My black shirt welcomes the rays of morning sun. I’ve come to the upper terrace to draw its potted plants and tropical trees, the rusted wire fence and stained plaster. A cat slinks by on the ledge above me, casting a furtive, golden-eyed glance over his shoulder to make sure I don’t see him. It’s another bright blue day in Ferragudo.
The village, a quintessential masterpiece of white and terracotta Mediterranean architecture, festoons the mountainside and embraces the river littered with anchored fishing boats. An ancient castle, brooding and watchful, guards the broad expanse of water where the Rio Arade spills into the sea.
I’m in love.
And enchanted by the slower pace, the friendly smiles, the flirty men who could never get away with their playful repartee where I’m from. He looks me in the eye. A hand rests casually on my shoulder. He points me in the right direction then says, “I show you. Not far,” and motions me to follow.
I’m in love.
Yesterday, I walked a mile to the big grocery store, Lidl. (Is it L-eye dl? Or Liddle? Or something that isn’t either of those? To my ear, the language sounds more Germanic than Romantic.) Just inside the entrance, one is accosted by breads – oh, the breads! I’m hopeless when presented with an array of artisan loaves, rustics, garlic-buttered baguettes, herb-infused rolls, and something that translates as bread of the gods. I have no shame, no resistance whatsoever. But I must be mindful of the load I will carry home on my back. One baguette and one irresistible nod to the dieties, then, with gourmet salad makings and a bottle of wine, my bag is full.
Today, lunch at a Thai restaurant in the square. The server made it clear that the Thai cook was on holiday, so we could not order from that menu. But tapas were available. I chose nachos. What could be tastier than beer with crisp tortilla chips, guacamole, beans, and – a scant hint of cheese if you looked hard enough – on a sun-drenched day in Portugal? The answer: two beers!
I’m in love.
And, I am privileged to be able to travel. I’m healthy, my mobility is balanced and sound, and my mind is functional. My finances are just enough to allow this indulgence, and for that, I am profoundly grateful. I am mesmerized by other cultures – thrilled to watch and learn – hungry for the joyous adventure of it all.
Sharing the magic with those of you who care to check in with me now and then is most satisfying, and your comments add to the pleasure. Thank you!
Now, for a sunshine fix on the terrace. I’m banking the rays knowing only too well what I’ll be returning to in a couple of weeks!
I didn’t know what to expect, but Portugal is beyond. Way beyond.
I’ll start from the beginning…
After the 3-hour drive from my home in the frigid deep north (my sister informed me that it was -35°F yesterday morning), I spent the night in Minneapolis. The next day, my daughter took me to the airport to catch my 1:15 p.m. flight to Philadelphia.
I cleared the checkpoints and was at my gate. It was a smaller plane for the domestic flight and definitely no frills. But we landed in Philadelphia safely and on time.
I was in terminal F and my next flight left from Terminal A. Meanwhile, I had a 4 1/2-hour layover, so I asked at the information desk which way to Terminal A. She pointed then said, “It’s a 25-minute walk.”
“Twenty-five?” I repeated.
She nodded. “But, there’s a shuttle right through those doors.”
I thanked her and took the shuttle.
Somehow, my flights always seem to be at the farthest gate possible. I found it, bought a roasted turkey wrap and bottled water, and settled in to wait.
They started the boarding process an hour before departure, which was a good thing because this dreamliner plane has the capacity for 240 passengers. Boarding that many takes a while.
Once on the plane, we taxied for about 5 minutes, then sat for another hour on the tarmac while the plane was de-iced.
I had a window seat with a perfect view of the left wing.
At last, all traces of ice and snow removed, we were off to Lisbon.
Six plus hours later, the coast of Portugal came into view, a sight for tired eyes.
My friend, who has been here 5 times, had sent explicit instructions. Before leaving the airport, go to Vodaphone for an eSim.
I found the Vodaphone booth and got in line behind 8 others. I stood there…and stood there…while each person’s process took at least 20 minutes. At that rate, I’d miss the bus to Ferragudo. I connected to the airport internet and put in a quick WhatsApp call to my friend. Her advice: Forget the eSim, just get to the bus.
OK, will do. So, I pulled up my Uber app.
Where are you going?
Bus Station.
Now or later?
Now.
