Check It Out!

The manuscript it only partly in view because it is only partly done. Oh, the photo is my kids. My favorite from my daughter's wedding. 

Visit My Website: www.lisaholdren.com

You can follow my progress on this novel writing process. 

There is a short story on there as well. Yes, it is a repeat from here, but maybe you missed it first time around!

Let me a comment, and let me know what you think. Or you can email me from the contact page on the website. 

And that's the truth. To some extent.

My New Best Friend is the United States Postal Service

I've been submitting my short stories for publication instead of putting them on here. I will post again on here, I think I have a plan, now to get it going. For now it is about getting at least one piece published. 

Meantime, check out my website: www.lisaholdren.com

There is a blog on there also. It follows my progress writing, revising and avoiding the work of my novel. I find a fun picture to go with each of those posts as well. If you're writing a long form work, you might find it curious, or maybe even interesting to see how I manage the process.

Here's the short version: Donna Mazzarino's husband died in a car accident. She thinks she drove him to it. Now she has to figure out what to do, and her children give her 3 very good reasons to get busy. She actually has to go to the morgue. Have you ever been there. I researched it...not what I'd expected from television shows, at least here in Los Angeles.

And that's the true. To some extent.

Why Haven't I Posted?

Time seems to have stood still except for this manuscript I'm writing. It is going slowly. I'm adding music to it now, so it won't be much longer, I hope, but the work is meticulous.

Meantime, I'm make a huge effort to never miss a yoga class. It keeps me focused and centered so I can work more effectively with fewer doubts. I really want to forget about the outcome and just enjoy the process.

I hear Judith Lassiter's new book, re: yoga and life is terrific. Lots of common sense and acceptance. I wish I had time to read it. 

So, I'll be back, now sure what with, but something good! Oh how I envy those authors who can knock out a story in half an hour. 

I bake a lot when I'm writing intensively, so lots of sweet breads and puddings. Great mother's day, too.   We're refinancing the house, my daughter is visiting, and my mother has been sick. My brother, just this weekend, decided it was time to get 'stuff' out of her house so after she went to sleep, he picked up whatever looked like junk to him and piled it into his rental car and dumped it into any dumpster around town that he could find. And, he is into forward thinking recycling, reuse and repair! Hah! 

Yellow Roses

Christine wore a black silk flared skirt, red patent leather flats with squared-off toes, and a white cotton sweater set last night as she and her husband of 25 years strolled Montana Avenue in Santa Monica after dinner. He always wears khaki's, a soft cotton dress shirt and loafers.

They've taken this walk, late in the evening, about 9 PM, many times. Usually it is in the heat of summer since the cool breeze near the ocean is such a relief from the daytime heat, especially in August or September. Christine thought of her mother as she and her husband held hands window-shopping, a Hawaiian shirt for him--an embroidered floral kimono for her. A white elephant of a marble table stopped them both in their tracks.

The stores were all closed, of course. The street quiet except for a couple of restaurants and one bar. The ocean is less than a mile away but unless she's at the end of the avenue Christine forgets it is even there.

Her mother always loved the ocean. They had spent summers at Virginia Beach, just the two of them, getting sunburned while building sand castles and playing in the waves. They stayed at The Blue Dolphin right on the water's edge. All Christine had to do was pull on her swimsuit and run into the water. Cheese sandwiches for lunch, with lemonade.

Her father never went along. He worked, in a suit and tie, and wing tips, looking very handsome in  his grey suit with the blue shirt, blue pocket handkerchief, and the tie with a tiny orange stripe. They would send him postcards, every day, a picture of their motel, or of the dolphin that hung in space above the roofline, or just a card that said "Virginia Beach".

Monday morning, Christine's mother is scheduled for  a Bronchoscopy at a medical center 2,000 miles away. "It's nothing," her mother had said. "I cough a lot so the doctor wants to take a look." She paused, waiting for Christine to get upset, which she did not. "It may sound bad but it's really nothing ugly, just unusual."

"Would you like me to come be with you?" Christine had asked her. "We'll work crossword puzzles while you recover."

"Don't be silly," she said. "The x-ray showed something that looked like a grain of sand."

"Have them send the x-ray," Christine said. "I won't interfere, it's just that I am a doctor as well as your daughter."

