Musical Monday, a Tad Bit Late!

But when it comes to music like this...who cares?

Ashkenazy is fast becoming my favorite Chopin interpreter, FWIW. But I'm also finding that when I hear Chopin's music lately...it makes me want to cry.

I think that began when I was playing the F minor Etude...and thought about that poor man, dying of consumption at only 39. And yeah, I know everybody died of consumption in those days, unless you had a constitution of steel and/or were extremely lucky...because there was no penicillin.

But still.

There are many musicians who died young, about whom the question can be asked, "What would they have achieved if they'd lived longer?"

Mozart.

Schubert.

And, of course, Chopin.

We can only hope they're in the heavenly realms writing all that stuff they never got to on earth...and we'll get to hear it.

Until then, enjoy this little piece of heaven here!

Thoughts?

Janny

For Those of You Tracking Musical Monday...

 I present this, from last week. 

At a particularly low emotional point I was in, a week ago Sunday evening, lo and behold, this music came over the radio...and I knew I needed to share it with you.

 I have a very vivid memory, indeed, of this piece...being conducted by the young man I was about to marry, at an outdoor concert at which several seniors were given the privilege of conducting the Bradley University Symphonic Band.  But the memory is indelible not only because Patrick did a fine job on it--but because this music would also be one of our wedding preludes...a little over a month later.

I wish I had a recording of that performance, given April 24, 1982. 

But Frederick Fennell's not a bad substitute. 😊

Enjoy!

Janny

41,049 words...and Counting

 ...it's times like these I wish there were such a thing as cloning.

Because that way, one of me could go to sleep and do respectable work tomorrow...and the other could stay up all night and write on THIS BOOK!!!!

No, I'm no excited about this at all.(!)

More to come...

Janny

A Different Kind of Musical Monday....

Not a lot of stuff gonna be written on the blog today, as I'm just back from a trip to Fort Wayne...to support a friend who's just lost her husband.

This song is one they played at his service. Maybe the finest thing Vince Gill ever did.

And, yes, you're allowed to cry.  This song made me cry BEFORE Patrick died; now that he's gone, and I listen to the words closely, it dawns on me all over again how very appropriate it is--for him, and for today.

Which is, of course...All Souls' Day.

Take a few moments and remember someone special...

Janny

31,432 words...and counting!

We pause here for a very brief update on MY BROTHER'S KEEPER, which is the book I'm presently writing...again...for something like the eighth time. Only this time, I'm trying to do it RIGHT. (LOL) And, since the gadget I was using to measure the word count graphically for some reason isn't working anymore...we have to do updates the old-fashioned way.  (!)

I've written at least one rabbit trail that I've corrected, taken out several scenes that deal with things I don't really want to reveal yet, and am moving this story along way too slowly, I suspect...so I'll have to do what I can to up the pace. But at only 31K words out of a proposed length around 85K, I suspect the progress I'm making is not going to be wasted, either. I'm spending a lot of time right now getting to know my hero and heroine better than I ever have before. Which means the story will eventually start to take on that "inevitable" feeling that good stories have: that (as my critique partner once said about FROM THE ASHES) "given these characters, what you've written is the only way the story could go."

That kind of wonderful "inevitability" takes time...and the occasional rabbit trail.

But when it happens...oh, my, the magic of it!

Meanwhile, we spend our time writing scenes...and then asking ourselves what comes next.

More to come (about 45K words' worth, to be exact),

Janny

Happy Musical Monday!

The first time I heard this version of this piece, I was behind the wheel of the car...and I was lucky I didn't have to pull over.  Because halfway through it, I was sobbing. (And cheering. And pounding the steering wheel in sheer exuberance.)

Yeah, it's fast.

Yeah, it gets faster.

And yeah, this is the way a bacchanale SHOULD sound.

The magnificent Berlin Philharmonic, at your service.

Enjoy!

Janny

Happy Musical Monday: the "desert island" song...

You know what I mean. It's the answer to the question, "If you were stranded on a desert island and you could only take one song with you...?"

This is mine. 

R.I.P., Dan.

We miss you.

Thoughts?

Janny

Happy Musical Monday!

For those of you who either don't hang out at Facebook to pick this up off my author page...or who can't get enough of Tchaikovsky, ever, anyway:

Serenade for Strings

Enjoy!

