Beat Sheets, Pot Holes & Puppies

I’m still working away on the revisions for Fractured Sight, my YA novel. Using Blake Snyder’s Beat Sheet has proven to be a huge help in keeping my page count down, my pacing in forward motion with all its required highs and lows, my character arcs on track, and my plot holes plugged. It’s hard work trying to figure out where to put scenes for maximum benefit and sadly, saying good-bye to scenes that just don’t work to the benefit of the story, but I think in the end I will have a better book because of it.

So I continue to slog away and wrangle my story into submission. I had a great breakthrough on the plot this morning as well as the best way to work the whole structure so that it will feed into a series rather than a stand alone book.

Meanwhile, back in Every Day Land, my car is making a strange sound – somewhere between a clunking and a rattle. We’re pretty sure it’s the brakes, but I think the sound is coming from my back driver’s side and my significant other (hereto for referred to as the SO) is convinced it is from the driver’s side front end. I’ve decided to leave it up to the professionals, although explaining the sound to them over the phone made me feel like a bit of an idiot. I’m sure my podmates thought I had lost my mind. However I think my warranty on the brakes runs out next month, so regardless of how foolish I appear, I figured I better get that sucker in before the cash came out of my pocket.

And speaking of cash out of my pocket, mid-month is fast approaching which means the puppy comes home soon! We had a last minute change after visiting the breeder. We had originally picked out a female so pale she was almost white, but when we went to see the puppies first hand we fell in love with a big bundle of boy who melted in your arms when you picked him up.

It’s hard to believe I’m going to have a puppy again. I have some anxiety that I’ve forgotten everything Cooper taught me. It’s been 15 years since I’ve raised a puppy and I really had no clue what I was doing then. Granted I learned as I went, and Coop was a great teacher, but I still have a bit of a fear that I’ll screw it all up and make a mess of things. Which is foolish. All my dogs have been well trained and well behaved. I need to stop worrying.

And I can't remember if I mentioned in my last post but I became an aunt again for the 6th time. My newest nephew, Gabriel Xavier, was born December 17th but had to stay in the NICU for a little bit. My sister surprised everyone when he was released on Christmas Day and she showed up to Christmas dinner with three kids instead of two. Below is a pix of me and the other two, Maggie (wearing my hat) and Malcolm in front of tree, George. Yes... my sister names her Christmas Tree every year.

One Year Ago Today...

Well today is the first anniversary of having lost Coop. It's strange to think an entire year has passed since I got to nuzzle that soft face or hug that sturdy body or watch the way her eyebrows would lift and fall when I talked to her as if she were sitting there processing what I was saying and forming her own opinions about it. She was the best friend a girl could have and I think I've realized now that while time keeps marching on, there is a part of me that was left behind with her, and another part that I'll carry with me wherever I go.

I still walk into the house and automatically look for her at the top of the step where she would always be sitting and waiting, her tail wagging and her tongue hanging out. Didn't matter if I had been gone five minutes or five hours. Her joy in seeing my return never diminished. My sadness at not seeing her has yet to wane.

I've put away her dishes now, and just the other week I moved her bed from the foot of mine to under it. The leash that kept her in the backyard has been pulled out of the ground. I sleep in the middle of the bed now, not off to one side. But when I wake up, my eyes still go to the end of the bed expecting her to be there. Her presence still fills this house. I see her on the sofa when I drink my coffee on the weekend, on the bed as I dress for the day, curled up next to my feet at the dining room table. I see her in the kitchen when I fix my lunch, and on the bathmat when I get ready in the morning.

Those are the sad parts. But there are good parts too. I think I've come to realize what her mission here was. She had a job to do. She had to teach me how to become the person I was meant to be. She did her job well. And when it was done, she knew it was her time to go and that it was time for me to stand on my own and take what I had learned and go forward. I can't even begin to imagine who I would have become without her. She made me step outside my box and see things in a way I wouldn't have otherwise. She was a little bit magic that way.

So here I am, one year later. It's been a strange year of changes and a lot of good things that have come into my life. I still think ,"I wish Coop was here to see this with me", but I figure she can see it anyway and I hope she's nodding her head in approval. She taught me well. Gold star, buddy. You were the absolute best.