Your visa is being charged. Your driver, Lucido, is 4 minutes away. White Nissan, license plate….
He arrived. He spoke no English, and my Potuguese contains approximately four words. I was whisked to the bus station and dropped at the curb. Obrigado, thank you, that’s one of the 4.
I asked a woman lined up in a queue for one of the 20 or so buses where the ticket office was. Found it. Went to the wrong window. A woman asked me where I was going.
“Portimao.”
“Follow me.” I followed her and discovered that she was the ticket agent. “Your bus leaves in 5 minutes,” she said. She printed the ticket then, again, “Follow me.” She led me to the bus.
From that bus window, I photographed the ever-changing Portuguese countryside.
Lisbon
I don’t know the names or the history of what I saw through that window leaving Lisbon, but it was magical.
Then we were in the country.
Cranes in their nests.
What a tour! Olive orchards, sheep, cork trees, figs, I had planned to sleep on the bus. Who can sleep in Wonderland?
My friend was waiting when we pulled into the station at Portimao. Twenty minutes later, we were at her house. She gave me a quick tour, then showed me my private suite (bedroom, bath, and balcony). By then, I’d had 2 hours of sleep in the past 40 hours.
“We’ll go out to dinner,” she said.
“If I’m awake,” I replied.
In a heartbeat, I was dead to the world. At around 5 p.m. she knocked.
Who? What? Where am I?
“Come downstairs when you’re ready. There’s wine and cheese. Then we’ll go to dinner.”
If you aren’t familiar with Portuguese wines, you should be. She had a bottle of red and a white, mixed cheeses, a baguette… Who needs dinner? I thought.
But an hour later, we were out the door and on our way to Restaurant Aria for A) more wine, B) an appetizer of marinated olives, and then…
Baked Octopus.
It was DIVINE.
When our engaging, single, middle-aged waiter with two cats told us there was one slice of raspberry cheesecake left, we decided dessert was essential. My friend had the cheesecake. I ordered a carob, fig, almond cake that was…well…you remember the scene with Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally? It was THAT good.
We got back to the house – a very short walk – and I slept so well…!
I can not tell you how happy I am to be far, far away from ice and snow exploring this Portuguese fishing village. The journey was so worth it! I sunned stretched out in a lounge chair on the upper terrace amid cacti and palms today. Ahhhh…bliss!
Oh! I will slip the snowy bonds of Earth And dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ll climb…
That isn’t quite how John Gillespie Mcgee begins his poem, High Flight I took liberties with the wording based on my circumstances. But in a few days, I will escape dreary Minnesota winter and fly to Portugal for three weeks.
My whole body tingles! A friend I met in Bali spent seven weeks of Covid in a house in Ferragudo in the Algarve region. Now she’s there again and I’ll be renting a room from her for my stay.
From the house, it’s a 7-minute walk to the beach. It won’t be swimming weather. The Atlantic seems to always be cold, and Portugal registers temperatures between 55° and 65° this time of year. But that’s perfect for meandering the endless coastline with sand in my toes.
A few days ago, I was researching the area and found a river cruise up the Arvade to one of the many vineyards in the region. I couldn’t book it fast enough! The tour of the vines, a premier wine tasting with a charcuterie board of local cheeses, meats, and sausages, and a visit to the barrel room, not to mention the 1 1/2-hour boat ride there, and another 1 1/2-hour back sounds absolutely divine. As I said, my whole body tingles!
I’ve decided this will be a trip of unlimited creativity. I packed a set of 72 pens that have a fine point at one end and a brush at the other.
I have my mixed media tablet ready for sketching.
My passport has been updated, my universal plug works all over the world, and the little book of passwords – I can’t forget that. I also bought new pens for journaling. You can never have too many pens!
I’ll have a carry-on and a backpack. I like to travel light.
My friend works at a thrift shop there. I can only imagine the kind of damage I’ll do to my Euros at that place.
As beautiful as the snowcovered Minnesota landscape is, after the initial rapturous day or two, I seek alternatives: friends in warm places, open escape routes, and as soon as something manifests…
I’ve been in airports. Lots of airports. And quite a number of them many times. Singapore’s Changi began to feel like my second home since I almost always had a long layover there on my trips to and from Bali.
