Back on Track?

Well, it’s been forever since I’ve posted on this site. Life keeps getting in the way of living and doing things we enjoy, instead of reacting to every little crisis that pops up.

Have been doing some work on book editing for a client, and find that it’s a most enjoyable way to keep the writing-brain well-oiled and functioning. Like so many, I find times when my intention is to only write original masterpieces, but my brain doesn’t want to go there. It’s not “blocked” by any means, because I don’t believe in writer’s block. It simply is out of practice.

Practice! Anyone out there who has studied a musical instrument knows how important daily practice is to keep the muscle memory crisp and quick. Or typists can relate perfectly to that as well. Often I find myself reading something and while I’m reading it, my brain shows my fingers flying on the keyboard. It’s something that comes naturally, as long as we provide the food it needs in the form of practice.

The same holds true for writing. A wonderful Mentor from my MFA program gave a lecture recently about the Pomodoro method of writing. Basic really, but truly a wonderful tool to use on a daily basis to keep the words flowing. Pomodoro, Italian for tomato, came about when a writer noticed a tomato-shaped kitchen timer and decided to use it as his watcher, if you will, giving the writer a specific time period to write each day (one Pomodoro). When that timer rang, one Pomodoro was completed. The object, of course, was to increase the number of Pomodoros completed each day.  I recommend it strongly to anyone having difficulty getting those magic words on paper. My recommendation is based on the fact that I started using the method and did really well for some time. Then, I misplaced the timer and assumed I’d do just as well without it. Didn’t happen. I’m back to Pomodoros now and think I’ll just glue that timer to my desk.

So, remember, keep that brain muscle in top shape by practicing every day. Use whatever works best for you. We writers all have our little idiosyncrasies and superstitious practices.  I’ll just close this missive with two words . . .

One Pomodoro!


3-7-18 Vampires & Avocadoes

Drusilla was upset about the Slayer and Spike wanted to make her happy so he told her “I’ll chop her into messes.” That made Drusilla happy. (Buffy the Vampire Slayer for the unknowing.)

Right now I’m eating a taco salad that looks like the contents were run through a food processor—a mess of colors all smooshed into one giant tortilla “bowl” mess. I’d take a photograph, but then I’d have to stop eating.

It. Tastes. Incredible.

Messes can actually be beautiful.

You’ve been writing for about four hours and your fingers haven’t stopped—you’re actually afraid to stop because the momentum is mind-blowing. But you have to pick up the kids, or make dinner, or keep that appointment with your shrink who is trying to get you through “writer’s block,” so you stop. And you read. And it’s a mess. You decide to delete it—FOUR HOURS of work—deleted! A few thousand words gone.

But, if you’re like me, you’ll save that manuscript for another day because deep down you know that somewhere hidden in that “mess” is a golden word or phrase or sentence that will scream MAGIC! Kind of like the chunks of avocado I found at the bottom of my taco salad mess. If you can’t see it right away, give it to someone you trust and odds are they’ll find that avocado!

As I said before–Messes can actually be beautiful.

It’s Their Fault . . .



The above quote by Margaret Atwood especially rings true given a book that I edited for our own MFA marvel, Jason Freeman. In that book (Awkwardly Awesome), Jason embraces his “imperfect best.” He stresses the importance of recognizing our imperfect efforts to achieve perfection, while also recognizing that the most important thing we can hope to achieve is OUR personal best, which might not be what others see as perfection. I’ve paraphrased, obviously, but working on that book has brought up many questions and a few answers concerning my own strivings to “get it right”, whatever “it” is.

We all have demons. I’ve sought to meet those demons through my ancestors. Family history/memoir is my writing niche of choice for many reasons. My childhood neighborhood consisted of a richness of characters, smells, and activities that I had to preserve because my adult neighborhoods were so empty. As I grew, my awareness of personal traits that needed tending to came to light, so I began to search out the sources of these traits–were they learned or inherent? Again I turned to my ancestors and lo and behold none of them were perfect, though many of them demanded perfection from me. An interesting circle we all ramble through, isn’t it?

Remember Crazy Uncle Charlie who had no idea who you were, but always slipped you a dollar; sweet and shy Auntie Sue afraid of hugging, and of her own shadow; self-absorbed cousin Debra who believed the road to heaven was paved with Maybeline and hair spray;  little brother Anthony the addict who started rebelling at age 3; Mom and Dad who had your future laid out for you complete with architectural drawings; and, of course, “why can’t you be like” neighbor-boy Brilliant Billy who became a lawyer, a priest, a judge and then moved on to medical school inventing a cure for imperfection AND cancer? Well, there’s a little bit of each of them in us (maybe not Brilliant Billy) simply because we’re related. Those relationships are the ones, in my opinion, that count the most. They helped make us who we are–good or bad. And they can help us change who we are by recognizing the source of many of our personal traits that might need tending to.