The Sleep Deprived

Sorry I've been horribly absent. I had been battling a four week bout of insomnia. I was getting some sleep each night, but it was sporadic and broken up, probably totaling about 3 hours a night. Ugh. By week four I was completely brain-fried, muttering gibberish and stopping halfway through sentences because I had completely lost track of what I was saying. But instead of things gradually getting better like they normally do, or crashing out of sheer exhaustion which is usually my second option, the sleepless nights just kept dragging on and the amount of sleep I was getting growing shorter. Something had to give. Finally I broke down and purchased a bottle of valerian to see if that would work. It did. I took it the first night and slept like a baby.

So now, with several nights of good sleep under my belt, I feel human again. I missed a few days of writing because what I was getting down was horrible and I couldn't concentrate on what I was doing. So in favor of not destroying my manuscript, I decided to step away from it. Today was my first day back. I felt a little rusty but I managed to finish the scene I had been struggling with.

Thanks for the kind words on the poem too. I love writing poetry but I've been away from it lately. I'd like to start up again and get back into it.

Meanwhile, we have our annual potluck and gift grab at work today. I'm thankful for the distraction. Today is the six month anniversary of Coop's death. I keep thinking it should be getting easier by now, but strangely it isn't. I still miss her horribly. I find myself restless a lot lately. I am finding I have too much spare time on my hands where I used to have things that I did with her. Now I just rattle around the house feeling at odds like I should be doing something but I'm not quite sure what.

As for the holidays, I am shuttling between my brother's for Christmas Eve dinner, then my parents house for Christmas morning to open presents, then down to my sister's in the afternoon for Christmas dinner and the opening of our socks (we draw names every year of who does whose sock and then open them together). My parents wanted me to spend the night at their place on Christmas Eve, but I put my foot down on that one. Coop and I always spent Christmas Eve at my place and sat in front of a fire with the tree lit watching our annual holiday movie - Love Actually. I'm going to stick with that ritual this year, just minus the Cooper part. I think with all the insanity of kids and family that will happen between the 24th to 26th, I'll need as many pockets of solitude as I can find to maintain my sanity.

A Formidable Opponent

Grief sucks. I’m just putting that out there. It kicks your butt and leaves you a beaten and bloody lump on the floor. Then it steps over you with a wave and says, ‘Catch ya later, chump!’ And it does. It actually comes back later and whoops your ass again. And again. And then once again for good measure in case you weren’t paying attention the first few times. In fact, it keeps coming back until you lose count of how many trips it’s made.

But damned if I’m going to just sit back and let it take a piece out of me. No way. I’m not a scrapper for nothing. I channel my inner Pat Benatar and ‘put up my dukes and get down to it’. Then it hits me with its best shot. And I go down for the count. If I had any brains, I would stay there. Just let it wash over me, get its licks in and then go on its merry way. But I’ve never been very good at just standing still and letting someone get their licks in.

So I bounce back up, smack my chest like a prize fighter and yell, “Yah? You want a piece of this?”

Turns out it does. And down I go again.

The process repeats itself until I begin to question my sanity. And in that questioning here is something I’ve learned: Grief cannot be beaten. It has an unlimited supply of return engagements which it is more than happy to use until you finally throw up your arms and say, “Fine! I give! Uncle!”

I hate crying uncle. I don’t think I’ve ever cried uncle.

I’m crying uncle now.

See, I figured I could just push past grief, smack it into submission and be on my way. That’s my usual modus operandi when faced with a problem. I didn’t need to go through the six steps. I didn’t even need to know what the six steps were. What did it matter? Cooper was gone. She was not coming back. Denial, anger, whatever else – useless emotions. A waste of time. I was not going to stand still and deal with that crap. Not me. Grief was nothing more than a problem I was going to solve.

I would immerse myself in all things dog. Books, training DVDs, websites. I would get another one. Take that grief. I’ll get a beagle. No...no that isn’t going to work. A lab rescue dog then. No, wait, a sheltie. What? You need a home for a golden retriever? Sign me up! But every time an opportunity presented itself my gut would clamor into an uproar and I would back pedal like a commitment-phobe being shotgunned to the altar.

Note to self: Grief cannot be circumvented.

I admit I can get tunnel vision. I get fixated on something I’m going to do and I just barrel through until I get there. This works most of the time. It keeps me focused and gets me to where I need to be. But apparently grief did not get the memo. It can not be barreled through. It cannot be burrowed under. It's too damn fat to squeeze around. And, worst of all, it will not be ignored.

