Thrills and Chills as My Pub Date Inches Closer

Thrills and Chills as My Pub Date Inches Closer

Feb 10, 2022

“Your pub date is May 10, 2022.” 

My heart quickened when I first read those words from Samantha, my project manager at She Writes Press. A smile spread across my face, and I raced outside to share the news with my husband Gene. He looked up from his garden giving me a thumbs up. 

“Excited?” He grinned. 

“Yes!” I grinned back. “But it seems so far away!” I protested.  It was early 2021.  Over a year seemed an awfully long time to wait for my book to be published.  A book that had consumed much of my life for years. 

I started writing (seriously writing) my book March of 2017. I could not even imagine calling myself a writer. I was a fledgling, a beginner, and hoped not a fraud. I knew I had a story inside of me, a story to tell.  

An avid reader since my bookworm days as a little girl, I had always admired authors and held them in such high esteem that I was not ready to pin that title on myself. Slowly but surely my writing journey began as I struggled through memoir writing classes and a variety of writing workshops, writing retreats, and one on one coaching over the next four years.  

I was comfortable calling myself -a woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a retiree, a friend, a senior citizen – and the list went on. But adding writer to that list caused me to squirm a little. I was even hesitant to say, “I’m writing a book.”   

After years of remembering parts of my life I had blocked out forever and endless research I found myself soul searching and handwriting notes non-stop. I had a story to tell, and it poured out of me onto the page. Something I did not expect happened then. Peace began to replace fear and discomfort.  

I realized if I wasn’t a writer, what was I? As draft after draft colored my days, I began to say out loud to anyone who asked, “I’m writing a book.” and each time it got easier to say. After winning places in three anthologies, after watching scenes from my memoir performed on stage, and having a monologue from my memoir performed on a virtual production – writer still stuck in my throat.  

Still, where was the self-confidence I felt in all the other aspects of my life? 

As I met more and more talented and fabulous writer friends I was told. “You are a writer. Say it loud and say it proud.” I tiptoed in a little further. I learned so many lessons from those generous and supportive writers and teachers holding my hand. Not only did I learn to believe in myself with all my heart, but to believe in my effort and to be bold. To be brave. 

I also learned the huge impact they made on me by gifting me with their time, their wisdom, and their encouragement. This is something I will carry with me forever and hope to give back by bestowing that same gift to all the beginning writers I meet. To inspire and challenge is the best gift writers can give fellow writers and our readers as well. 

I know my book is important because all words are. Your story matters as does mine. Mostly I do know my story is not just my story, but the story of hundreds of thousands of young women during the fifties and sixties who found themselves pregnant, no ring on their finger, and nowhere to turn. 

Best of all the reward is now in sight. My book will be published and available wherever books are sold on May 10, 2022!  

What seemed like forever is less than three months away and I’m saying it now and saying it proud. I am a Writer!

Five Months In

Five Months In

May 22, 2020

Corona Virus. 

When I first read the reports in January. I thought, what is a corona virus? It seemed so far away. I did my ‘go–to–reaction’ when something or some word left me uneasy or when that little red flag warning flickered inside my chest. My go to was a U-turn in my brain to think about something pleasant. Perhaps start reading a new book. 

Besides, I was consumed with grief in Jan.  My husband Gene and I were both morning the loss of our beloved 9-year-old Annabelle. Our golden girl. We had loved that dog so much and our grief was equal and all-encompassing to the love we had felt for her.  I did not have time to worry about no virus. Plus we had had our flu shots. 

Covid19. 

In February, we were in Washington state, cold with frigid winds, when I became aware of the fact that Seattle was experiencing deaths from this covid19.  I tried to turn off the flicker which grew a bit stronger in the almost empty airport as we headed back to San Diego with reports of the virus blasting from every gate. 

I had other things to think about. We had been visiting our grandson at his university. It had taken our minds off our grief, softened the sadness of losing our dear dog. We had lots to do and renewed energy for when we returned home. I had sent my manuscript out to beta readers. The SD Writers Festival was coming up. Lots to do. No time to worry about no virus. 

Corona Virus deaths. 

