To say that 2019 wasn’t kind to me was a little bit of an understatement. Three different (day) jobs, two close family deaths and just a multitude of things going sideways all contributed to me not making any head-way into the goals that I’d set for myself personally and professionally here as an author. 

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Work has been… well, work. I did start a Google Drive to throw the random prompts that I come across into… while I’ve got my long-form Nanowrimo idea doc already, most of those aren’t really made for short-form writing. I still think I need to get back into more short-form work – the more I look at the long-form pieces that I have partially finished, the more it bugs me that they’re still just partially finished.

Maybe I’m just over-thinking it – Which I’ve been known to do, just a little. 🙂

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CindieLee Hendon, who saw me through some of my extreme lows and highs as I left teen years and headed into adulthood, died today. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. So close to the first anniversary of my mother’s death, I just don’t think a part of me will allow for me to start processing this just yet. Instead, it swirls memories of watching her son Morgan (introducing him to South Park – yes, I know, I’m going to hell for that), or her pride when she bought the house that she still lived in on her own after a rough divorce.

One day I was at work at the little ISP in St. Marys when I got a bit of a shock of Cindie and her husband rushing in. She looked frantic, her hair tied up tightly in a bandana.

“Amber! Help me! I colored my hair, and it’s PURPLE.” she said to me and my at-that-moment fuchsia hair.

I took her into the employee bathroom and she pulled off the bandana. Sure enough, it was a gorgeous amethyst on her head, when she was trying for a medium auburn. While Cindie was a daredevil in some respects, we could agree that going to PTA meetings in the late-90’s probably wouldn’t have gone over all that well.

She tucked her hair back up and I sent her off with a list of things to get from the beauty supply shop, and then we fixed it to a darker auburn than her normal, but the amethyst was no more. I really wish that I’d gotten a photo of that then, and really, I think she’d get a giggle if I could have posted it now.

Good night and joy be with you…

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At 2:14pm ET on February 6, 2013, my mother died.

I’ve been sitting, staring at that last sentence for over an hour. What else is there to say? A year ago my mother died. The rational part of my brain knows that this is just part of the cycle, but that doesn’t make anything better. We were there to say goodbye, which I know too many people don’t get the chance to do. Some folks would say that should make me feel better… but it doesn’t. Not really at all. She’s still gone, and I’m still fumbling to work out my “new normal”. My life, my family, my work – all of these things keep pushing me to find the “normal” part of the “new normal”.

The last year has been filled with “gotcha” moments, thoughts that slam me into a wall that she’s gone, over and over. Most of the raw emotions have scabbed over, but the old saw of ‘time healing all wounds’ is complete bullshit. These aren’t scars I’m carrying, they’re scabs that are easily picked at and start bleeding when you least expect them to. I juggle the day-to-day things that come from this “new normal” and keep myself upright on the days that all I want to do is curl up in a ball and bawl my eyes out, because I have to. I have my own daughter, who I know one day will have to make the same decision one day to get the hell out of bed and deal with the same intensely itchy scabs that this has left me with. That she will have to go through this one day terrifies me, but it’s just the way that it is, and there’s nothing that I can do about that. All I can do is try and do the best that I can for her as her parent to prepare her for that day. To try and make sure that some of the roadblocks that I put up between myself and my mother over the years don’t show up in our lives.

One day she’ll be staring at a date that she can’t escape.

At 2:14pm ET on February 6, 2013, my mother died. Every day since then I try to find something to get me through, to help me stop picking at the scabs.

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Then I lost my job.

Then I lost my mother.

It’s been three months today since myself, my stepfather, my grandmother and all of her siblings gathered around her hospital bed as she breathed her last. Three months since I really, honestly could say that I knew my place in this world. My mother wasn’t the easiest person to like at times, but I always loved her. There were so many things that I held over from when I was that asshole teenager and I didn’t even realize it until it was too late to attempt to take them back.

Sometimes there just isn’t enough time. Everyone knows that in some fashion, but when the universe rams it over your head in such a spectacular way, all I really could do was try and say goodbye as best I can.

I used to always compare myself to her, especially when it came to the creative arts. I’d never be as good as her, I’d say, even as my interests went in different directions than hers. There was always that comparison whenever I’d finally show her something that I drew or painted. She always had constructive criticism, but it took me years to realize that she was making me a better artist.

I was reminded of all of this as we celebrated her memory at her SCA wake on Harold and Dinah’s 27th wedding anniversary. She pushed me whether I wanted it or not. She pushed so many folks to be better at so many things. So many folks came up to us, remembering her for pushing them to be better at their craft, whatever it was. Yes, she might not have always been the most tactful about it, but dammit, she made Art. She wanted everyone to Make Art. Hindsight is a bitch at the moment for me, but this is how I think I’d like to always remember her. I think I needed this time to sort out all of this maelstrom of grief to come to this conclusion.

Go out. Make Art. Do it for Dinah, and yourself. Whatever your flavor, whatever your medium. Help me give some long-overdue honor to my mother, ok?

For those that didn’t know her, you can see some of her work on her flickr page and some of her SCA research on her site. We’re keeping these up. I own the domain for her site and will be maintaining it as an archive.

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Which is why you’ll find me near the airport this weekend for GAFilk, singing and hanging out on the smoking patio.

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Like this blog.

I have been occasionally posting flash fictions here, in hopes that by posting them I’d actually start using this blog again. So far, not really. But as I was working on a quick print advertisement for the Filk Track (where I’m not only the resident webby, but also the Assistant Director for the Fan Track), I thought, dammit, it’s the first day of 2013, I need to resurrect this blog.

So here we go. I’m not sure if I’ll be sticking to just writing-related posts, but my personal goals including writing on this at least once a week all year, hopefully more than that.

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Bob Asprin, originally uploaded by dene foye.

While aged, this is a perfect representation of how I remember Bob Asprin from when I was a child. Sitting around, guitar in hand, though the Irish Whiskey isn’t in the shot, from my memories, it was close at hand.

As I got older, and as we moved around, I found his books, and could finally put an amazing story to the songs I grew up with. The Thieves World Musical is one of those things that seemed to finally make sense to me, outside of the fact that I loved those songs simply because I wouldn’t get in trouble for swearing if I was singing along to “Hell Hounds”.

Later, running into him at a con as a teenager, he pissed me off royally, just being himself.

“You’re too old to be Dinah’s Daughter.” Exit, Stage Left.

Yeah, and you’re looking not-so-hot yourself, Bob, thanks.

Come to think of it, that was the last time I spoke to him. I know that he was at Dragoncon last year, but I never did run into him unlike my party because of my commitments. Now I wish I had, because while he could get under your skin without much effort on his part, he was still a good person. And a damned great writer.

Rest in peace, Bob. I’m off to TimeGate this weekend, and I’ll make sure to have a drink for you.

EDIT:

While I’m seeing all kinds of Memoriams out on the Great and Powerful Interwebs, Patty sums it up pretty nicely and reminded me of things I’d forgotten here.

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