The Real Deal

It's been suggested to me on occasion (mostly by editors unfortunate enough to reside north of the Mason Dixon line) that my characters would be a bit more believable if I toned them down a little. Made them a tiny bit less eccentric, okay, maybe not quite so redneck. The truth is that the folks I write about are almost always inspired by real people I know. The words they speak are prompted by actual conversations I've overheard.

For example. Two women. Both of them my friends. One admiring the other's enormous red purse.

First woman. "Sure do like your purse."

Second woman. Owner of the purse. "Yeah. It's okay. But I wish it was bigger. You can't get nice big purses like you used to."

First woman. "Why would you need a purse bigger than that one? What else do you need that you can't carry in this one?

Purse woman. "Ah. Not much. Just my pistol is all. I used to have a purse with a nice pocket on the outside. Was the perfect place for it."

She wasn't kidding.

Then there was the curious conversation about the dog.

Says my patient, a college educated woman, diagnosed with pneumonia: "I've got to get out of here soon. I need to go home so I can see my dog."

Me, nurse who loves dogs, spoken with genuine empathy: "I bet you miss her. What kind of dog do you have?"

Woman: "She's just a mutt. But she can talk."

Me, remembering a dog on Letterman who howled along with her owner when she sang the happy birthday song: "Really. What can she say?"

Dog woman: "Lots of things. She calls me Mama. She can say cookie. Bone. Outside. I love you. She says lots of things. Why me and her talk all the time."

Me, sure she's pulling my leg but having fun playing along. "What does she call your husband?"

Her: "Nothing."

Me: "Not daddy?"

Her: "No."

Me: "Papa?"

Her: "No."

Me, not knowing when to leave well enough alone: "Your dog doesn't call you husband anything? Why not?"

Dog woman. Articulating each individual word. Shooting me the sympathetic, indulgent look you give to someone you suspect is a wee bit slow: "Honey, you have to understand. There's just some words dogs can't say."

Well of course.

I knew that.

My bad.

And they think I make this stuff up.

Close to the Bone

When I was twenty years old, I became a registered nurse. When I was thirty-nine, my first book was published. How amazed I was to get paid money for something I wrote. I would have done it for nothing just to see a cover with my name on it. I used the advance from that book to get three teeth filled and to buy a new bed and brand new sheets. During the next few years, I wrote several more books. Each of them came with a modest advance.

During those years, I continued to work part-time as a nurse. But oh, how I wanted to quit. I didn't want to be a nurse any more. I didn't want to go to a regular job. I wanted to write full time. I wanted to be able to say without explanation, "I'm a writer" when asked what it was I did.

Finally, after I'd been writing five years, my agent secured the contract I'd dreamed of. A deal that paid well enough I could quit my real job. For two years I stayed at home and wrote full time. It was wonderful. I spent my days in my sunny home office churning out chapters. But then that contract was fulfilled and the next really good one unexpectedly fell through. Faced with immediate financial need, I had to go back to work. Quickly.

I was not a happy camper.

It's been four years since I gave up that dream of writing full time. Four years of writing part- time and nursing part-time. Yesterday morning, I worked on my current book. Last night at the hospital, I held a woman's hand while she breathed her last breath. Her family, exhausted from days of keeping watch, had all gone home. In the quiet of her room, it was just her and me. I touched her face, stroked her white hair, and whispered goodbye when she finally left.

Nursing is life at its most basic. It's hunger. Thirst. Pain and fear. It's breath. Skin. Urine and poop. It's red Jello. Morphine. Helping people to the bathroom and changing sweaty sheets.

Forever I've wrestled with finding peace and balance about what it is I'm supposed to be doing with my life. Am I a nurse or a writer? It's only this year, finally, that I've come to realize how blessed I am that I get to do both.

Nursing is work that is close to the bone.

So is writing when it's done right.