Changi Airport
So, when I try to remember where I had my first taste of liver pâté, all I can say is that it was in an airport somewhere. Charles DeGaulle in Paris would make sense since a French chef in Normandy is credited with creating that robustly earthy treat. But maybe it was Heathrow. Best guess, it was somewhere in Europe.
I’ve intentionally purchased liverwurst a few times, just for that memorable flavor. But it’s a shabby substitute.
My cousin with a PhD. from the University of Minnesota raises cows, pigs, llamas, chickens, goats, and sheep on her farm nearby. My sister recently bought the meat of a whole lamb from her. I overheard Gwen saying that she was going to cook the liver for her dog.
“You’re what? No way! May I have it? Please?” I begged.
So today I made the most mouth-wateringly delicious pâté…no, really, it’s divine! I only had to substitute Greek yogurt for cream and dried herbs for fresh ones. It was ridiculously easy.
I served it with crackers when the Codgers arrived for 5 o’clock social hour. As finicky and judgmental as they are (all of them are gourmet cooks) they agreed it was edible, even tasty in small doses. At 250 calories per serving, small is the sensible portion!
The 1.4-pound liver made a large batch. But Google said it freezes well. So that’s where it is now, a year’s supply of Old World Lamb Liver Pâté, frozen in my fridge. Every guest that passes through my doorway will get a taste. But don’t let that deter you. I do want visitors…really, I do! 🤢
Icy dervishes whirl across the field outside the window. My weather app describes today as dreary. Seriously? How about cloudy? Knowing there will be an absence of light is enough information. Cloudy states a fact. Dreary assumes a negative emotional response. Not everyone finds an overcast day dull, bleak, lifeless, and depressing. Maybe I welcome this sunless day to curl up with a book or chop and sauté in a brightly lit kitchen, filling the house with the nurturing aromas of a hearty soup. Just stick to the facts, AI. Don’t tell me how I should feel.
The first time dreary popped up on my app, I chuckled. I was used to seeing cloudy, mostly cloudy,intermittent clouds, and snow. Clear days here in the far north aren’t designated sunny, they’re just called cold. The new word felt like a whimsical departure from the norm and made me smile. But today’s dreary followed a long string of overcast and cloudy days. My first reaction was, “Go away!” (Like the nursery rhyme: Rain, rain, go away, come again another day, little Sherry wants to play…) My light-deprived inner child was annoyed.
So, I was already in a pissy mood even before getting out of bed.
After journaling in front of my cozy fireplace and pivoting to a more positive mindset, I decided to spend the day cooking.
Mom used to make Italian Wedding Soup. I’d found a recipe online and skimmed it for my shopping list and purchased the ingredients. But true to form, I’d neglected to read the details.
Remembering how delicious it was, I decided to make a double batch and set to it, mixing Italian sausage and ground beef, egg, breadcrumbs, parmesan cheese, and onion. When it was the desired consistency, I glanced at the instructions and did a double-take.
Form the mixture into about 40 – 1/2-inch wide – meatballs.
One-half inch wide? The size of marbles? Forty?You’ve got to be kidding! For the next hour, I sat rolling sticky blobs into teeny-weeny balls that more accurately approached 3/4 of an inch wide. I filled a 15 x 20 cookie sheet with 108 meaty marbles.
All that effort and half the mixture still remained in the bowl. I shoved the pan in the oven and made an executive decision. The rest would be four times the size of those wee nuggets.
The minis were done in minutes. I left them to cool while I prepared their jumbo siblings. That went much more quickly. But, when I tried to turn the oven back on to bake them, nothing happened. After two years of cooking, my forty-pound propane tank had run out of gas. The line from a Seinfeld episode screamed in my head: No soup for you!
I put the sheet of large raw meatballs in the freezer and went outside to unhook the propane tank and load it in my trunk for the next trip to town. The not-so-dreary day got worse. The tank was frozen fast in place. It wouldn’t budge. I wrapped my arms around it and tugged. I wedged myself between it and the house and pushed. I cursed it in Spanish, Indonesian, and English and kicked it forgetting I had metal ice cleats on my boots. No damage was done, they only marred it a bit cosmetically. In the end, the tank won and I quit.
After the frustrations of the morning, a warm blanket and a good book sounded like heaven. I cuddled in and fell instantly to sleep.
