this, the air is filled with smoke from over twenty fires burning in the county from thunderstorms. I can’t help but worry for the people being evacuated and knowing some of them will feel the way my family feels right now.

(Pictures of my parent’s house curtsy of Tammy Strobel, www.rowdykittens.com)

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On Friday I ran out of shorts and it was going to be a hot day. I eyed my closet and although I’m not a dress girl, I thought it would amuse my daughter to wear one. I put on the dress and a magical thing happens when I dress up, I start to feel a little better, a little more positive.

I needed that, the positive feeling. The end of June had been a whirlwind of stressful events. It kicked off with my son having a Cyclic Vomiting Episode (he takes a preventative, but sometimes we have one break through). Then one of my fathers-in-law ended up in the hospital (in ICU) for longer than expected (two weeks) after a surgery. We forced invited my mother-in-law to stay with us, so she could be closer.

And of course the time period was not lacking for writing related disappointments; the highlight of which was an anthology I’d been invited into rejecting my story. It’s not a common practice to have this happen. Stories that editors ask a writer to write are generally used, if they’re not acceptable quality editors usually work with the writer or give them one last chance to get it right. I’d never respond to a rejection, but in this case I had to know. Being dyslexic I work really hard to make my stories engaging and free of errors. I don’t want my handicap to show or a story to be accepted because it was “as good as someone with a writing disability could manage” but because it was the best story period. The editor assured me it was not my story; in fact, it was among their favorites. It turned out three pro writers turned in stories too long. My story happened to be the right length to keep them on budget. I’m actually thankful for his honesty. He could have easily told me it was not what they were looking for, that it wasn’t hitting the theme, or was low quality—but he told me the truth. I’m grateful that he did. I’m just annoyed that I turned down other work to do this project, because it fit my skill set the best. Such is the life of writing as an award-winning writer who doesn’t have an established name. Yet.

So although I’m not a dress girl, I put on the dress, I wore the cloche 1920s style hat, and when my mother-in-law called and wanted to go out to lunch as a thank you for offering a place to stay, I felt as if my luck could be turning. All because of the dress.

My mother-in-law was snapping pictures faster than the paparazzi to commemorate the occasion of me in a dress.

It was just a few hours later as I sat writing that my best friend, Meghan, called me. I went out to the back porch and an uncharactistically light breeze was blowing, the sun was shining, casting a yellow glow off the tree leaves and grass. It was a perfect, beautiful day, the kind that leads to open doors ripe with possibility. And I listened carefully as my friend explained to me that she has breast cancer.

I nodded in all the right places and of course the enemy cancer is slated for doom. I imagined the cancer cells squealing like pigs as the chemo treatments took effect. And, like the warrior princess we are, we hope to bathe in the blood of this cancer enemy. I just was hoping she was calling me to tell me she’d sold a story since she writes now, too.

I promised to call our other friends; she was done talking about it for the day. I made a note to call and check-up on her parents and make sure they were doing okay. I know how hard it can be to so far away and try to quell the overwhelming feeling to not hop on the plane just to hug her.

I called my parents and although they were camping and out of cell range I left a message. Our parents are friends and see each other often (her dad works with my mom) so I wanted them to know.

The next morning my dad called to reassure me it would all be fine. My dad had cancer earlier this year, so hearing his reassurance helped. He was on his way to work, but would go back to camp in a few hours. A few hours later my sister called. I answered with a hesitant voice, because I assumed that the Siskiyou County Grape-Vine was at work.

It went like this:

“…Hey.” I added a fake smile, too.

“Tina?”

“Yep. How’s camp?” I asked because we still had to get out pleasantries, right?

“Tina.” She stopped, paused for a minute. This was not about Meghan. “Have you heard from mom or dad?”

“I talked to dad this morning. He was on his way to work….”

Sensing I was not up to speed, she cut me off. “The house burned down. Mom and dad’s house burned to the ground. I can’t get a hold of our brothers to tell them.”

