A Writer Reads (and takes a holiday with Kelven's Riddle)

I've been reading much lately, mostly absent from this computer. I have not read this much in a very long time. Usually, you can find me standing by the recycling can, reading a week-old newspaper, but currently I have been passionately involved with books. And, honestly, I'm happier doing that than being on the computer. I have no love affair with it at all. The longer I'm in its clutches, the more I can feel it sucking the heart and soul and humanity out of me - unless I'm writing.

(If you're curious, you can find out what I have been reading by visiting Seeking the Prince of Peace.)

This whole week I have been waiting for even more reading material - not entirely new material to me, but extremely special - and I have been blowing off putting a single word of my own on a screen.

Yesterday the special book, Kelven's Riddle Book 4: A Storm Upon The Plain, arrived. I was surprised at its heft when I lifted it out of the box. I had the great privilege of reading it in manuscript form, loose papers that I flipped over on the floor when I was done with them, occasionally marking them with my dribbled cocoa. I had no clue I had read so many words. And what words! They captivated me and broke my heart badly at the conclusion. Because of that, of course, the manuscript became my new favorite book, and now in all its final splendor it is here in my hands.

Somehow Dad, author Daniel T. Hylton, trusted me enough to grant me access to the story before many others read it. I can't convey the honor in that; I think you have to be a writer to understand. And then it is this astounding story - better even than A Walking Flame (Book 2 in the series), a wonderful read - and I couldn't believe my good fortune as a first reader, even when I spent the last four chapters crying like a fool late at night, knowing my kids would drag me out of bed at an ungodly hour the next morning.

For all the battles and tension and conspiracy and righteous revenge found in many of its chapters, Chapter 63 was my favorite. It is one of the tightest, most suspenseful chapters I have ever read. I, a simple girl who has always wished to write just one mystery book, admire so much what Dad did there.

But more than anything, this fourth book in the series made me realize anew that this epic fantasy tale is truly a love story. The final chapters in this book illuminate that in terrifying, powerful ways. Yes, I know it is full of violence, death, fear, foreboding, strange creatures and the absolutely necessary, terrible friction between good and evil, but that is all meaningless unless you understand that Aram and Ka'en love. That's what it's all for, that love, and the hope of peace to go with it.

I see them all lined up on my book shelf, all four completed books in this series together. The first three books I have read and read again, immersing myself in favorite chapters and endings repeatedly while I waited for the next installment. This fourth book, with its chapters that haunted me for days because of the magnitude of the loss contained within them, makes me prouder still of what Dad accomplished. Despite many interruptions and constant challenges and setbacks in the process, he created an incredible story with his slave/hero/king Aram and the horse Florm, the Lashers, warrior Thaniel, Ka'en and dear loyal Durlrang. Book 4 is his best yet, as it should be, and I can't wait for the last part of the tale in Book 5.

Dad, thank you with all my heart for allowing me to be one of the first to come along on this adventure. Send me number five as soon as you can!

Phoenix, that Land of Two Seasons

This past MLK day, after walking the dog, my kids were whining, begging and crying pathetically, because I wouldn't let them run in the sprinklers. My youngest girl had her bathing suit, sunscreen and bejeweled flip-flops on in anticipation. "It's so hot!" she complained.

And it's not even the end of January.

Can't they be reasonable and wait til spring? I asked myself. After all, February is just around the corner.

People in New York would be cursing me now if they knew I existed. What the heck is this lady talking about? they'd exclaim. The North Pole migrated south for the winter, and we're in it! Where does this crazy lady live? The equator?

I live in Phoenix, actually. You know, that place where men wander around at night in sandals, shorts and goose-down jackets. The place where women get their style on by wearing the classic tank top/scarf/capri/knee-high boot ensemble to pick-up the kids. The land where you start your day in frigid 50 degree temps wearing your gloves, snow goggles (just in case), and pea coat and by late morning you've stripped down to cut-offs, flip-flops, and tube top and put your hair back so your neck can breath. My closet is almost completely stocked with various bright-colored tank tops. They're the perfect wardrobe staple.

We have two seasons here: summer (May to November) and spring. Phoenix is one of the few places where spring falls right after Christmas. The rattlesnakes are already sunbathing, waiting for hikers.