Today was to be mostly cloudy but warmer, according to my app. Mid-afternoon, armed with a bag of Ice Melt Salt and a quart of boiling water, I once again went on the offensive with the tank. I tucked salt around the base and doused it with hot water. At first, it didn’t appear to be working. But then… there was a slight jiggle when I tugged. With renewed vigor I grabbed it. Back and forth, back and forth, I rocked that baby loose. Success!
Tomorrowis predicted to be above freezing followed by four days of cold. I’ve positioned a cement block over the frozen spot and the freshly filled tank will sit atop that from now on. Problem solved.
In the midst of all this, I had a Human Design reading. It was a birthday gift from my daughters. Among other things, I discovered that I am an Experiential Learner. Is that a polite way of saying I have to f*** it up first before I get it right? That would explain a lot!
I hope you’re keeping warm and there are no drearies on your weather app.
You blew me away with your responses! What great suggestions you all made! I’ve taken your advice and have been busy rewriting and expanding to the next few chapters. Once again, critics have at it! Please!
I do have a few specific questions.
1) I’ve written in a very informal style, incorporating comments from my everyday life. Is that working?
2) The information isn’t new, but my goal is to present it in an engaging way. Is that working?
If you could respond to those and then freely voice all other thoughts, criticisms, and advice, I’d be thrilled! Here goes round two!
Don’t Hold On To What You Can’t Have
CHAPTER 1
Grasping, clinging, and telling myself lies compromised my happiness long past the use-by date. So where do I get off asking you not to hold on to what you can’t have? How do I dare offer advice when I personally screwed up so brilliantly?
If I had an imposter syndrome, that would shut me down. But impostering isn’t one of my issues. How do you measure what has been learned over decades? Here I am, a seventy-something who fudging knows a bit from living it. I’ve laughed, loved, failed, and yet come out on the other side vigorous and vim-full of…well…you decide.
I want to talk about letting go because it’s sticky, and tricky, and one of the most important keys to happiness. There are times when it’s necessary to sever all bonds, and other times when subtly loosening the grip does the job.
But it’s knowing, isn’t it? Knowing who we are, what we need, what we want. Knowing when enough is enough and too little is too painful.
Socrates, one of the great philosophers of all time, is credited with saying, Know thyself. He also said that self-knowledge is a philosophical commandment that can help people avoid mistakes in their relationships and careers.
Philosophical commandment! Holy ravioli! What does that even mean?
Ravioli – I’m starving. Time for lunch. More later.
CHAPTER 2
Okay, I’ve given it some thought. Let’s reduce philosophical commandment, to a less lofty-sounding but equally valid expression. Let’s call it the guiding rule. Self-knowledge is the guiding rule that helps people avoid mistakes in their relationships and careers. When it’s spelled out that way…so logical…right?
Until I read the iconic book by Kathleen A. Brehony, Awakening at Midlife, I had not devoted one iota of bandwidth to pondering those essential questions about myself. I was living on autopilot, numb, checked out.
Sadly, we can’t flick a button to light up our awareness. Learning who we are is a process; if it hasn’t been part of the daily regimen to date, there’ll be some catching up to do.
I was in my fifties with four failed marriages and a felony conviction to my credit (or debit) when I began to ask Who am I? Fortunately, the conviction was overturned on appeal, but I’m just saying, I was a late bloomer at the awareness table. And, I hate to admit this, but even after I began the process of self-discovery, I married and divorced one more time. Breaking old patterns is a bitch.
On the flip side, my transformation is a testimony to the fact that it’s never too late. Are you listening? It is never ever too late.
Uncovering who we are is an exciting journey. I didn’t know I was a writer. Didn’t know I loved solitude. Didn’t know how much I needed adventures, challenges, experiences, and an out-of-the-box reality. It gives me goosebumps to write this, to remember how lost to myself I was.
When we don’t know ourselves, we’re vulnerable. Instead of choosing what will feed and nurture us in healthy ways, we run the risk of falling prey to opposite energies. That’s what I meant when I said I was on autopilot. I let life happen to me rather than making informed choices to determine my fate. Self-knowledge = informed choices = a higher potential for happiness and success.
What does all this have to do with holding on or letting go? Everything. Yup. Absolutely everything.