Family history–think about it. You might find some surprising stories that make good fiction, or intriguing relatives who make you proud. Give it a chance.

2-19-18 Numbness

An odd day today–a day I’ve been dreading for the past week or more. Had to have a tooth extracted, and the darn thing broke completely above the gum line. I had visions of doc digging into the gum, me writhing in pain, yada yada. Instead, the problem was numbing me. What should have been done in about three injections and half an hour took eight injections and almost an hour. The actual extraction took about 90 seconds!

So naturally I got to thinking about the numbing process and why I’m so difficult to numb. Being who I am, I turned it into a grand psychological mystery–why can’t Tone be numbed? The logical answer might be because I’m diabetic, on too much medication, or any other number of acceptable medical reasons.

Truth be told, the numbing is all about one thing—feeling. Stopping me from feeling.

If I had to identify the one character trait of mine that is the most negative and intense, it’s that I feel too much. That gets me into trouble constantly. Several people know me for my anger, and understandably so. They’ve seen me at my worst, but few have asked why. So I’m doing that for myself.  I believe it’s important to know the “why” of our emotions, whether they’re just the simple reactions we have to people or events, or deep feelings of love or hate. My shrink and I talk a lot about the origin of these extreme emotions in me. It’s one reason I spend so much time thinking or writing about family—my ancestors. Who did I come from? What of theirs do I possess? How do I use it? Am I using it properly?

Those emotions are also the basis for every character I’ve created in my stories. Things I want to be come alive in the sexy lady who controls her world, the criminal guy who says “screw the rules,” the performer whose voice makes her audience sigh, the magical old woman who brings rainbow colors into a child’s life, the warm and funny woman who triggers kindness, the bitch who seeks revenge, and the superhero who fights injustice.

One thing I know for sure, no amount of Lidocaine can numb this woman’s feelings, as evidenced earlier in that dental chair. Those feelings are imbedded into the ‘who’ of me, and without them my need for words wouldn’t exist. I know people who are numb to their feelings, unable to see joy or hope or kindness or love or evil in themselves or in others. How dreary their lives must be.

Thankfully, I have the passion to love or to hate and express it through my Words. Those Words spoken or written may sometimes offend, but they are my beliefs based on my experiences and the ‘who’ of me. Writing has saved me so many times from my own disappointments in myself by allowing me to express ALL the good and ALL the bad that I possess. We all need outlets. I can’t deck all the people I’d like to deck, or hug everyone who means something special to me. So I’ll continue to expound, hopefully learn to control, but always try to put those feelings forward honestly. Right or wrong, no one can numb my feelings.


Searching for the Words


Have no idea what will come under this heading. Today just wanted to throw out something written a while ago about one aspect of my writing journey. It’s part of many slices that fit into memoir, family history, bio–it isn’t perfect–it just is.

I’m Flo, The Third One

I’m Flo—Flora Nelson Reilly—born in 1996 in a sandwich shop slash used bookstore in Adrian, Michigan, next door to the opera house. I happened to be there because my college daughter was auditioning with the Adrian Opera Company and someone had to drive.

I’m one of four who shares this body, and each of our births was unique in its own way. The first-born, Antoinette, slid through the Canal on August 14, 1941, the day Roosevelt and Churchill issued the Atlantic Charter, although that’s not what made her birth unique. She was the only survivor of three pregnancies, born surrounded by love, fear and rage—the love of a Mother who knew she might die from that pregnancy, and the fear and rage of a Father who could lose his wife because of the child they had conceived.

The second member of the quartet, Tonie, came into being around 1954-55. Bill Haley and the Comets, The Platters, The Four Aces, Four Lads, “Cherry Pink,” and of course–Elvis! Tumultuous years, those—trying to figure out the who and why of me in connection with others my age. Too complicated to explain now—besides, am still not sure I have an answer to the who and why of that era yet.

The youngest of the four, Spicywings, rallied in 2000. Hers was a birth based on pure lust, aging hormones and desperation. Besot with a multitude of health issues, surrounded by a hysterically chaotic family situation, convinced of her own imminent death, Antoinette surrendered her spirit to the Fates; but Spicy burst through anyway, all because of a TV episode of “Buffy” entitled “Lover’s Walk.” She came out with a vengeance for the love of a blond vampire.