Because we have just the two seasons, it is quite a shock when we encounter fall in our wider travels or, God forbid, wa-waa-winter.

Our family went to Idaho for Thanksgiving one year. Our relatives were wandering around in light windbreakers and regular, thin, non-fleece-lined clothing. "This is beautiful weather!" they kept saying, the ice on their smiling teeth giving them that extra special gleam. Meanwhile, I wore socks with my heels, a heavy, military-issue pea coat indoors, gloves, head scarf, and wool blanket.

My husband went to San Antonio for a week-long training late one fall. On the last night the resort staff built a bonfire in the middle of the circle of cabins, and invited everyone to come out for a ranch-style meal of homemade baked beans, hunks of medium-rare beef, and bread around the blazing fire pit while being entertained by harmless cruise-certified yodelers. My husband and his Phoenix co-workers staged a sit-in. They sat in their rooms and demanded room service, because, as he put it, "Who are they kidding?! It's like 65 degrees out there."

You may laugh, but when the temps hit 115 or higher, you'll never meet a braver group of people. But you'll never know. You'd be nuts to come here in summer.

Love means having to say you're sorry...alot

The other day Matthew approached me and said casually, "A couple of moms came up to me tonight and thanked me for coaching the soccer team."

Eyes narrowing over a sink of dirty dishes, I looked up and demanded, "What're you telling me that for?"

I really have to get a handle on this jealousy thing. It's been raging for a robust 12 years. Just the slightest hint of another woman can send my radar bleep-bleeping all over the bleeping place!

My husband and I have gotten in many freeze-outs over my overactive imagination. You know, where you freeze each other out by communicating only on a live-or-die basis, looking at each other only if you can look cock-eyed with triple-pronged daggers, and rubbing nothing but jabby elbows and feet that could use some serious lotion in bed. The only time we ever get in a freeze-out is when I breathe fire first. It portends an apology; I'm going to have to say I’m sorry for something silly - again - and it wounds my pride. I’m always the one who apologizes, and it’s so very predictable and tedious and conflict-resolving….

For instance, there was that time, quite early on, when I found out through pictures - hard evidence, my friends! - that my husband took me on a honeymoon hike to the same exact spot he had enjoyed with an old girlfriend. I stewed and fumed for a good two weeks over that one.

Or the time when I started the mother of all marital brawls outside the Alamo on a ghost tour, because I demanded to know if his gold cross necklace, a baptismal gift from before we met that I had stolen for my own adornment, came from another woman. And just why had she given it to him in the first place? Did they like each other? He deserted me outside the old fort. I tried to spy the 666 they claim is seared on the wall. Maybe I couldn't see it because the green-eyed monster was blocking my view.

Then the time I got mad at him for watching a show about the tango while I was gone on a Mom's night out, and the film was partly filmed in Brazil - Brazil! And don't we all know the out-of-control, mind-blowing and dangerous sexiness that goes on in Brazil every day?!?

And there was that ugly misunderstanding about the cleaning lady. I like to blame that on hormones but this jealousy thing really isn't based on science...

I always have to apologize, because I’m always the one who starts it – all of it, any of it and for any reason. I have a serious defect called Need to Talk about Every Little Thing That Gets Her Goat, Even Outlandish, Hugely Improbable Wild Imaginings. Love means never having to say you’re sorry – unless you’re the feisty, jealous one in the relationship.

Not so long ago we fought about a commercial with young, skinny women in bikinis rubbing their svelte bums as they dash from a car.

"What the heck is this?" I demanded.

My husband unmuted it and turned it up because he thought my question was one of curiosity. What I really meant was If you don't change this right now I'll know that you're secretly cavorting with supermodels - blondes no less! - at business luncheons.

I need to go to jealousy management. But, stink, that would probably mean I'd have to go through some nine-step program which would include learning to really apologize for all these petty arguments I start....even the ones I haven't apologized for yet. Or learning tiresome techniques to prevent them in the first place.

I'd have to practice my soulful eyes and trembling mouth and clasped hands and sincerely articulated, “I’m sorry,” instead of sticking out my tongue, adding a garbled, “Fine! Sorry then!”, or pulling picked-over skeletons of old disputes out in a nice power-point presentation to shore up my defense.