She assured me that everyone was okay, and that our mom was on her way to the house to check out the damage. Apparently it was still burning, but had already been declared a ‘total loss.’

I left messages for my brothers trying to get a hold of them before they checked Facebook (Already people were posting about it, which goes to show how close our community back home is). I talked to my mom who was in good spirits about the whole thing.

“What can ya do? It is what it is.”

“I needed to downsize anyway.”

“It’s just stuff.”

“My first thought was of Rexida.”

Rexida. A nightmarish fabric doll with a plastic head, an anatomically correct plastic butt,  one lazy eye, and receding hair suspiciously the same color as mine. I carried her everywhere as a toddler. That horrible doll that my siblings and cousins tormented me with. Finally gone. We shared a therapeutic laugh over poor Rexida’s fiery demise.

My parent’s house.

Then I texted my friends, which consisted mostly of rampant cursing. Meghan called me within two seconds of hitting send.

I gave the initial explanation: My dad had decided to go back to the house to check on it, and when he turned down the driveway it was already engulfed in flames. They don’t know what caused it yet, most likely a freak accident with wiring, or any spark of any kind since it’s so hot and dry there.

And then we burst out laughing.

I mean, what are the chances of all this bad news happening at once? We declared that good Karma had to start flowing soon, just to balance it all out. Neither of us are the types to sit around and wait for bad news, or even wallow in it, so we decided that focusing on the good things that were happening right now—even though the bad seemed to be eclipsing it—was the only way to proceed forward. So we’re doing 100 Days of Good Karma—where for the next hundred days we’re focusing on the sliver lining in each day.

#100DaysOfGoodKarma

If anyone would like to join for all or part of it, you’re welcome to participate.

Last night I went to bed with a new purpose to keep positive. But sometime in the night I started thinking of all the things that were gone. It started out as small things like my mom’s record collection from the 60s and 70s—there were a few Beatles albums in there I think, I remember them anyway. There were photos going back for generations, a lot of mementos of both my great-grandmothers. We’d just transferred a bedroom set that my great-grandma Freda had left to me to my parent’s house for the kids to sleep on when we stayed there. Her last name is the name I’d chosen as a pen name for writing. Then there was my husband’s glasses, Our Elf on the Shelf we’d stored there because it’s where we go for Christmas. Then it was the harder things, like the wall just as you enter the living room where we all measured ourselves as kids. Our friends and cousins measured themselves there, my kids for as long as they could stand had a measurement for at least twice a year. My parents lost a lot more: work records, important documents, furniture, computers, their home. My dad collects family historical and local geographical items like, Native American relics that had been passed down in his family, my grandfather’s war medals, and World War II uniform. Things I cringe to write, because I know they might read this post and be reminded. Even though they’re strong, resilient, adaptable, and being positive about the whole event.

My cousin is an EMT and was volunteering for the community fire department and was on the call. They were able to throw a few things out the window before it wasn’t safe to do so anymore.

One of the items saved was a small photo of me on my wedding day and hand and foot impressions of my kids we’d given my parents as a Christmas gift.

I remember during a particularly bad fire in in the forests of Chico, the air was filled with ash. It swirled like snow on the sweltering smoky day. I would avoid looking too closely at the debris floating around me—in hopes that I could shield myself from the disaster of the loss of people I didn’t know. I saw one land on my car, smacked right in front of me, begging to not be ignored. It was the letter “a” fully visible. Someone’s home library burning at that very moment.

I faded in and out of strange mixed dreams all night, each time calming my racing heart by reassuring myself that my parents were okay, nobody, not even the family dog were inside the home while the fire raged. I’d not trade a single item for that. This is just stuff.

The mantra my mother kept repeating: it’s just things. Things are replaceable. Things are not needed.

And Pam put it into words best this morning for me: cancer is curable, houses can be rebuilt, and memories do not burn.

A childhood craft project. The project burned in the fire, but left the ghostly impression of a heart.