Okay, it’s 32 degrees Fahrenheit, as warm as it’s going to get today, and it’s already closing in on 2 p.m. I need to get my walk in before dark. In the frozen tundra of northern Minnesota, winter brings nighttime virtually on the heels of sunrise. I need to catch while catch can – back soon!
CHAPTER 3
It’s a quarter to eight in the morning and still dark. In honor of all that’s true and holy, I’m letting go of my need for sunlight and embracing the gloom. To my point – I’m choosing not to hold onto what I can’t have right now. I’ll practice patience. That’s a good place to start. I’ll loosen my vise-like grip on the desire for a bright and beautiful day knowing that if I’m patient, that day will come. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, and if I check my weather app, maybe not for a week. But it will come. So, Sherry, give up your infantile whining already!
Patience isn’t always a virtue. It’s good to have patience for something over which you have no control. Like the weather, for instance. But in circumstances where your needs aren’t getting met…. Here’s where you have to know yourself. If you don’t know what you need, you don’t know when you’re not getting it. To be a healthy human, you must know when action is required to make a change for your well-being.
So let’s help you get to know you.
After I read that life-changing Awakening book, I set out on my journey of self-knowing. I made a list of things I love. Not people. Not pets. Things. One of them was sunlight through French doors. Really! That’s random. But it’s something I love. My list went on for pages and pages. I found myself returning to it throughout the days as another ‘love’ popped to mind.
What a simple task, right? But, by becoming aware of the things I loved, I was able to give myself more of that. I immediately weeded out of my life the things I didn’t love. Itchy clothing, stinky candles, lumpy pillows…. You get the drift!
#1 – Make a list of the things you love
When I well and truly couldn’t think of another thing I loved, I asked myself, What do you want that you don’t have? I quickly realized I’d opened Pandora’s Box – a real can of worms. My day-to-day was a shallow shell of shoulds. I was trying to fit into a mold of imagined expectations – what I thought others wanted of me – that had no resemblance to the life I desired. I remember thinking, I’m just marking time, waiting to die.
I panicked. I’m not kidding. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. My breath came fast and shallow. The room faded in and out of focus. I was cemented into a job, a house, a marriage, a community, an entire life that belonged to someone else.
We stuff this information so deep…we tell ourselves stories to support the lies…we deny, deny, deny, that anything’s wrong and put on a show of the perfect family, the perfect marriage, the perfect employee, the perfect wife, when all the while we are perfectly miserable.
If our reality is dreadfully out of alignment with our heart, it will require great courage to take the steps necessary to shift it. As I viewed my list of woes, my first thought was, no way. There is no way out. My second thought was, But this is unsustainable. I’m just marking time. I have to find a way.
According to the Constitution of the United States, the pursuit of happiness is our inalienable right. Deep down I felt that. I hated what I had to do yet I knew I deserved better than a robotic, disengaged existence. But, Oh! My! Where to begin?
And there are times, like now, when my heart says, Keep writing, and my body says, It’s noon! For god’s love, stop and eat breakfast!
‐———-
After breakfast, I did a new vision board.
After lunch, I walked with my sister in a marshmallow world.
After the walk, I worked on chapter 4! Now I await your feedback!
Guilt crawls over me like a damp shadow. I haven’t cleaned the house, haven’t cooked, haven’t called the kids. Since listening to the podcast that revolutionized my world, I’ve been doing nothing but writing, or thinking about writing, or rewriting what I’ve already written.
I stared at the numbers on the scale this morning certain they must be wrong. I couldn’t have gained five pounds this week. There must be old batteries in that lying piece-of-crap. I replaced them and the numbers got worse.
That’s what I get for writing. It’s a sedentary, and for me, addicting endeavor. I can sit from sunup to long past midnight, engrossed and tuned out to everything but the story unfolding in my head. I used to forget to eat. Obviously, not anymore.
I should message my sister. Walk? Now? Mailbox? Cryptic, but she’ll respond immediately with something like, Yes! 15 min. Corn. The mailbox is east on 578th Lane. The field that once had acres of cornstalks is west. It’s a little bit farther to the mailbox. We do the corn on lower energy days when we’ve already expended significant outputs on household tasks.
I send the message.
Walk? Mailbox?
Her: No! Drive. Not a nice day!
Me: No need. I’m walking. I need the exercise. I’ll get the mail.
Her: Wait. It’s icy on the road. I’ll walk with you in the field. Trudge, that is.