That tiny flicker started growing – burning steady as March blew in. The statistics were not promising. At that time the virus seemed to target seniors. Gene and I are both in our 70s. I have asthma. “But it’s under control.” I say a loud. “But you have had some serious breathing issues in the past, and high blood pressure.” As always, my devoted Gene is worried out loud.  

I try to change the subject. Change my thoughts. I watch the news and shake my head.  What does this all mean? Shelter in place? Social distancing? Masks? No Masks? Hand sanitizers? Wash wash wash hands?  

I reach out to my children. I repeat the precautions to my adult sons, shelter in place, social distance, masks, wash, wash, wash your hands. Depending on what part of the country they live in determines their concern for safety and what is going on in the country.  Kansas, Louisiana… not as concerned. The sons here in California are most concerned and already starting to work from home and sheltering in place. The governor has asked all Californians to stay home, schools are closed, no events, no restaurants, no gatherings of more than 10. 

The flicker expands in my chest. 

News gets more frightening daily.  

I try to do my ‘go to – buried head in the sand routine.’ I turn off the news and concentrate on my manuscript. Think positive. Think future. I tell myself. This too shall pass. To distract myself I start thinking up ideas for a baby shower in May for our 10th grandbaby, due in June. Work on next step now that I have completed my manuscript. Which publishers to send to? Our Writers Festival is postponed. Everything on Zoom now. Before covid19 I hardly knew what Zoom was. Our SDMWA meeting cancelled. Zoom. I cancel our Finches book club at my home. Zoom. Our classes are closed. Zoom. Zoom Zoom. 

God who knew Zoom would be a lifesaver. 

Ventilators. Covid19 cases doubling daily. Hospitals running out of beds, supplies. Mask shortage. Masks? No Masks? The stock market–crashed, crashed, crashed. Businesses folding. Unemployment staggering. Bad News. Scary News. There will be a vaccine. Soon? Not soon enough. 

So much conflicting news. By the end of March, that flicker is ablaze. It never lightens up now. 

I tell myself thank God all our family and friends are doing well. So far. So good. And we are too. We are still sheltering in place. We are extremely cautious. We are still smiling most days. It’s a good thing Gene and I like each. Together 24/7 after 43 years is a lot of togetherness for two independent people. We decide how insanely lucky we are. How our love for each other still magically colors our days. Pinch me.  

Everything still shut down. Clamped down tighter than before. Healthcare providers call and cancel our April appts. You can Zoom your doctor if you absolutely must, they say. I have not left the house in a month. Gene, only for groceries, necessities, clad in mask, gloves, antibacterial wipes in hand. It’s as if I am sending my knight in shining armor out to do war. 

That flicker is raging now. It is April. Life as we know it has screeched to a halt. News too terrifying to watch. In the still of the night as I listen to my husband’s light snoring, I reach for his hand. He half wakes and squeezes mine. We have lived a good life together, through rough patches, through glorious bright days. But, our children. Our grandchildren. What will their lives be like? Will this ever end? When will their lives be easy again? Will all changes be for the best? Is this the end?  

Protests everywhere. Seems like half the country wants to escape out of their homes and resume life pre-covid19. There are confusing reports daily. We see a lot of complaining screamers, demanding their rights to return their ‘normal’ lives acting out like spoiled children, oblivious to scientist and brilliant medical experts. They want their beaches back, their bars, their hair salons, their lives and jobs. Who can blame them? But is it too soon? Is this really happening? 

 Mixed messages daily from an administration obviously not equipped to handle this crisis. ‘There may be a vaccine by end of year… there will not be a vaccine for a year.’ Social media is in overdrive. Many lament it is the end of the world, still many remain positive, their faces to the sun, refusing to fall victim to the negativity. The daily briefings make one’s head spin. One thing for sure, our economy, our world, travel, education, life as we know it has turned upside down. I have not left the house or yard in 2 months. 

Mid May. 

