THE AWAKENING

Frequently, I am asked the question, ‘where did you get the title for your debut novel?’ And, my answer is always the same: my agent. A PERFECT HUSBAND was his suggestion and I immediately changed the title. When Sami became a popular fictional character, the prompt came to create a sequel, and naturally, the PERFECT series came into existence. Now, I take the inference far more personal, perfection being an Everest, the Zenith in a never-ending cycle to achieve that critical state and the nose-dive crash into personal suffering that can certainly follow if not performing up to par.

Is failure an option? Was it ever?

 Or, is it part of our societal culture to always be winners? What if we were only average? What if we didn’t stand out? Make a name for ourselves? Be somebody. I have been burdened with the lifelong weight of wanting to be somebody…other than myself. What information chip was inserted into my brain giving me the impression that just being me, was not enough?  Am I the only one?

I no longer blame my mother. Her reckless actions, the tools she used to raise her children were a byproduct of her youth -- turbulent, volatile and full of loss. Nevertheless, the message somehow got through and the process of awakening into my Divine Life has been a constant effort.  There have been times when ‘things fell apart,’ the ground shifted, my security, safety and livelihood was threatened. And, my immediate response – panic! I cannot be perceived as a failure, I can’t look bad. What if somebody hears? Sees? How will I ever live with myself? Precisely. How DID I ever live with myself? At any cost, I protected THE image.

The plot thickens. 

This awakening comes at a major turning point. Chasing personal demons the last eight months has been a testament to my endurance; emotionally, spiritually, mentally and physically. Grappling with the bottom rung of my unsavory behaviors, all the tedious ways I avoided the salty in between -- image versus worthlessness. What a colossal amount of energy that took. The unconscious cycle of my wretched attacks to try harder, get more, be better was a non-stop, monotonous campaign.  The dichotomous nature of my psyche so enmeshed in polar opposite thinking I never had an opportunity to come up for air. Take a breath. The price of losing…far too great. It would be the total and irrevocable loss of me -- whoever that me was. And, the greater question, who was watching anyway?

My investigation into the nooks and crannies of my existence became a quest, my mission. And, the allowance of one small emotion created an avalanche of change: compassion. I began seeing myself compassionately for the first time, which allowed a greater opportunity to see the world more compassionately. Then gratitude slipped into the mix. I began not wanting to numb-out my existence; instead, I wanted to feel my Life more intensely. I wanted to lean into the painful dualities that caused so much of my internal indignation. I allowed myself permission to FAIL. I gave myself a break! I let go! I began not judging myself so harshly by book rankings, the amount of money I made, or how much cash was left in the bank after payday. I began a heartfelt discussion with that needy neurosis that blanketed my Life with vicious self-talk. I opened myself up to a different set of parameters that allowed conversation, and should an attack begin, I could let go, take a deep breath and look leisurely at the big blue sky.

Of course, these cathartic change-of-Life events always happen at a precipice. When the world left behind is of the old, and the newness up front, full of the unknown.  When work is ending and times are unstable and the ground beneath me has a quivering Richter scale lurking…threatening.  Even in this, I feel an AWAKENING. A growing up. A new platform in which to take this last chapter. My journey from hell to this place, this unstable, unsure, unsafe position feels infinitely better than the self-created duality I manifested. I would be lying to say there is no fear – of course, there is – it’s the unknown, but I am optimistic, not nostalgic…in a curious way, reborn. Now, it’s about patience. It’s all working. I will step into this new Life, again, without so much baggage, and what carry-on I do take with me, I can handle. I have such gratitude for this moment.  FREEDOM. This awakening to awareness is a blessing, a feeling of weightlessness – the voice of the child walking toward a horizon looking to the light. THIS IS IN ME!  It’s okay to fail. Fail big, even. For once, it’s okay to be me…TO BE ENOUGH!

Certainly not…perfect!

 

THE END OF A 30 YEAR RELATIONSHIP

Right from the get-go, I was blindsided by the attraction, seduced into a cozy, symbiotic relationship.

The shy, approval-seeking young man with choirboy politeness transformed, magically into a fun, cocksure, sexy bad-boy! Intoxicated by this new, renegade, ‘don’t-give-a-damn’ attitude, I flung myself, at quick-speed velocity into the fire. Several times, throughout the rocky liaison, I pledged separation. On a trial basis. But, the mere thought of saying good-bye sent chills of expectant loss so intense I’d hurry back, dismissing any crazy ideas of parting. My Life developed into a comfortable dependency and denial -- my annoying, arrogant friend – cemented our bond of lifelong togetherness.