Janny

Sexism, Piano Players, and...Enough, Already

Question: when is "sexism" not really present in an observation?

Answer: when it's simply an honest opinion.  

A tangle of this nature happened to me on Instagram, when a video snippet was posted of a young female pianist supposedly playing on "Ocean" etude, next to the ocean...on a piano, outdoors, on the beach, as the waves swept over the sand. The young woman wore a gown that was pretty skimpy--think a deep neckline and very short skirt--bare feet, and long black hair that she felt compelled to swing around "expressively" while she pantomimed "playing" the music involved.

Now, so much was wrong with and/or irritating about this that it was hard to catalogue it all!

Most people took umbrage with having a piano outdoors next to the ocean, of course--since salt and water are both deadly to a piano, and don't have to take a great deal of time to be so, either.

Some people took umbrage with the young lady's skimpy clothing.

Some people took umbrage with the bombastic playing, such that it was--the snippet was only seconds long, and clearly had NOT been a result of actually recording said playing on the beach!

I put up a comment along the lines of "Bring the piano indoors, put more clothes on, and be aware that swinging your hair expressively is little or no indication as to how much talent you have."

Now, that's a snarky comment. I admit it. And it had been fueled by a sip or two of vino, which I was enjoying outdoors on my deck while scrolling through social media. 

But it wasn't the snarkiest, by any means. Trust me.

But, of course, I got called on the carpet for it.

Not for being mean about someone's playing....but because I'd dared to say, "put more clothes on."

And called on the carpet, not surprisingly, by a young woman.

Ranting at me--and anyone else who said that--for how sexist that remark was.

To which I answered, "It's not sexist...it's practical."

(And it was. Trying to actually play in the outfit this young woman wore would have been uncomfortable at the very least--since part of it was wet from ocean splashes--and could have been embarrassing, to boot.)

But, yanno, that wasn't the right answer.

Because then the comeback was about how the outfit was "more than most people would wear on the beach."

To which I just sat, for a moment, openmouthed.

Hello?

We weren't talking about someone spending a day at the beach.

We were talking about a woman supposedly playing a concert piece there.

For which she should have been dressed differently, and would have, had she actually been PLAYING there.

Which I tried to point out.

But, yanno, that wasn't the right answer, either.

In fact, my answer got called an uncomplimentary name, and I was promptly lectured about how we as women are supposed to support each other, not tear each other down. I wouldn't have told a MAN to go put more clothes on or not flip his hair around!

To which I said, "Um, yeah, actually, I would. Because empty showmanship is empty showmanship, no matter who does it."

And after that, I blocked the child from throwing any more tantrums my way.

Can I say right here and now, as a woman, how SICK I am of the whole notion that simply because a musician, writer, artist, performer, or such is a woman, I'm automatically supposed to never criticize her at all, in any way, for any thing? No matter how weak her performance might be, how it might inadvertently convey the wrong notion about women in the arts in general, or because it just plain does something I think is stupid?

In other words, I'm not supposed to judge a fellow female on the same level as I would a man?

For heaven's sake, WHY NOT?

Aren't we past the time of needing to be coddled snowflakes, ladies?

Aren't we able to stand on our own two feet and compete with the guys in the jungle?

Isn't that what "equality" is supposed to be all about?

So then WHY DO WE KEEP EXPECTING SPECIAL TREATMENT?

Especially FROM EACH OTHER?

I'm sorry to shout here...but I've had it with this nonsense.

Were women "oppressed" in days gone past? Of course, they were.

(Not nearly to the extent that most feminists believe, by the way. But, yeah...they were.)

Are women "oppressed" even today, in some cultures? Of course, they are. 

(Look to the Middle East, specifically Saudi Arabia and such countries, and the prohibitions women still accept will make your hair curl. Or can't I say that, because that's sexist, too?)

But the remedy for that isn't to put Pollyanna-smiles on and pretend everything we do is  just perfect because we're women, either. If I do something wrong, I do something wrong. Or incorrect. Or stupid.  And if a man would get called on it...then,  I'm going to expect to get called on it, too.

Or what are we saying about how "strong" we women really are?

I encountered this nonsense in RWA, years ago, and it made me grind my teeth even then.