So here I am, realizing this three months later, looking around at an empty house void of Cooper. I am not over her passing. Not by a long shot. I notice little things, hints that my subconscious knew this all along. Little corners I refused to vacuum, because some of her hair still lived in tiny pockets. Her bed still resting at the foot of mine. The good morning and goodnight I still say at the beginning and end of each day. The screensaver that graces the computer at work. The crying jags that come out of nowhere and the dull, relentless ache somewhere in the hollowed out area where all the things we used to do used to live.

There is not room there for another dog. Not yet. Maybe not for some time to come. That place still belongs to Cooper and I’m not ready to move her out or put her somewhere else.

So to recap: Grief sucks. It cannot be beaten. It will not be ignored. It kicks your ass.

Fine. I get it. Lesson learned.

Wrestling Victories

Designating my dearly departed Coop as my new muse seems to have worked. Much like she did in life, she has come through for me once again. The issues I struggled with in the last section of Brimstone have finally--finally!--worked themselves out.

I finished my scene caps and tonight I'll meet with my CP to go over them and ensure I haven't forgotten any loose threads, etc. I feel much better having conquered this and wrestled it to the ground. Plus it gave me something else to focus on other than my grief. Which may be a rather nasty case of avoidance and denial on my part, but I'm okay with that.

It's been a rough week, and I can't really say it's getting any easier. If anything, I think it will get harder before it gets better. The strange thing is that all last week I could look back and say, this time last week she was fine, perfectly fine. Everything was good. We were happy as clams. But after today, I can't say that. My week barometer is gone. Because after today, when I look back a week all I can say is, this time last week she was gone. It's like I'm getting further away from her, and that makes it more real. Up until this point there was a part of me, ridiculous as it seems, that thought, she'll be back. She's not really gone. Silly, I know, but like I said - avoidance, denial.

I know sooner or later the truth will settle in and I'll find a place to put it where I can live with it and not feel like someone is stabbing me through the chest with a blunt object. I know this. But until then, if I have to dodge and weave, avoid and deny, then hell, I'm going to do it. And while I'm dodging and weaving I'll go through the motions of life and new routines and eventually they'll begin to feel normal and then I probably will too.

Still, I think it sucks. Some big cosmic joke that our animals don't live as long as we do. I'm sure it's meant to teach us some sort of universal lesson, but for the life of me I can't figure out what that is.

But either way, regardless of fate's cosmic crap, I wrestled Act III into submission. I'll take my small victories.

Finding a New Normal

Thanks to everyone for all the warm thoughts and condolences on Cooper’s passing. It’s been hard, and likely will for some time to come, but it definitely helps knowing there are people out there who support and understand the loss.

For now, I’m trying to establish new routines. Morning is a tough one. Before, I would get up, spend a few minutes cuddle time with Coop and then we’d go downstairs to let her out and of course follow that with the never-ending excitement over filling her dish. Once that was out of the way I’d traipse back upstairs and jump into the shower. By the time I got out, she’d be laying down in the bathroom doorway waiting for me. I have to keep reminding myself to get up and go straight into the shower now. No going downstairs. No filling the dish. No cuddles and laughter beforehand. Gotta tell you, I miss the cuddles and laughter. The new morning routine is pretty dull in comparison.

But after that, I do the usual. Fix my lunch, make coffee, get cereal. Then it’s downstairs to write. At this point, Coop usually went back to bed (getting up at 5:45 am to eat is acceptable, staying up when she could crawl back into bed? Not so much). Yesterday and today I managed to work out the plot issues I have been having with Act III thanks to some previous brainstorming with my CP. I put a picture of Coop on my desk and informed her she is now my new muse. I have a feeling she’ll be far more cooperative than the last one I had that was given the boot. It feels good to be able to write. I was worried with my concentration being shot to hell my writing would take a hit, but I seem to be managing it in baby steps.

Tonight will be the first night I eat supper at home since losing Coop. Not looking forward to that but I have to face it some time. I may forego the dining room table. I hate to eat alone and not having Coop’s chin resting on my leg while I eat might just sour my appetite completely, and it isn’t that great to begin with right now. I told Coop it is a true testament to how much I miss her if my appetite is affected. She isn’t the only one who danced excitedly at meal time.

But bit by bit I’m trying to make new routines. It will take a while before they feel normal, before it doesn’t kick me in the gut every time I go to do the things I used to. I’m not sure how long it will take for me to walk into my bedroom and not automatically look for her curled up on my bed, but I’m not sure I want to stop that one either, so maybe that’s okay.
I know eventually I’ll bring home a new bundle of fur, and while that new bundle will never be Coop, it will definitely benefit from all the wonderful things Coop taught me. I know she'll be there to help me raise the new addition in spirit.