Now, after 30 years of faithful, reckless devotion, I am ending my relationship with Alcohol.

The long good-bye accompanies intense sadness and loss. Who am I without my loyal companion, my liquidly soul mate?  The comparison to a lover is provocative yet interestingly accurate. What began as nonchalant flirtation at the age of twenty-six blossomed into a lifelong burdensome secret? Even my marriage, with its untimely ending and ultimate divorce seemed easier to handle. The emotional pain experienced over the loss and separation of a liquid heart far exceeded the damage endured by the abandonment of a beating one. Alcohol was there, available and eager for my affection, offering me that slight rush, that enigmatic ‘click,’ and finally that pistol-ready release into the gallows of uninhibited darkness.

I would never allow myself the privilege of hitting ‘rock bottom,’ as twelve-step programs refer to that identifiable moment when addiction crushes the human spirit making a Life no longer able or willing to continue living in such a wretched state. Nope, not me. I performed my role perfectly. Always. I never lost a job, never arrived late, never lost time at work, never, never, never… admitted my vice and called myself an alcoholic. Me? Heaven’s no. I was above all that.

Was I what ‘they’ refer to as a functioning…one? Probably. My defense mechanisms -- state-of-the- art artillery – buried deep in my structured unconscious guarded the lurking monster. Did I want to admit it? No. Of course not. I teased with it for years, danced like Nureyev around the topic, avoiding all truth and any inevitable confrontation. Instead, I looked forward to that next chilled martini glass, that salty rim of a margarita, knowing the forgetful ‘click’ was only a few icy sips away. Deceptively delicious, indeed.

I scrambled headlong into the arena of my self-destruction. What was left, after the effects of Alcohol wore off was regret, a letdown, loss of integrity, respect and, let’s not forget, shame. Instead of pondering these feelings, I sprinted like a world-class athlete back to its solace. Alone, I could bury myself in its languid grip, wait expectantly for its recognizable take-off, hover dangerously overhead circling for deliverance and then, with reckless abandon, plunge myself into the absent abyss, that surly void where perfection failed to exist. The lack of calculated awareness allowed me a defiant, proud and defensive posture, a cover up to continue the abuse -- a slow-suicidal routine as scheduled and relaxed as drawing an evening bath.

Alcohol had no agenda. I was the taskmaster playing the slots, unable to balance my odds, eager to lose myself in the bells-and-whistle payoff -- I thought -- a win-win situation. I lost, of course. Years later, I realized the odds were never in my favor. Are they ever in self-delusion?

I have been given, by grace, the elegant choice to surrender my need. I am in deep gratitude for this option, this awakening into mindful awareness. As Sami Saxton expressed candidly in A PERFECT HUSBAND:  

“But those days are over. Too much drama, too many lost days, and too many missed opportunities catapulted me into soberness. A shaky sobriety. One, I fight daily. One, I often lose. I’m aware of the symptoms, what sets me off. And I try, like hell, to heed the warning signs.”

I find Sami’s admission honorable. Honest. I too, will fight the good fight for the rest of my Life. I refuse to go back. My path is forward, my direction clear, my intention for the future…to heal.

All in good time. All in good time…

“…the ideal spiritual journey needs the balance of ‘gloriousness’ and ‘wretchedness.’ If it were all glory, just one success after another, we’d get extremely arrogant and be completely out of touch with human suffering. On the other hand, if it were all wretchedness and we never had any insights, and never experienced joy or inspiration, then we’d get so discouraged that we’d give up. So, what’s needed is balance. But as a species, we tend to overemphasize the wretchedness.”

Chogyam Trungpa

10 TRUTHS: A Personal Journey to Gratitude

TRUTH ONE: I have never been a religious person.

Uncle Conrad was a Reverend at the United Church of Christ, a nondescript chapel located at the north end of my small town. At the age of five, my mother sat me down and asked, point blank, “do you want to go to church?”

I answered back, defiantly,  “no!”

There was a reason for her deliberate inquisition.
Routinely, I would un-shackle my wrists from her constrictor grip and run, like a hellcat, up-and-down the carpeted aisle, screaming and giggling and pulling my pants down, reveling in the wave of laughter the congregation awarded me. 
Uncle Conrad prayed for heavenly patience.  His prayers...were answered.

So, on Sunday mornings, my sister’s and I would high-tail it to the living room, jump up on our old, worn davenport and watch, with curious fascination, the tiers of our quaint community promenade themselves down Center Street past our front window. Dressed in their finest wares, they offered themselves, once a week, before their altered God and doled out a healthy dose of allegiance.