But then, there was also the added layer of romances being "politically incorrect" at the time--in that they supposedly showed strong women, assertive women, women who enjoyed sex, whatever--and that was "threatening" to a male-dominated culture. So not only was the overt demand made that we support and cheer on ANYTHING these fellow writers did, because they were women...but because romance writing was "important" and "shaping the culture."

The bad part was? WE ALL KNEW BETTER.

We all knew that most of the "politically incorrect" blather was just that: blather.

We all knew there was a swackload of derivative, cookie-cutter, sex-is-the-plot-here books out there that had little to no cultural enrichment value whatsoever--being written by some of the biggest names in the business.

We all knew there was a lot of DRECK out there calling itself "romance."

We all knew that, by and large, a lot of the "ripping" that critics did of our books had little to do with "bodices" and a lot more to do with the fact that, sometimes, the books simply weren't very good. 

For most of us, it was okay that they weren't literature. They weren't "meaningful social commentary." They were beach books, or passing-around-your-friends books, or just a fun escape. The good ones were entertainment; the bad ones were sometimes really, REALLY embarrassing.

But we weren't allowed to SAY ANY OF THAT...or we weren't being "supportive."

We couldn't even say, "Well some of these aren't all that great," except OFF the record, where NO ONE would possibly overhear us and take offense...

...which was pretty much impossible to do, say, at a writers' conference...

...where, ironically enough, many of us were going to share honest feedback, war stories, and the state of how things actually were.

So, we were in the state of KNOWING better--and privately expressing such to each other--while being expected to publicly toe the party line.

And woe to you if you didn't.

Your entire writing career could hang in the balance, or so you were told.

It was hypocrisy then, and the downhill plunge of much of what calls itself romance fiction since then has been the clear, obvious, and logical result.

And we probably still aren't supposed to say it.

But the fact remains...that some of us are really, really good artists.

Some of us are average.

Some of us are awful.

And it's OK to say so.

To differentiate.

Yes, even if it's a woman who's putting dreck up online and expecting us to applaud it.

It's not "supportive" to lie and pretend that everything we all do is always and unabashedly WONDERFUL...

...simply because we don't have a Y chromosome.

THAT, ladies, is actual sexism in action.
Not the other way around.

And it's long past damn time we accepted the responsibility of being really...truly...EQUAL.

Bumps, bruises, criticism, scars, and all. Like the GUYS already have to. 

It'll only make us all better in the long run.

And isn't that what "support" is actually supposed to do?

Thoughts?

Janny

A Loving Message to the Master

N.B.:  I put this on my Facebook page, too...but just in case GG doesn't DO Facebook....here goes. :-)

A message for Glenn Gould, wherever you are in the hereafter:

Dear Mr. Gould...

...Sir...

...a consummate artist like yourself...

...is there a REASON you don't observe the very clearly written REPEAT sign in the first movement of the Pathetique Sonata?

...did you talk it over with Herr Beethoven beforehand?...

...or are you perhaps talking it over with him now...

...and giggling because stumbling piano players such as I can't figure out WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

Any illumination on this, kind sir, would be appreciated.

Yours,

Janny

Writing "Stupid"

What do you think of when you see the title above?

Do you think of being "freed" to write badly?

Do you think about writing "dreck" as a first draft and being fine with it?

Well, while all those things could be the meaning of the title...

...that's not what I mean with it this time around. 

What I'm referring to is the capacity to write people in your books who do stupid things.

Having them make, in fact, decisions that you don't even agree with.

And letting them completely screw up...because they're human.

For those of you sitting there scratching your heads and wondering, "What's the big deal about that?" I can tell you that, for some of us, being courageous enough to write people who are irrational, who blunder because they're scared or timid or acting under a mistaken impression...and who make really bad decisions as a result...is hard.

The old "unreliable narrator," as my critique partner is fond of calling it, is tough to write. And I know that because I have frequently lacked the courage and/or ability to do it before.

One of the criticisms I've gotten, over the years, is that some of my characters were "too perfect." Not so much because they were too pretty, or too successful, or too untroubled--but because they were so ding-danged rational.

Not that they'd never get mad or upset or crazed; they would. 

But they'd get over it really fast...and usually by talking themselves out of it.