"You're just like your father," her mother said. "He always had to know everything that was going on. Look where all that got him, pushing up daisies."

"We have the most beautiful yellow roses this year," Christine replied. "We've had yellow ones before but they've never had a scent. I cut them with long stems and arranged them in a silver vase. They're opening very slowly, petal by petal, it's stunning."

"I wish I could see them," her mother said. "Maybe next year."

"I'll send you pictures," Christine said. "Who is caring for you after the procedure?"

"I'll be fine. It's really nothing. I don't need anyone fussing over me."

"I love you," Christine had said.

"I know," her mother said. "I have things to do. You probably do too."

"I'll call you...mom, are you there?"

No reply. The line was dead.

And that's the truth. To some extent. 

Hopeless or Helpless: Poverty and Hunger

She sits under the stairs, against the building, scrunched as far away back from the sidewalk as she can get. Dark brown hair that could be pretty, green eyes that could sparkle, probably an English complexion underneath that sad, dry face. Twenty-five, 18, who knows. She looks 50. The filthy clothes are a dead give away she's been like this for awhile.

"What would you like?" Christine asked her. "A burger with everything from In n Out? Fries and a shake?" 

"That's a stupid question," Christine's friend said in her ear. "Just get her some food, anything."

"I need money," the girl grunted. "You've got some." She stared at the sidewalk, clasped her hands so tightly together that dirty nails must have been piercing her palms. "Leave me alone," she said. Squatting further back into the corner of the stairs and wall, it became evident she wore no panties.  

"OMG," Christine's friend said. "We'll be late for yoga class. Let's go." She grabbed Christine by the arm and hauled her up the stairs. "Don't look down, we'll bring food later," she said.

"There's time before class starts," Christine said. 

In n Out wasn't open, but in the same mall a coffee shop was. Christine picked out an apple fritter, container of whole milk, banana, and huge blueberry muffin.  Packed in a clean, white paper bag, the food fit perfectly in Christine's Coach tote bag along with her jeans, tee shirt and sandals for later in the day.

The girl had moved around the corner from the stairs and faced the back of the parking lot when Christine arrived. "Eat this. You'll feel better," Christine said, pulling the bag from her tote and holding it out to her. "Please, take it. I eat a banana every day."

"NO," the girl replied. Her teeth chattered, her body began to shake, her eyes sunk deep into their sockets, and she slumped sideways. 

Christine sat the white bag beside the girl. Then she wrote on the side of the white bag: "If you will go upstairs to the yoga studio, the owner will give you a coupon for the In n Out burger."

Late for class, Christine tossed her mat in the only available space, tightly scrunched beside the wall. It was claustrophobic, but as the meditation came to an end, she thought of the girl. 

And hour and a half later when class was over, Christine skipped down the same stairs with her friend. They looked all around the building but the girl and the white paper bag were gone. Christine shoved the Coach tote bag in the trunk with her yoga mat. 'I'm going home," she said to her friend. "What do you do for someone like that except give them some food?" 

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Sandals

Christine had trouble getting out of bed this morning. Finally, in order to get to her appointment on time, she threw on the same jeans she had worn yesterday and the day before, splashed her face (with cold water, no time to wait for it to warm up), mushed her hair around, and got there in the nick of time. 

Usually the waiting room is empty, but today, a young woman was down on her hands and knees scrubbing a spot on the wool rug. "I spilled my water, 36 ounces," she said.

"Water won't hurt the carpet," Christine responded. "If you blot it instead of rubbing, it will lift up the water." Everyone knows that, she thought to herself. "That's quite a heap of paper towels you've used. Where did you get so many?" she asked.

The woman couldn't have been over 30, she was slender with long-modelesque bones, flawless skin tanned to a golden brown, deep brown eyes, and with the braided sun-bleached hair - well, she was downright gorgeous. Her black and white tank top was really sexy and cool. Her black yoga pants showed off her curves. Frankly, she had a butt that would look perfect in any jeans.

"I'm so depressed and my bones ache, but I have to clean this," she said.

Now, Christine felt sorry for the woman. "Look, it's only water. The maintenance people can take it from here. Hey, you don't want some janitor to lose his job because he didn't have anything to do today."

The woman looked up. "Oh, it's okay." She didn't mean the water spill. The stack of used paper towels had to be over 2 feet high and a foot across. She stood up. "My vision is blurred. How does it look to you?" she asked.