Me: I’m happy to wait. What time?
Her: Now is good.
Me:
We went and I’m back. It took a little convincing for her to abandon the field-trudging idea. My sister is lovely. Stubborn and lovely. So we walked on the road to the mailbox in slushy snow.
Here’s a photo from yesterday.
This is today, 37°F, not good for snow. It’s 3:00 p.m. With the moisture-laden atmosphere, half ice, half mist, it’s already getting dark. The sun will set at four-thirty.
I was going through a journal from 2011 and found a metaphor I’d written on one such day as this before I left for Bali. Spring is a comma. Summer and fall are sentences. Winter is the boring novel that never ends.
I’m in a different headspace in 2024 than I was in 2011. Way different. Winter in Minnesota now feels like permission to hibernate, and at almost seventy-five years old, I’m so ready for the slow-down that this season brings…after Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve, that is. Even here in Codgerville, we hit those at a gallop.
After I vacuumed, dusted, and shook the rugs I read for a while, The Singularity is Near, by Ray Kurzweil. It’s a fascinating book about the exponential growth of AI. The singularity, as I understand it, is when biological intelligence and artificial intelligence merge. Terrifying but inevitable. He’s also written another book. The Singularity is Nearer. I don’t recommend either one unless you’re a happy dystopian and cozy with the thought of nanobots cavorting through your capillaries.
Now the candles are burning, there’s a wintery fireplace scene with soft music playing on the TV.
Soon, my three Codger neighbors will appear for 5 o’clock social hour. We’ll discuss the disturbing article that appeared in the Aitkin Independent Age newspaper, catch up on who heard what from whom, and, if somebody says something that triggers it, we’ll spontaneously burst into song – a tune from the 60’s no doubt.
It’s the day after Christmas and I’m blown away! Your responses to my request for partners in my ONE BIG IDEA was unprecedented. Wow! Thank you!
Momentum is with us, so…moving right along…
The votes are in and there was a tie: Journaling the Subconscious and Don’t Hold On To What You Can’t Have are the clear winners. So, I’ve decided to combine them. It’s easily done, I think. Anyway, you’ll let me know if it’s working as we go.
Now, according to the advice from my mentor, Matt R., I’ve jotted down the first few paragraphs – a sloppy stab at what I think this book might feel like – and I’m once again looking for specific feedback. You’ll find those questions at the end. So here goes…don’t judge me…actually…DO JUDGE ME! We’re in this together – doing something old in a new way.
Title: Yet To Be Determined…
Chapter I (These are just a few intro paragraphs to get your feedback)
A reader called me out recently saying, How dare you offer advice without the proper education to back it up? If I had an imposter syndrome, that would have shut me down. SLAM! BAM! THANK YOU MA’AM! But impostering isn’t one of my issues. How do you measure what has been learned over many decades against a college degree and zero experience? Who do you want to listen to? A twenty-something who just scored their MA in counseling or a seventy-something who f****** knows sh** from living it? No contest, folks. Hands down, the one who’s lived, laughed, loved, failed, and yet come out on the other side vigorous and vim-full of wisdom…I’ll take that any day over a book-taught newbie.
So, let’s get to the task at hand. When I talk about journaling from the subconscious, it’s because I’ve been doing it for twenty years, and the revelations gleaned from that practice have transformed my life. And when I tell you not to hold on to something you can’t have…don’t get me started. Well, actually, yes! Set me loose on that one. Grasping and clinging, telling myself lies, compromised my happiness long past the deadline when most intelligent people would have figured it out.
——————————————-
Okay, it’s your turn!
Did I successfully get your attention? If not, why?
Are you convinced that I may have valuable things to say about the subject? If not, why?
Have I engaged you enough to continue reading? If not, what should I do differently?
Can you relate to the ‘voice’ – the somewhat cheeky writing style? (Remember, Matt says this should be brief, punchy, passionate, and above all, interesting.)
This is SO MUCH FUN! But…remember…be honest with your critiques. I was in the Ubud Writers’ Group and they were relentlessly brutal! I can handle anything!
I’m sailing into the New Year more pumped than I’ve been in a long time. There’s my upcoming trip to Portugal in February…can’t wait! But something else has me jazzed to near bursting.