Using calm, reasoned, oh-so-adult maturity, and sensibility, and never flying off the handle to the point where they'd said something truly awful that they couldn't take back.

Well, there was a good reason for that.

It was because I didn't want people to dislike my characters.

And then, lo and behold, along comes Debbie Macomber....

...who has written characters who are, at times, so completely frustrating to me that I'm yelling at them as I'm reading the page. 

"No!" I'm saying, as the hero and heroine are fighting over something and sounding like children. "No! Come on, you two! Grow up! You know better!"

...or characters who want something so desperately that they go completely over the edge after it, alienating everyone around them, and messing up their relationships and lives.

To which I'm muttering, "Oh, come on, girl. Open your eyes. You're just being ridiculous."

...but the woman sells like gazillions. And is loved by gazillions.

Why?

Because she writes real people.

Real people who are snotty at times.

Who are immature. Who are vindictive. Who are stubborn. Who give up on something way too soon, or who push so hard for something that they trample on everyone in their lives. Who let themselves be led down primrose paths, or who "chicken out" before they even get to the path in the first place. Who can be myopic, and oversensitive, and miss the obvious when it's standing right in front of them, painted in 10-foot-high red letters.

In other words, they act like we all do at times.

And somehow, they end up in a happy-ever-after ending anyway.

Because they do figure out that they're wrong...before they can't redeem themselves, or the situation, or the relationship, or...

But writing people who do that takes a couple of things.

Talent, of course, first.

But even more, I think, than talent...it takes guts.

And patience. 

Because if you put your character in a mess of her own making, it's going to take time for her to clean up that mess, make amends, apologize, patch things back up, and get back to True North.

Time that you as an author have to give her.

Have to walk her through.

And, the whole time, have faith that your character will still be "likable" in the end, even if he or she's been a complete ass for several (or several dozen) pages.

Even if he or she's been...stupid.

In my latest book, I'm about to do that with my heroine.

I'm about to write her doing something I know is a bad idea.

She's even going to be told it's a bad idea.

But she's gonna do it anyway.

It scares me half out of my skin to be venturing into writing someone about to do this...

...because there's a very, very thin line between real...

...and TSTL.

And I don't want to cross it.

So, cover me, Goose. I'm goin' in.

Thoughts?

Janny

Art Imitating Life, Imitating Art, Imitating Life...

Every once in a while, you have one of those moments.

I used to call them, "Someone's following me around with a clipboard again." 

They happen when something around you, media-wise, world-wise, or other-wise (heh heh), reflects something you've thought, or done, so exactly that you wonder if someone's on your figurative heels,  taking notes.

I had one of those some time ago, in a way that will get your attention.

It happened when I heard of the death of Keith Emerson, of Emerson, Lake & Palmer.

For those of you who don't know who this guy was, trust me...he used to be the one lots of pianists wanted to be when we grew up. 😀 When it came to keyboards, the man could do anything...and frequently did. 

I never met the guy....but I felt a connection to him, nevertheless.

Because he was a direct inspiration for my first novel, FROM THE ASHES.

That book came about because I heard a story, decades ago, about how Emerson had lost a home he had--a castle, I want to say--to a fire, while he was out on tour. 

Now, can you imagine how desolate that must have felt?

To come "home" from the road...to discover you don't actually have a "home" anymore?

As I thought about it, my writer's "what-if" brain took over. And I thought, "What if the same thing happened to your musical life? What if, in effect, your musical career went up in flames in some way, and you had no "home" anymore? What would that do to you?"

Enter James Michael Goodwin, who in the first scene of FROM THE ASHES, has just finished his debut with the Boston Symphony, in which he's played his first Piano Concerto...but which also, no one else realizes, is his farewell to the stage. Because his hands have begun to succumb to arthritis and other debilitating conditions....and he's already losing his ability to play. When he also hits a composing "dry spell," he looks at his life and comes to believe his best days are already behind him. Thus, at the age of 31, he returns from his orchestral triumph, sits down, and puts a gun to his head.

In the book, of course, he's saved from death. (Or it'd be a very short book, indeed.) 

But fast-forward to 2016...and the real-life guy who inspired that scenario. 