TRUTH TWO: I never felt it.

In the Navy – at the naive age of seventeen, while studying medical technology in the frigid, sub-climates of Great Lakes, Illinois, I found baptism. By choice, I enlisted into a reverential pool of Presbyterian devotees. They offered a welcome sense of safety, a feeling of security and a sacred sanctuary of learned devotion. Should I carry through with my quest and follow their mission of trust, our circle of worship would guide me, hand-held into the shallow, cool water of initiation.
I, too, had a chance at redemption.
I, too, could find God.

TRUTH THREE: I never did. Or, quite possibly, God never found me.

I kept waiting for an answer, a feeling, a pulse of recognition. I imagined my God would respond like a warm wave, a tsunami of calm showering serenity over me and my Life like a light dusting of snow, allowing forward advancement in abundance, clarity, unwavering faith, and, of course...lots and lots of self-love.
A ‘happy ending’ was sure to follow. I was certain!

TRUTH FOUR:  It didn’t happen.

With or without my weekly dosage of religious doctrine, my ‘free will’ to make different, more reckless choices took over. And won. My core beliefs, adopted, digested and processed early on from an unstable upbringing had already achieved full download status, perculating in my pre-adolescent, uber-sensitive system.

I was at a spiritual stalemate.  I was running, again, like a hellcat down the carpeted aisles of my past, numbing, quite successfully my present, and focusing, far too much on an unrealistic future, a perfect setup for failure. At that time, it was far more fun abandoning those renegade thoughts than receiving any sort of blessed delivery. Youth is blind to the cachophony of warning signals.

Once again, I found myself in a quandary.

Not only was I battling the conflicted views of my own self worthiness, but now, I was balancing the judgmental badgering of religious dogma, adding additional fuel to the preverbal flame.

           
Good versus Evil.  Sinner versus Saint.  Perfection versus Imperfection. Worthy versus Unworthy.

TRUTH FIVE: I gave up. My attempted profession at sainthood squelched.

TRUTH SIX: God wasn’t answering.

REMEDY: I found therapy.

For years, while living in New York City, I attempted psychoanalysis. It too, proved empty and vague. And expensive. Without the underpinnings of a solid spiritual foundation hovering beneath me like a fall-net, my weekly meetings with Patience, (I know, go figure) my therapist were more about camouflaging my hidden self than engaging in honest, revelatory exposition. It wasn’t until I caught my beloved Patience reading a magazine article during one of my sessions that I confronted her – and quit!  Seven years into it!  Patience IS a virtue!   

TRUTH SEVEN: I guess I didn’t work the program.   

It was a time of wild, inhibition; a wacky, twisted period of reckless empowerment.  I acted out self-destructive behaviors affirmatively in an effort to ‘find myself.’  Honestly, at that time, I’m not even sure I knew my acts of entitlement were destructive. Compulsive? Perhaps.  But they succeeded, brilliantly in anesthetizing my pain, any pain, a growing pain that came from a divided self desperately searching for a light. Did these mind-altering acts serve me? Or, were they merely a path leading me further away from the person I longed to be, get closer to, become better acquainted with?

TRUTH EIGHT: Unfortunately, that time of my Life...lasted far too long.

Then, I was led by accident to an introduction into the magical qualities of gratitude.  

My Life took a strange and familiar hold.

TRUTH NINE:  A different kind of reverent peace embraced me.

No longer did I need.

"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend."
Melody Beattie

I am in sincere gratitude for this fateful discovery and find reasons daily to offer thanks...

          ~ grateful for my health. I have lived a blessed life without illness.

Gratitude

            ~ grateful for my creative talent. In connecting with my artistic energy, I connect with a higher vibration of Divine creativity.

Gratitude

            ~  grateful for my work. A renewed faith that I will sustain myself and earn a living in the workforce, be it writing or other.

Gratitude

           ~ grateful for cultivating a community of like-minded, imaginative individuals invested in giving back, earning trust, loyalty and experiencing a sense of joyful camaraderie around and about the written word.

Gratitude

            ~ grateful for the opportunity to love and be loved. Lovers, past and present -- for one -- putting up with me. But, more importantly, showing me a mirror of myself. The necessity to grow beyond my human self and see me...through your eyes -- warts and all!

Gratitude

TRUTH TEN:  The most important truth of all. A profound ‘thank you’ to you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! My journey here, today, my path to GRATITUDE would not be complete without you.

Complete and utter GRATITUDE!
LOVE,
Douglas

A DEDICATION TO TEACHERS

I write thrillers.

