Thirteen years ago, I began thinking I should write my memoirs. I had a vague notion I would pen something entertaining, a page-turner that might resonate with women widowed at a young age who resorted to online dating. I needed a creative outlet for my writing skills after my career as a reporter ended, rather abruptly, but not unexpectedly.
Of course, what I really wanted to write about was John. I learned that writing Again In a Heartbeat: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Dating Again and its sequel Morning at Wellington Square offered a way to heal, a way to look at what was cracked and broken in my life, as well as what brought joy and fulfillment. I turned to fiction with A Portrait of Love and Honor and its sequel And the Memory Returns. I kept returning to the same themes of love and loss, honor and dishonor, and a woman’s journey.
What more is there to say? Why keep writing? Now I write about traveling alone to Cape May, New Jersey, this “old school” town frozen in the beauty of a 19th-century poem. Ghosts of lovers and old people and of dogs who crossed that rainbow bridge stroll the sidewalks. Hydrangeas and roses bloom in profusion against porticos and verandas. I don’t want to make conversation, smile and be available to another person because I like to think about what I’m going to write and let it sink into my thoughts. I take in the sky and the clouds above me, the cool blue sea and waves swirling toward the beach with its fragrance of salt water.
For breakfast, I sit under an outdoor umbrella. I order pancakes drowned in raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries. The butter is delicious and so is the maple syrup and freshly squeezed orange juice. I’m the only person eating alone. There’s a man who sits by himself with his Shih Tzu on a leash, but soon a woman joins him. After breakfast, I stroll through the shops. A sign captures my attention. My Grandkids Have Paws…funny and too true.
The writing life is alive with possibility, discovery, and reflection on a new morning.
When I return from the beach, I’m greeted with a surprise—a nest in the magnolia tree outside my kitchen window. A cardinal shrieks, scaring off a squirrel. His bright red plumage streaks across an azure sky. I look up at the nest and see the female cardinal, wings aflutter. Life will go on. The birds don’t worry. Why should I? For today, I’ll keep writing. Everything is so alive.
You have bragging rights on two memoirs and two works of fiction. You wouldn’t have to write another word to establish yourself as an author, yet you feel the impulse to keep writing. As do I.
Your reflection feels alive: you make the “ghosts of lovers and old people and of dogs who crossed that rainbow bridge” but still able to stroll the sidewalks at Cape May seem possible.
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Yes. Thank you, Marian. And to quote Virginia Woolf, who always says it so well… “Every secret of a writer’s soul, every secret of her life, every quality of her mind is written large in her works.” Life goes on, so we write.
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Susan, This is a lovely little reflection of the writing life. You write because you are a writer. You feel most alive when writing and sharing your thoughts with readers. I sometimes feel that way too.
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Thank you, Marilyn, and I know you do. How lucky we are to be writers.
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