As it turns out, that guy's hands are beginning to "go" on him, through a degenerative nerve disease. That guy actually is depressed and worried about upcoming performances...because he knows there's a day coming when he won't be able to play anymore like he used to--or maybe at all.

And thus, Keith Emerson, in the throes of that despair... sits down and puts a gun to his head.

Unfortunately, he's not in a novel. And he's not spared from death.

The "echo" quality of that sent a ripple through my mind, and my heart, that still hasn't ebbed.

Especially in the irony of how the man died...and why...

...when I had written, in effect, that very thing into a book inspired by him.

Sometimes, what we think is just "making stuff up"...has an uncanny way of ending up being a truth. An insight. A perception.

I just wish in this case it hadn't also been what almost feels like...prophetic.

RIP, Keith.

It was an honor. And...an inspiration.

And I won't ever take "inspiration" lightly... again.

Thoughts?
Janny

Happy Musical Monday, Beethoven Edition :-)

Your treat for Musical Monday: one master, played by another.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXRpSu5oRjM

Leonard Bernstein is reputed to have said about Glenn Gould, "The kid is crazy, but he can play." And "the kid" was, in fact, a little "cray-cray."  But, yeah, he sure COULD play. 

Far as I'm concerned, this is THE definitive recording of this piece. Period.

And if I'm ever stranded on a desert island, I hope I have it along. 

Enjoy!

Janny

Happy Musical Monday!

 

There's very little better than this to start a week...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3nxOF8wnMk

Thoughts?

Janny

If This Doesn't Do Something Wonderful To You, Check Yourself For A Pulse.

 Ashkenazy plays Chopin...

I put this on Facebook, but it's worth repeating here.

The wonder of this is it's 48 YEARS OLD. And I'm just seeing it now. 

All I've got to say is...wow.

Thoughts?

Janny

What's On YOUR Bucket List?

OK, I'll admit it...this came about because some texting I was doing with my BFF/"sister" yesterday. But it's not been far from my thoughts for a while.  Because when you lose someone far too early in his life, as I lost Patrick, you inevitably think of all the things you'll never get to do together...and all the things he'll never do here on earth, from his own "bucket list." 

Which makes one want to sit back, breathe, and consider.

So...what's on YOUR bucket list?

Have you done some of the things that were already on it?
If so, how did they feel?
And what's left?

I often say I can "die happy" because I saw Samuel Ramey sing Figaro at Lyric Opera. Had I had a formal "bucket list," that would certainly have been on it. And seventeen rows back, main floor, is an experience of this man and his singing that I will never forget. 

But there are other things I've always "kidded around" that were on the list, too. Except that I'm kinda not kidding about them.

Vienna is there. Learning to tap dance is there. Taking cello lessons is there. And more might be coming...who knows? 

So...share. What's on YOUR list? What have you already done? Is there anything on the list that you think you really, really want to do, but in your heart of hearts don't really believe is possible? Or, conversely speaking...is there anything on the list that, right now, you're making concrete plans to ACCOMPLISH?

Let 'er rip in the comments below!
Janny

And Yet Again, the CWC Reserves the Right to Change Her Mind...

Remember the post I wrote some time ago about having my ladder against the wrong building?

(Okay, if you don't remember it, GO READ IT. Hah!)

Well...I went and contradicted that, not too very long ago. 

By not only writing sweet romance again...but writing TWO of them. A first book, and its sequel.

And they're gosh-darned sweet.

And they're funny.

And I can't wait until they're published, and out there, and people are raving about them.

Have I given up romantic suspense, you ask?

Not at all. 

Because the NEXT book I've sent to my agent is...just that.

Romantic suspense.

With an absolutely delicious sociopath in it.

Uh, yeah.

And I'm working on another romantic suspense now, resurrecting an old book I WAS writing on for awhile, then set aside, then...

This is the way the writer's life goes sometimes.

But if you're creative, sometimes your creativity's going to come out in different forms.

I do plan to write more sweet romance, too.

As soon as I can rid myself of a few more villains...

Yes, writing is going apace now. Which is good news.

So stay tuned! 

Thoughts? 

Janny

Are You Writing Romance...Or Anatomy Lessons?