I wish it were give and take. I wish he would throw me a bone every now and then. I can’t remember – honest to goodness cannot recall – the last time he said sorry...but, then, I can't think of a time when he started a fight about the mailman coming around too often or our priest making small talk with me. A good friend suggested I train our Yorkie to say "Rar-ree" for him.

But love, I suppose, means never having to say you’re sorry to a hot-tempered, jealous woman who doesn’t know how to hold her tongue. And ain’t he the lucky one?

But maybe someday, spontaneously, he’ll look back at me with gut-wrenching sincerity and pronounce softly, “I’m sorry, too, sweetheart…” and then with slight perturbation, add, ”…for something...sometime....uh, I suppose.”

And with a self-satisfied smirk, I’ll gently reply, “Baby, love means never having to say you’re sorry….”

Unless you’re me.

Free Write (It's all I'm feelin.)

I'm in the post-Christmas slump, but I must jump back in here. A writer writes, and I don't want to cease to be a writer...completely.

For Christmas we went to Albuquerque. I didn't want to go, and I raised a big stink about it on the last day, because I just wanted to relax and not pack or clean on that Sunday. I should have kept my mouth shut. Oh, how I wish I could learn that lesson for good! - just to do what needs to be done and not to complain. If I could give up complaining this year, I might just approach sainthood. I might. All I accomplish is to drag others, especially my lovely man, down with me; that should never be a goal.

And that trip was good, very good. The kids had snowball fights with each other, with Papa, with Grandpa, with their uncle. Phoenix, Arizona kids do not ever have snowball fights unless they leave the sunny dust bowl of this valley. And we got to see relatives we have not seen in far too long, the family of Matthew's oldest brother, and that was a joy! To hold their baby was great. She did not cry in my arms, a great blessing.

So the fuss and effort was very worth it. I must not complain. One should always visit family if one can.

I had a great New Year's Eve with my man. I won't give the details except to say that my husband bought sparkling wine that wasn't the cheap stuff, and we watched Bachelor Mother with Ginger Rogers and David Niven. I do love my sparkling wine and old movies, but the best part was my husband.

And we threw a Three Kings Day (Jan. 5th) dessert party for the very first time this year. I have always, always wanted to do that. I baked for three days straight: cardamom bread, apricot sweet yeast bread, a Bouche de Noel, Cheddar-apple Vanoucka. I laid dry figs, dates, and apricots on the table and served pita bread and hummus. It was as middle east as I know how to be, but everyone appreciated the effort which made me glad I had done it. I even played carols on my guitar, accompanying a friend who is a far better singer than I am. And we played charades, and not one single person guessed the meaning of my gestures. I stunk, and I went first. I'm far better at Candy Land.

We invited our Mom's Group. This very precious group of people, we've been together since our kids were toddlers and babies. Now some of those "little ones" are in 5th, 6th grade. I love all these families, because they are our family; our kids are like cousins.

(We do not have relatives surrounding us here in Arizona. When we first moved here, like so many others who transplant themselves, we had no one for quite some time. When we did have Matthew's grandmother here, we did not visit her as often as we should have done in the years before she passed away. It is a very big regret of mine. Young people can be so foolish and near-sighted. Please, this year take the time to visit your elderly relatives. Do it out of love and respect.)

Because of all these wonderful, amazing folks in our Mom's Group, I don't ever want to leave here....unless they all leave first. But, of course, if we needed to go to some new city in some different state where we have no one and have never been before, I would do it - especially for my husband. But I would badly miss our friends here, just as I badly miss those who have moved away and left our group bereft of their conversation, company and beautiful natures.

Well, to conclude a rambling free write, I suppose I must share some resolution for this New Year. It's hard; everyone seems to have their cap on straighter than I do, and their tools more firmly in hand. Nevertheless, my resolutions are simple: to grow, to improve, to become a better mother and wife. Mostly, it can be summed up thus:

I will pray this year that God will help me to discern His will for me, and for our family, and beg that He will give me the courage to follow it.

P.S. I'm sorry this is unedited and sloppy, but you know that's what a free write is...right?