The flicker is steady, eased up, but there.  People still dying. But the air is cleaner than it has been in decades. People are cooking more, walking their neighborhoods more. Maybe we are learning how important our connections with our loved ones really are to us now that we miss them daily. Country opening up. I watch with a let us see what happens next attitude. I remain cautious. Vigilant. There comes a time I settle and accept. There comes a time I look for the good. I calm myself at night when the worries of the future bring tears to my eyes and trembles in my body. I brace myself for what may happen, or what may not. I grieve for what was and that I didn’t even realize what we had. I tell myself I will learn from this, as will the whole world. Be brave I tell myself. This too shall pass.  

I hold it together on this very different Mother’s Day. I get calls and texts, smiling facetimes from all six of our adult kids and few of the grandkids. I miss their hugs, touching their faces. I am grateful for any contact and for their health and happiness.  

Gene and I enjoy our new puppy. I push myself to write, to go to my Zoom classes, meetings… I try not to hurt inside when I realize there will be no baby shower and I may not get to hold that new grandchild being born in June for who knows how long. I certainly will not be allowed at the hospital for his birth.  I tell myself I will not permit myself to enter that road to self–pity. I chastise myself if I flirt with that road. 

 “Look how lucky you are?  Look at the good.”  Still, I worry about the virus. 

I stare out the window.  Spring is beautiful as ever. Maybe more so. And there is hope. There always is.  

Laura L. Engel
May 2020 

My 2019 Love Letter to You All

My 2019 Love Letter to You All

Dec 17, 2019

As the Holiday Season peaks and we rush head long into Christmas along with the closing of 2019 this is a love letter to all who have supported and cheered me on with my writing this year.

Many of you have asked so I wanted to let you know where I’m at with my memoir, You’ll Forget This Ever Happened.

While working on my book this year I experienced some thrilling moments, hours and weeks on end, but with it came hours and weeks of tragedy and loss. In the first half of the year two of my beloved girlfriends lost their husbands to cancer. That was especially hard to see them struggle and find their way after losing their greatest loves, their partners in life.

Within a month my best friend of over 60 years, my Nancy, died at 69 from cancer as well. She and all of us thought she had more time, but she had a swift decline and with that decline she took part of me with her. Just when I felt stronger after that incredibly hard loss, one of my baby brothers, Tommy passed away. He was 64. His death was not as much of a shock, because he had been in terrible health, but my heart split in two again.

Life has a way of handing out the hard times and then rewarding us with many blessings that sometimes we miss when those hard times consume us. I experienced this phenomenon all throughout the year.

As I reeled from the hurt and loss, I had to stop and realize that overall our family was well and healthy. Our 6 adult children, their spouses and partners were doing well in their careers and their children, our nine grands, were thriving as well. Our youngest son married the love of his life and now at the end of the year we learned the glorious news that we will be welcoming our 10th grandchild next summer.

Many times during the year I pinched myself as I sat writing and rewriting my book as I realized how far we had all come over the years. I would look at my husband, Gene and think about our long and windy road of a marriage. We will celebrate our 39th year of marriage next week and there is still no one on earth I would rather spend life with than him.

Good things happened with my continued path of writing my book. I was active in writing classes and served as President of the San Diego Memoir Association all year. I was fortunate enough to attend a first-class writing conference in Pennsylvania in July, attending a play lab, where I wrote a short skit about my story. I experienced Yale and New Haven, Conn. with a dear friend and my high school journalism teacher who I had not seen in 53 years that same month.

In April my author web site came alive. I found myself incredibly fortunate to be asked to do an interview with Dani Shapiro on her fantastic podcast, Family Secrets. Within weeks they hit over a million in listeners. If you haven’t listened to it, please do. https://www.familysecretspodcast.com/podcasts/the-secret-son.htm. Many of you have reached out to me during the year after hearing the podcast and I appreciate each and every one of your emails.

In June I won a place for the third year in a row in the San Diego Memoir Showcase contest, meaning a third publication under my belt in 2020. It was just as thrilling the third time to hear this news as the first time in 2017.

And all through the busy and eventful year I worked on my 3rd draft of my book. I had it edited again and now I am in the process of finding beta readers for my book. I have revised, edited it until I cannot see straight and have good news, I am closer than ever to publishing.

And this is what I wanted to tell you most of all… that your continued interest and inspirational stories have kept me going. It is not easy writing a memoir, well writing anything that you plan to publish and share with others. Life gets in the way, procrastination looms, self doubt flourishes, yet you forge ahead.