Okay, I'm a prude. I'll admit it. :-) 

Now that that's out of the way... (LOL)

Why, pray tell, do so many romance writers feel obligated to mention (in some cases in particular or humorous detail) how their hero reacts, anatomically speaking, to an attractive female?

You know what I'm talking about without my having to use the "e" word.  

To their credit, many of them don't use that word, either. That is to their credit, because that word isn't romantic. Period. It can be erotic. Romantic? Nope.

But, with very few exceptions--even among so-called "sweet" romance writers--it seems that a romance writing female can't resist mentioning how "uncomfortable" her hero gets around her heroine.

Or how he has to "shift positions" in his chair.

Or how, in one phraseology I just read, "...her smile raised more than his spirits."

To which I say, "Really? Was that necessary?"

Because guess what? It's not.

Worse than that, though...in my mind, it works against the portrayal of your hero as...heroic.

Why?

Because at that point, the hero slips a little off his pedestal and becomes just another Neanderthal guy who thinks with his hormones.

Most authors do at least differentiate between complete-stranger females and females the man has some acquaintance with, and they do seem to want to attach an emotional component to this reaction.

But that attempt fails. Because a biological or anatomical reaction is not an emotion.

Erotic attraction? Yep.

Chemistry? Yep.

But is it specific chemistry between that hero and that heroine?

Often, not at all. Because it happens way before there's a meaningful emotional connection.

It's kinda like reducing hero/heroine attraction to the old pop tune, "Nothing But Mammals."

There's nothing romantic about that song--and there's nothing romantic about hearing that the hero is turned on by the heroine. 

No, not even if you portray it humorously, or as something he "can't help" and considers an annoyance. 

Not even if you claim you're attaching an emotion to it. 

Because conveying emotion doesn't happen by focusing below a guy's belt. 

 

If revulsion is what you're going for, then, that works admirably.

But I doubt you want me to be revolted by your hero.

I think you want me to fall in love with him.

And I do want to. Honest.

So why distract me from the important stuff by focusing on the adolescent?

I'm an adult woman. I know what, anatomically speaking, is going to happen to him if he allows his thoughts to stray in a certain direction.

But I'm interested in those thoughts and emotions...not in the chemical reaction that results.

And there is absolutely nothing about that reaction that's going to convince me he's falling in love.

At. All.

If a man's feeling the right things in an organ considerably higher in his body, the rest of it is a given.

But I want to hear about that higher organ.

Not the lower one.

And especially not as one of the first reactions he has to the woman who's supposed to turn into his soulmate.

Any man can and often will react that way to any woman.

Sometimes for some very sinister reasons.

Our heroes need to be focused on higher things than that.

And so should our prose.

Thoughts?

Janny

Crikey! It's Been a Long Time!

...just to let you know...

I AM going to be blogging again regularly. 
Stay tuned!

Janny

The Virtue of "Alone"

In the last several months, I've made some substantial changes in my life, my new reality, whatever you'd like to call it.

(I know what I'd like to call it: OVER. As in, take me back to where I had my PM at hand!) 

That aside, of course, we go on with life. 
With one day after another. 
One step after another. 
Some of these days are so sad it's a wonder I can stand up. 
Some of these days are so happy I "forget" about my new reality for a while...and discover that I still have some "fun" left in me. 

I've bought a house, and I may buy an even better one soon, if I can. 
I've bought a piano, with which I am absolutely thrilled. 
I've written a new book, with which I am beyond thrilled. (The story of how that came about, for those of you who care, will probably be posted here shortly.) 

But today, I want to share something that's been gnawing at me. 
Something that is all too common in this world of grieving--but something I feel needs a bit of adjustment. 

In the grief group I go to, there are several extroverts who seemingly cannot imagine why anyone would voluntarily want to be alone. 

And this is ironic, considering that in this same group, everyone's "grieving style" is accepted, you're told to do things when you want to do them and refuse to do things you don't want to do, to take care of yourself, etc. 
All except for the dreaded state of "being alone." 

We went through an account of our holidays, and there were a lot of people at family houses, at their relatives, even at friends'...but our leader praised them in terms of "at least you weren't alone." 

Even some of the people in the group repeated that phrase, to the point where I almost stood up and made trouble. (I may still do so.) 

Because, if I may be so humble as to ask, what in hell is so terrible about "being alone"? 