I write about normal, everyday people forced into unlikely situations to overcome personal tragedies: painful divorces, addiction, mid-life crisis...even serial killers.

I have been known to travel to some pretty dark places to provide conflict for these characters.

Just ask SAMI SAXTON, my flawed, anti-heroine in A PERFECT HUSBAND...and soon to be released A PERFECT SETUP.

Readers ask me, "how do I go there?"

I smile.

I was raised in a small town in Ohio.

I was born into a family of women. Probably one of the reasons I gravitate to writing strong female characters. My father was absent. My mother was a single, twice-divorced woman trying to juggle six children on monthly alimony payments -- whether the checks arrived or not. Life was chaotic, unsafe and over-the-top. I was always one-step away from a foster home. My security and sanity was kept, just barely, by several 'angels' in my young life. An unknown woman (to this day, I still have no idea who she was) paid my yearly YMCA membership. I submerged myself in physical activities which kept me away from home and exhausted.

And... the library. There I was, sneaking my precocious, adolescent self past the elderly librarian through the cranky turnstile into the glorious world of adult fiction. Freedom. At last. Until I got caught. With money I earned from my paper route, I joined the Double-Day-Book-Club.  Remember when you could buy six books for a penny? The excitement I felt, adrenaline- filled anticipation running home after school, looking forward to that little brown packaged box filled with my personal, private literary choices. To this day it still makes me grin. (Still makes it difficult to read from a Kindle!)

... CATCH-22, MIDNIGHT COWBOY, VALLEY OF THE DOLLS... these were some of the titles I purchased and devoured well before I hit the seventh grade. (Precocious, I did say that!) Those books, among others catapulted me into exotic worlds and make-shift lives where words expressed on paper allowed a portal for my escape. A place to hide where I secretly read, viewed and related to other people's troubles far away from my own.

I was a sensitive boy, inward and not overly confident. I had few friends and even though I was well-liked in school, I was far from popular. My attempts at masculine imitation were futile. I was the one-off, the left-of-center, always trying to find that place to fit in, belong...a home.

I expressed my hidden self, that secretive part of me with words. My voice, full of emotional angst and pubescent longing -- rage -- found a quiet resting place on the page. And, my 10th grade English teacher nurtured that innocent discovery. For whatever reason, she took an interest in my poetry. (I know...poetry?) Her attention to my writing instilled an inner confidence in me, a willingness to continue, a way to move past my fears. An avalanche of emotions gushed forth, an outpouring of feelings experienced -- past, present and future. For once, I was able to represent myself without intimidation or embarrassment or shame. Pain became a metaphor, new but interestingly mysterious and useable.

Through some difficult patches in high school this teacher also became a friend. She allowed me to sign hall passes, forging her name when anxiety grew too great to arrive to school on time, or when the pressures of my seemingly overwhelming life bogged me down to a complete, sloggy hault. There was even a time when a group of us shared pizza at her upstairs, quaint apartment. I remember her nestled, guru style before us, leaning against tie-dyed covered furniture wearing a 60's collared shirt and exhibiting hip! The color was turquoise.

My gratitude will always be to my 10th grade English teacher.

Teachers DO make a difference.

On graduation day, before I left for the Navy, this specific teacher gave me a gift, a book called THE PROPHET by Kahlil Gibran. Inside was a note, now framed in my home. She wrote:
       
'Doug, you have a definite talent for writing. Your style is simple. This is important because wordiness sometimes conceals all the meaning. Truth does not need embellishment. Life should be simple ~ simply beautiful...'

I will always have a deep appreciation for this teacher. She gave my dream wings... my words flight...

Thank you...to all the teachers who have touched their student's lives in ways they may never know.
Thank you...from the bottom of my heart, PATSY GRIMM,  my 10th grade English teacher for always believing in my true, authentic self. But, more importantly my...voice.

My next book, Patsy will be dedicated to you!

Much love,

Douglas

ENCOUNTER REWRITE 367 of 462 pages CONFIDENCE in writing!