I have plowed through so much research when I wasn’t sure how much to trust my memories from 52 years ago. 1967 was a long time ago! At times I found myself angry once more at the injustice in the way unwed mothers were treated at that time and how adoptions were handled. But the fact that my son is back in my life and we are connected in such a powerful way has softened that anger and frustration. I am truly striving to live in the moment and not the past as I spend hours writing about the past.

What are you doing for the holidays? I’d love to hear from you.

This Christmas will find us with our family here at our home in So Cal. As busy and chaotic as that gets is there anything better? Through laughter and tears over the years, there is one thing I know for sure. For me just hearing my grown children tell their stories of our past Christmases as they roar and watching my grandchildren grow, their eyes shiny and bright, and having my husband look over at me with love in his eyes, well… there is no better gift.

I wish all of you a lovely holiday spent in the exact way that you find the most joy and please know I am forever grateful to each and everyone of you who have signed up on my website, www.lauralengel.com. 

Good health and cheer and here’s to a blessed and joyful 2020.

Warmly,

Laura L. Engel
Dec. 2019

A Memoir in Progress

A Memoir in Progress

Jun 24, 2019

Last year I attended IWWG Summer Conference at the prompting of my IWWG friends, Deborah Reed and Lisa Shapiro. It was my first writing conference and I was simply mesmerized by how important and fulfilling it was. I have to say it exceeded all of my expectations and I loved each and every session and moment there. I was one of the twelve that Maureen Murdock had in her limited Advanced Memoir Class and I took Dorothy and June’s classes as well. I had the opportunity to meet Dixie and Hope and was in Judy and Susan’s critique class. I loved the evenings and your short plays were the icing on the cake, with my friend and suitemate Lisa writing one of them.

Right now, I take memoir workshops and am in a read and critique class as well as serve as President of the San Diego Memoir Writers Association. Two of the scenes from my memoir in progress have won in the San Diego Memoir Showcase and have been performed on stage, an honor I never expected to happen.

You see, I retired from the corporate world three years ago and began to take classes and settled in to write a family history for my sons, something I had never seemed to have time to do while working full time. One of the classes was The Artist’s Way and in that class I felt the creativity that I had stifled for years begin to bloom. I also began writing a list of gratitude and intentions every day along with my Morning Pages. Without planning to, I began writing secretly in my journal about the trauma I had experienced as a teenage unwed mother in 1967 in New Orleans. This was something I held as my darkest secret. Even my grown sons did not know the story, only my husband knew the full story of how I had been forced to relinquish my newborn son for adoption. I had never known what happened to my first born son and I had mourned him silently and secretly for 49 years.

I began to write about that time in my life for the first time and to add “find Jamie” (my baby’s crib name) to my list daily.

Within six months, my son found me through Ancestry.com DNA! It was a miracle in my life and the most amazing beautiful thing, something I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams when I was that heartbroken young girl all those years ago in the 1960s. My son and my reunion explicitly rocked my world! And his too!

The last two years have been truly amazing. I thank God every day for this second chance with my son. Although we’re separated by a distance of 2000 miles, we stay in touch and visit each other often.

After our reunion I shelved the family history project and began to write my memoir about that period in my life. I went from being unable to utter the words to wanting to tell the world the story. I have finished my 2nd draft and ready to go to editing yet again. I created my website to start blogging about the story and the book, and my writing experiences are broadening quickly. Recently, I was fortunate to have author Dani Shapiro ask me to be interviewed on her Podcast series, Family Secrets.

Since attending the IWWG summer conference at Muhlenberg, my life has taken on a totally different direction than I ever dreamed.

Because we always think we have more time….

Because we always think we have more time….

May 6, 2019

My dear childhood friend Nancy was admitted into hospice today. 

Regrettably this isn’t news that surprised me. I knew cancer had attacked her lungs and brain and had become increasingly aggressive this year. We spoke as recently as last month about the extent of her cancer, her increasing weakness, her anxiety and fear.  She waffled from optimistic and nervous during that two hour conversation. My stoic Nancy cried when she told me she had given her beloved pup to a neighbor because she could no longer care for her Pookie. That red flag alone told me more than any words my beloved friend could ever have said. Then I cried.