But Antoinette, Tonie and Spicy don’t matter here—they can write their own stories later. This one is mine! I’ve chosen to tell it now because there are too many people out there that the damn “normals” have convinced that having more than one person reside in a body is evidence of insanity; that it’s a “neurosis resulting in one personality splitting off into dissociative parts, fighting for control.” That’s bullshit. What’s insane is NOT enabling those personalities to split, because once they are given the opportunity and grab it, they begin the melding process. We’ve been taught to fear the multiples, mock them, treat them as we would a disease. They’re not diseased, just disconnected. They’re not fighting for control. They’re simply seeking cohesiveness. Now I’m not saying ignore their existence–just don’t treat them like the enemy. They contain parts of you that are essential to your becoming whole.


1996, Adrian Michigan was your typical, sleepy little Midwestern town of 22,000 with a Main Street, Rexall Pharmacy, quaint owner-operated shops and the ever-present Ace Hardware store. It boasted one jewel–the Croswell Opera House built in 1866 and hostess to names like Maude Adams, Charles Frohman, Thomas W. Keane, Victor Herbert, James Whitcomb Riley, John Phillip Sousa and Edwin Booth. For a while the Croswell became a movie theater, fighting to stay alive during the Depression years, its various renovations reflecting the significant changes in American entertainment preferences and architectural taste and functions.

Our first night in Adrian we attended a Master Class on operatic acting. The instructor? The Director-Emeritus for the Croswell—a man of many faces—writer, actor, musician, comedian and center square on the Hollywood Squares—Charles Nelson Reilly. He enveloped his students, the ever-present cap firmly implanted on that brilliant head to protect yet another crop of hair plugs. He led the contestants thru arias, showing them that the emotion of the music, while beyond perfection, was still not enough—they had to experience and interpret each note through body language, movement, facial expression. They were more than singing heads who could hit a high-C.

The actual auditions took place the next day and, since they were closed auditions, I had to find some place to be an unobtrusive Mom. Next door to the Croswell I located an inviting used-book/library/sandwich shop. The sandwich of the day was home-cooked honey and ginger-ale baked ham on freshly baked hot dark rye. I ordered lunch and turned when Mr. Reilly and two associates entered and chose a table in the corner. I’d never met a “celebrity” before face-to-face, unless you counted Speaker of the House McCormack, Mayor Richard Daley the First, the White Sox and Cubs, Roy Leonard (ok, so now I’m showing off just a little). I felt a bit panicked, but was compelled to thank Mr. Reilly for the Master Class. He was incredibly gracious, rose, took my hand, asked why I was at the class, and then thanked me for my comments.

I chose an out of sight corner, and began writing in my journal. When Mr. Reilly’s party left, he approached my table asking what I was doing. I responded that I was pretending to be a writer and he gave that wonderful airy laugh of his. Then he slapped his hand down on the table and said, “I know who you remind me of—my agent, Flo! She’s a wonderful woman, but a really bad agent. She only has two clients, me and some guy named Sondheim.” Then he shook my hand and left with a flair that only Charles Nelson Reilly could pull off.

Flo! Flo Sondheim??? Flora! I played with it a bit. Flora–who? Simple. Flora Nelson Reilly For the remainder of the weekend when he saw me either at a performance, waving across a buffet table, or just wandering about he’d shout out “Hey, Flo, how you doing?”

The final performance by the contestants was held that Sunday afternoon, followed by a lovely reception. My daughter didn’t win, but a vote was held of the audience of 900, and she was voted their favorite performer. When she came into the reception area, dressed in her jeans and sneakers, I approached her from one side, unaware that Mr. Reilly was approaching from the other. He took her hand and congratulated her profusely, then spotted me.

“Flo? Is she yours? Oh, my, you are both so fortunate.”

He had NO idea!


I’ve written a lot as Flora Nelson Reilly since that memorable weekend in Adrian, Michigan and meeting THE Charles Nelson Reilly. On his passing I cried, a lot. We only had about 15 total minutes of contact, but they affected me profoundly. I met a man I knew only as a comedian and a “center square” and learned he possessed so many levels of expertise they couldn’t be numbered. Perhaps that’s what that weekend was about—teaching me that I was more than just “Antoinette,” that I went much deeper and that was a good thing.

Flo still exists, but on a much different level. I’m forever grateful that she is my third person. As Flo she allowed me to express me (albeit under a pseudonym), and gave me the freedom to think outside my walls. No matter where I may end up in life, I’ll never lose Flo.

So, welcome those odd people who pour out of your mind at times with crazy stories or memories you didn’t know you carried with you. They don’t mean you’re going insane–and if you are, so what. To quote Henry Chinasky:  “Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”

Thanks Mr. Reilly!