It all began when I stumbled upon a podcast. I’ve been toying with self-publishing for a long time, so I was researching that possibility when up popped Matt Rudnitsky. I’d never heard of him, but I listened, and it was like, Yeah! This is it. This is what’s been missing in my writing life.
He not only addressed self-publishing, he presented the whole package: when to write, how to write, what to write, and how to engage others in your process, especially if you’ve been blogging (I have) and have a social media following no matter how small (I do). The more he talked, the more he revolutionized my writing preconceptions.
I found every aspect of his process compelling but was especially intrigued when he said we need to involve our followers in the creation process. I thought, Oh, here iswhere beta readers come in. But no, Matt wants us to test the market before we even start writing our book, to request feedback on the title and storyline to see if anyone is interested in reading what we are about to write, and keep them in the loop all the way to the finish.
Many of you have been following my blog since 2012. You have been loyal companions, affirming me and feeding my ego.
Here’s where that ends!
Going forward, for those who are willing, I want to write short, punchy books and I need brutal honesty. If you don’t like what I’ve put before you, please say so and tell me why. If parts resonate and other parts don’t, I need to know so I can revise and rewrite and make it better. I want no holds barred, people! When we’ve reached the place where it’s as good as it’s going to get, I’ll self-publish on Amazon and see what happens.
I have no expectations that my work will be a blockbuster success. I’m more interested in the process and engagement with those of you willing to join me on this adventure that feels like it could last the rest of my life.
I’ve missed the writers’ group in Bali terribly. I haven’t felt much like writing since I left the island. That was October 2021. With my astrological chart promising a fresh start, it feels like permission to charge full speed ahead. With the possibility of a little help from my friends, I feel the potential for a new-agey community of savvy literature lovers who will be gritty and tough with their feedback.
So…what are we waiting for? Are you willing to be my writers’ group and tell me the hard truths? Can we give it a test run? Matt says these books must include only the interesting parts to be successful. No fluff. We must write passionately about what we know, lessons learned, and stories of lived experiences.
These are some titles I jotted down of things I’d like to write about. I’d love to hear which ones, if any, resonate with you.
First, some How To ideas:
Ten Secrets to a Life Fully Lived
Journaling the Subconscious
Don’t Hold on to What You Can’t Have
Manifest the Impossible
Then a few stories:
Why Five Marriages Failed
The Moment That Set Me Free
Terror Over Oaxaca
It Wasn’t Supposed to End Like This
When I start writing the book with the title that gets the most votes, I’ll ask for input from page one to the cover design. The Bali writers’ group held me accountable, and their honest feedback pushed me to improve. Out here in the wilds of northern Minnesota, there’s no way to duplicate those weekly get-togethers I so looked forward to. But maybe there’s hope for a digital support system that includes you. I’m eager to find out.
Enough said for now. Please email me your responses at bronson.sherry@gmail.com or in the comment section of this blog or on Facebook Messenger.
Stay out of the sun, they said. It causes wrinkles.Protect your skin. But tropical beaches beckoned, and I stretched on warm sands soaking in radiance, not caring about a distant future I may not survive to see.
“The single engine Cessna crashed in the mountains surrounding Oaxaca. The pilot and passenger were killed instantly.”
“A motorbike skidded off the cliff on Mount Batur. Neither driver nor passenger survived.”
“A woman walking the blind curves on the Amalfi coast highway was hit and killed by a speeding car.”
None of that happened. It could have because I was the passenger in both scenarios, and I was the woman walking. But the plane didn’t crash. The motorbike didn’t skid. And the car didn’t even come close.
Instead, I survived to grow wrinkles with memories of a life lived to the brim, adventures, risks, and wondrous moments of sheer magic because the exciting present was far more important to me than an unknown future.
Had I avoided Waikiki beach, the intercontinental flights in that small plane, the exhilarating motorbike rides through the mountains of Bali, and the enchantment of the Amalfi coast, what would I have now?
Wrinkles, because they would have come with age whether I’d lived my wild or not. And what are wrinkles without memories to accompany them?
Just wrinkles.
However, my advice to my daughters:
●Wear sunscreen.
●Avoid tropical beaches.
●Fly only in large commercial aircraft.
●Don’t ever get on the back of a motorbike,
and…
●In Praiano on the Amalfi coast, stick to the stairs!
writing for self-discovery 
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