Stubbornly I continued to hold on to the hope treatment would fix her. The doctors said she might still have three years she explained. But she also complained of not being able to read any longer or enjoy the simple things we all take for granted. Still I chose to believe a miracle would happen.

It was a lifetime ago in Biloxi Mississippi in 1957, we were feisty eight year old girls, all elbows and knobby knees, walking home from school. Each of us lugging a clarinet case along with our book satchels. One of us, not sure which one now, made a snarky comment about the other’s clarinet case. I secretly envied her case. It was red and white, mine a drab brown leather. We started calling insults to each other and before she turned off towards her home we were close to blows.

I remember I was infuriated by that tall skinny girl with the red bouncy curls, her cute dress and her smart aleck ways. Didn’t like her at all, but I was covertly in awe of her gumption. Years later she told me she had been a bit intimidated by me, the short, serious girl with the dark wavy ponytail, her blue glasses perched atop her nose.

Not sure how but the next day walking home we began speaking civilly to each other and found a common bond, maybe a dislike for some other unfortunate classmate? Who knows?  All I do know is that that day began a friendship that has stood the test of time in more ways than either one of those small girls could ever have imagined.

We became inseparable all through the school years. Countless sleep overs, hundreds of hours of phone calls, Sunday school, parties, trips and holidays filled our years. We grew up together from giggling over coloring books to ogling Seventeen magazine, from school text  books to secreted copies of Lady Chatterly’s Lover that we read aloud to each other sprawled across Nancy’s bed.  Oh how we marveled at the risqué graphic scenes.  We grew up together from the Toni perms our mothers forced upon us to ironing the waves from our long hair, growing insanely long mod bangs that all but cover our mascara caked eyes.

Once at a Christmas Service we sang a duet, Oh Holy Night, in our church choir, oh what I would give for a video of that.  We were in school plays together and shared a love of drama, show tunes and musicals. Together we grew up from girl scout camp out songs like Kumbaya  to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.

We discovered boys together, practiced hairstyles and makeup together, double dated the whole time we were in high school. Experienced alcohol for the first time together. Smoked our first forbidden cigarette together.  Together with our third musketeer Julie, we experienced the excitement and the angst of those teenage years. We played Ouija board late at night and decided we had been sisters in our past lives or maybe we had been witches in Salem. Always the drama queens, that was us.

We even survived teenage pregnancies together. Nancy was one of very few people who knew about me giving my baby boy up for adoption. Later that same year Nancy married and gave birth to her own son. She stood with me as my maid of honor at my own ill fated first marriage to the wrong man.  She and I both knew even then he was not the one for me. We both endured bad marriages and later divorces. Though I moved 2000 miles away, we flew back and forth to visit each other countless times over 50 years. Thousands of miles never keep us apart.

Years later when Nancy met the man who would be the love of my life, my Gene, she immediately loved him and said to me. This is the one for you. As always, she knew just what I needed.

Completely different lives and careers did not make a hill of beans. There was never a time we did not connect the minute we talked over the phone or when visiting. We discussed our husbands, or sons and our careers, always advising and instilling confidence. How many times she consoled me, how many times we saved each other I cannot count. Now my chest literally aches because I know there will be no more calls.

What a path our lives took us down. I could write a book about those intersected paths. In my memoir Nancy is an important character and in the process of writing I have realized even more so what a beacon of light she has been throughout my life.

Shane, Nancy’s incredibly kind son informed me that my dear Nancy stopped talking two weeks ago. She and I had tried to have a conversation over the phone, Shane holding her phone on speaker as she slurred words in a weak voice that wasn’t hers. Me, on the other end of the line, trying to be optimistic and upbeat and failing miserably.  After our conversation, Shane tells me she completely stopped talking. To anyone.

They say our loved ones completes us. And I know this is true. I would not be who I am today without my friend, who never once failed me. Who taught me what a true friend is. Our history is long and full of joys as well as traumatic sadness and countless experiences. My gratitude for Nancy in my life encompasses me. Never once did I question my love for her or hers for me. Never ever.

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