I believe in destiny! I live my life as though there is a Divine purpose for me on this planet. And, I also realize there has only been one person who really stood in the way of me accomplishing my mission/purpose/destiny...and that was ME! Sure, I could blame it all on  (hate that word) my upbringing, but at a certain point in order to become mature with my accomplishments as well as my failures I needed to add that word...accountability. I had to take some responsibility. I am enjoying the success of A PERFECT HUSBAND now! That novel was written in 2005. It went through many stages before it was published - and during those arduous years...rejection was a common thread. To an artist becomming...rejection is a four-letter word. But, it gave my days fuel, fire, my purpose intent on proving myself right, victorious, a champion. And, it also drained my soul...affirming myself over-and-over again was, to say the least, depleting, all consuming and without the proper support--downright anquish. But I quelled my feelings...isn't this what artistry is all about for God's sake?  My mother used to say -- 'make sure you have something to fall back on.' The curse of an artist. How many years would it take for me to banish those words? How many people would I project her disapproval on in order to 'show them?' How many relationships, jobs, friendships would I manifest an opportunity to prove 'them' wrong? That insecurity, I beleive, kept me unpublished and angry. The spiral of rejection I encountered was a familiar ringtone, a comfortable worn sweater I was used to. But, it really had NOTHING to do with my writing, my art, my talent. My words always had prose, style, insight and power...sensitivity. The question was how to use those gifts with confidence rather than as a portal for healing. Or, better yet, how to unite those unique qualities and create aknew?  Maturity in writing awarded me an inward confidence. I do the work now for me. I have good days and bad. But, I persevere. I have a better understanding of my strengths as well as my weaknesses, my limitations. I am willing to be open to critique without allowing my buttons to be pushed or squashed. Sure, who doesn't want to hear 'the pages are sublime' each time a submission is sent out. It's innate, it's part of the reason we give our voice in words for flight. But, it doesn't hinder my process or my love of it.  And, I must admit, getting published has given me a gateway of self reliance I value. Like stepping over a threshhold from one side -- to the other.
Keep writing...keep creating!
Douglas

ENCOUNTER REWRITE pg. 327 of 462 Maturity in writing!

There came a moment while doing the rewrite on ENCOUNTER when I realized this rewrite was NOT the last rewrite. It was hubris. Folly! Of course, I knew I would be taking several more passes at the manuscript before freezing it, sending it to an editor for corrections and then sending the manuscript (sorry, WORD DOC) to my agent. BUT, there was that little bit of magical thinking, that tiny voice that prevailed. I don't know about you, but I am -- hands down --  into instant gratification. This personality trait gets me into trouble. That and the magical thinking part can catapult me into a heap of pain, quickly. It's been a difficult process for me to learn how to nuture my writing, take my time, cultivate the words, reread the sentences... find the poetry... the characters. I am always so eager for approval, attention and... love that I forget my adult professionalism. I forget I am an adult! I suppose the difference is maturity. Maturity has allowed me the benefits of sustaining the pleasurable aspects of my writing while using DISCIPLINE to ground me. I know I have work to do, so I do it. Whereas, before my petulant little boy wanted to stomp my feet and be done with it...now I linger... There is a long road to travel before ENCOUNTER is ready for eyes to read... But, I see this as a positive. It means my Life has developed, matured, and grown into an adult artist versus the child showoff constantly wanting positive feedback and admiration. Let me know if this is true for you??? I enjoy the feedback.
Keep writing... keep creating!
Douglas

ENCOUNTER REWRITE pg. 273 or 459

The daily rewrite goes well. The pages I read aloud until my throat gets hoarse. My focus the last couple of days has been on the sales of A Perfect Husband. My concern, now, having created some buzz with good reviews and a positive Kirkus is having the correct platform to lead traffic to my book and then, once there, securing the purchase. Not having a traditional publisher, my brand name has to be focused on daily. Three times a day, in fact.  (And, I understand even authors signed to traditional publishers must maintain their brand...themselves.) But, the platform is there for them. There is a clout associated with being an author signed to a major publishing house. I have no problem paying 25 dollars for a hardback book, or an eBook for half that price if the author is a brand name. Even new authors building their brand, which I read constantly, I pay top dollar for. The BRAND/AUTHOR is publicized by being with the publisher. The publisher is the BRAND. Their books get spotlighted on AMAZON, or BARNES & NOBLE. Their books receive advance praise from notable magazines, periodicals and literary columns that drive advance sales. Their books get put on shelves in a multitude of bookstores (what's left of them, anyway) across the country. My novel is that in between book... I'm not really competing with those books, yet, but I am competing for sales with the self published. Those strong, resilient writers who, by choice are leaving the competitive waters of publishing and doing it for themselves. And...winning at the game. More and more independent writers are ending up on the New York Times bestseller list because of their endurance and tenacity. And most for less than a buck! My book sells for $4.99. What a steal? Right? Until you notice most of the books being read and BOUGHT in my genre are selling for less than $2.99. Some for as low as a dollar. Some... FREE!!! So, I build my BRAND the slow way, building relationships with each blog writer, each reader and anybody who will follow me on TWEETER.
FOLLOW ME... PLEASE.
AND RT!
Keep writing and keep creating!