The doctor opened the door at that point and looked at Christine, ready to speak, then he saw the young woman. He thinks she's hot, Christine thought. He gestured at Christine to come in.

"I think the two of us should have an appointment together," Christine said. "She has blurred vision like I do, and since she's here too, I don't mind." Now this was a stupid thing to say, but Christine meant well. 

"I love your sandals," the young woman said. "The zebra stripes remind me of my last safari. Horses in black and white. You have lovely golden toes, too."

"Come in, Christine," the doctor said. Once inside the door, he whispered. "She's homeless, has been living in the building, using the bathroom and stealing food from open offices."

Christine whispered back. "You've told me about her before! She's the one you got out of jail!"

"The lady's room key is in here now, if you want to use it," he said, pointing to it on the wall. 

Christine starred at the door. "She's gorgeous. How does a homeless person look like that?"

"I don't know," he said. "I've wondered the same thing."

"I guess living in Los Angeles, anything is possible," Christine said.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

These Boots Are Made for Dancing

Nancy got her hair cut and straightened in Encino, bought a week's worth of a professional wardrobe from Ann Taylor in Pasadena, and one pair of red on red Mochino heels at Nordstroms in West L.A. Then she and her husband filled up about half of a moving van with furniture, packed their car with small stuff and moved to Nashville, TN. He was 5 days away from starting his medical residency, excited and nervous, happy as a kitten with a new toy. She was despondent leaving her family and friends behind, nothing to anticipate except an empty apartment and free time.

He bought cowboy boots. "You can't were those things when I'm not around," she said. "They are really ugly. I told you not to buy them."

About one weekend a month, she went to NYC to visit her best friend or came back to Los Angeles to visit her family. "You're doing your part for the economy," he said once when he kissed her goodbye at the airport. "Have you thought about getting a job?"

"Yes!" she said and bit his lip. "I'll get a job as soooooon as I get my Masters Degree finalized."

Her friend in NYC asked her the same question as did her family. They all had helpful suggestions which created even more anxiety. Finally, she found an hourly job at Vanderbilt University that someone without even a BFA could do. "I have my Masters," she said. "I have done cancer research for 4 years. This is humiliating."

Meantime, her husband spent his days/nights at the hospital, getting to know the other residents and nurses and relishing the experience he was gaining every day. He wore clogs and scrubs.

"Let's go out tonight, babe," he said after about 2 weeks of 30 hour calls twice a week. "Time for you to meet my new friends."

"I don't have anything to wear," she said. "Do they even have wives or girlfriends?"

"Who cares. Babe, you're gorgeous in your panties and bra. You'll knock 'em out in anything you put on." He swept her off her feet and threw her over his shoulder carrying her like a sack of flour to the closet, he picked out a black/brown Nanette LaPore sun dress and her little black cashmere sweater. Then he put out plain black pumps, and her pearl earrings from their wedding and plopped her on the bed. "I'm going to wear my cowboy boots and give 'em all a thrill, babe," he said, without hesitation and not open to opposition.

She started to object then noticed how much he looked like a young Paul Newman  and shut her mouth. She searched through her dresser drawer and found nylon stokings with a garter belt and the red on red 4 inch heels.

When the doorbell rang, they stood side by side in front of the closet mirror and admired each other. "You look hot," he said. "I especially like the heels and stockings." His hand happened to run up her thigh. "I hate the boots," she said, "but you're a hotty, so I won't look at them." She slipped her arm around his shoulder and they did a little fox trot.

They danced for hours at a club with his friends. She only hit it off with one of the wives, but that was okay. The red on red party shoes, and, his cowboy boots came off first when they got back home. "Please don't wear those cowboy boots again, " she said. He kissed her pulling her as close to him as humanly possible. "Wear those red shiny shoes anytime you want, " he said.

Note: she got a great review first time around at her job and was reclassified so that she made more money than he did and worked way less hours. Two cats and a sofa and desk unit from Pottery Barn provided a comfy home along with a new Comfort Sleep number bed.

They danced every weekend he had nights off. The cowboy boots show a few scuff marks around the edges. She hasn't noticed or at least hasn't said anything.

Her red on red heels have been to the shoe repair twice.

And that's the truth. To some extent.