One woman mentioned that she "stayed busy" because if she wasn't busy, she'd "think too much"...and our leader countered by saying that it's OK to think now and then--in fact, it's necessary to "think too much" at times. If you are too busy for busy's sake, then you don't give yourself time to grieve, to process, to remember, to sort things out. 

But it also seems to me that that "thinking" is best done...you guessed it...alone. And that, unfortunately, seems to be a cognitive disconnect even in our leadership. 

I'm here to tell you, however, that alone is not a crime. 
In fact, it's an interesting revelation to me that, while I think I'd like to fall in love again (because, let's face it, being in love is fun)... 
And while I might be willing to step out on that "dating" limb again... 
One thing that holds me back is the "what-if" of forming another married relationship. 
Which would mean not being alone anymore. 

Now, I can hear the leaders applauding in the background, and many of my fellow grief group members cheering. But I'm not setting forth "not being alone" as being a place I'm desperately trying to get to. In fact, it's a place I'm desperate to avoid right now. 

Because, quite frankly, right now, alone is a nice place to be. 

I actually like living alone. So sue me. (Not really. I'm not that rich, at least not yet!) 

But I know there's a lot of undue fretting about "living alone" that, in my case at least, is needless. 
I am not only alone but retired, which means that I set my schedule. 
Period. 
I decide when I want to go to church every week. And how many times I want to go. 
I decide when, and what, I want to eat and drink. 
I decide if, and when, I want to have TV on...when I want to play my piano...when I want to spend time at the computer...when it's time to just sit and watch a Hallmark movie and pet my cat... 

And I don't have to check with anyone about any of this. 

I do my laundry when I want. 
I clean when I want. 
I go to bed and get up when I want. 
I start a fire in my fireplace every blinkin' night, and no one bats an eyelash.

In short, I like living alone. 
Because for the first time in a very long time, I don't have to accommodate anyone else. 
I don't have to shuttle a kid to school or sports. 
I don't have to plan meals around a strange work schedule. 
I don't have to remind someone of something they need to do. Everything that needs doing around here, I do it. 

Is that sometimes a pain? Yeah, it can be. :-) 

When I really want something from the store, for example, I can no longer just say, "Hey, PM, on your way home from work could you stop at the Jewel and get ______?" 

When it snows half a foot, as it has three times already this winter, I'm the one who has to get out there and shovel it away, or I don't go anywhere. 

I don't have companionship in the car on long drives, or even short ones. 

And there are times, yes, when it feels lonely. When it feels like there's no one out there who will give a damn if I keel over tomorrow. 

But the root of the loneliness, and the gnawing "hole" inside, isn't filled with anyone but PM. No matter who else they are, no matter how much they care...it's him I'm lonely for. 
Not for "people" in general. 

For me?  Loneliness, per se, is not nearly the problem that so many people seem to think it is, or want to make it into. 

I'm not at all of the mindset that says, "If you're feeling sad, get out and be with people. It'll help."

Sometimes, it does. 
Sometimes, however, it most definitely does not. 

Even sometimes doing my normal day-to-day routine brings moments--or hours--of sadness. 
I've cried behind the wheel of my car so much I suspect it thinks that's what people are supposed to do when they drive. 

But would being with people cure that? 
It most definitely does, and would, not. 

In fact, sometimes it's "being out in the world" too much that causes that sadness. 

So for those of us out here who enjoy being, and living, alone...
Give us a little slack, extroverts. We're not using aloneness as a way to pull in on ourselves and become hermits. Some of us are just plain happy that way. 

We've figured out how to be alone and be at peace with it. 
And sometimes that peace is the last thing we want to surrender...for anyone. 

Am I lonely? Yes. For PM. That's a loneliness that won't be cured until I see him again. 

In the meantime, however, for the great majority of the time...I am content alone. 
I even relish the freedom it gives me. 

I am not "wallowing." 
I am not pining away for an endless social calendar. 
And I am here to tell you... 
There are plenty of things worse than "being alone." 

Far worse. 

Don't feel pity for me because I'm "alone." I'm fine living this way, and I will be until or unless something major happens to change things. 

But, trust me... It'll have to be earthshakingly major for me to give up this present freedom.

Thoughts? 

Janny