Goodnight, Sweet Buddy

I'm writing this through a thick veil of tears at the moment. On Sunday my sweet little buddy started having focal seizures and we discovered a mass on her brain. By Monday afternoon I made the decision to not allow her to suffer and let her go. In between the seizures, Coopy was fine - her sweet, loving self, but she knew something was wrong and she gave me a look that said, 'fix this, Kelly, you're the only one that can'. I didn't want to do it. I tried to find every excuse I could not to, but in the end I couldn't put her through another day of seizures, knowing it would only get worse.

This is, without a doubt, the most painful thing I have ever done or gone through. I've lost people in the past, people I loved, but Cooper was my every day. She was my child, my companion, my best friend. She was the one I leaned on through everything else. She came into my life at a time when I needed her the most and she molded me into the person I am today. I said to my Mom as she was going to sleep, "I don't know who I am without her." But last night it came to me: I'm exactly who she made me.

Her end came peacefully. I laid down on the blanket with her and whispered in her ear all the things I always said, kissed her in all her favorite places, rubbed her soft ear through my fingers. The vet who had become so attached to her was in tears. They turned off the lights and brought in a soft lamp and left me and Mom alone with Coop as she drifted off, then gave us time after to say good-bye. She looked so peaceful, just like she always did cuddled up on my bed fast asleep.

To say Coopy was special to me would not even come close to touching the reality of our relationship. We had an intuitive thing going on. She knew me better than anyone. I loved that she loved me for it anyway, and was always there.

So to you little buddy,

I loved the way you rushed down and greeted me at the door whether I was gone five minutes or five hours. I loved how when I went away on a trip you always knew the exact day I was expected home and spent that day pacing the door.

I loved how crazy excited you got at every single meal time, jumping up and down, whining and letting out little barks. Or the way you would follow at my heels as I got your dish ready. I loved how you yawned long and loud and could make it sound like Joey from Friends saying, 'How you doin'.

I loved in the morning how you would sidle up beside me, rub your paws over that sweet face, then rest them on your nose and peek up with one eye to make sure I was watching. Then do it again because you knew I thought it was the cutest damn thing in the world. I love how you knew the best way to get me out of bed in the morning to get your breakfast was to sit next to me on the bed and lean your weight on my bladder. I love how you hogged over half the bed.

I loved how you flipped my arm up with your nose to slip under it and how when you wanted a kiss you would inch your face closer to mine in degrees, bit by bit until it rested against my cheek. I loved how affectionate you were, every minute of every day for twelve and a half years without fail. For someone who was used to keeping their feelings locked inside, you found the key then kicked open the door anyway.

I loved how you taught me responsibility and selflessness in a way that I never minded taking on either.

I loved the way you crawled up and rested all 42 lbs on my chest like you were still a little puppy, or how I couldn't take a nap without you curling up behind my knees or against my chest. I loved how you always put yourself between me and anything you perceived as a potential danger.

I loved the way you cocked your head to the side and quirked an eyebrow when I talked to you about pretty much everything, as if you were giving everything I said great weight and consideration. Or the dubious look you gave me when perhaps I was throwing out an idea that didn't quite fly. I'm pretty sure you're still listening, and that's good. Because I'm still talking to you and I doubt that will ever stop.

I love all the little nicknames you had and that you answered to every one of them: Sweet pea, Sweetie, Stinky Bean, Smudge, Inspector Clouseau, Coop, Coopy, Coop-pa-pah! I love that you never made fun of my crazy dancing in the kitchen even when the only music was in my head. I loved that you didn't howl in agony when I sang out loud.

I loved that no matter where in the house I went, you were right there with me.

I loved how everyone who met you thought you were the sweetest thing. And you were.

I loved that you loved me unconditionally every day no matter what my mood, what I did, or how little I might have deserved it.

I love that you never let me be down, not ever. You always made me feel better. I'll try to find some of that now and hang on to it because I know you wouldn't want to see me like this.

I love every single memory you left me with and I will cherish ever last one of them.

I loved all the million and one little things you filled every single day with and I will miss every one of them for every day after. This house is so empty without you, sweetie and I can barely stand it, yet at the same time I feel you here with me and it helps.


He whom we love and lose is no longer where he was before. He is now wherever we are. ~ St. John Chrysostorn, fourth century bishop

Do not stand by my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.

When you awaken in the morning hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand by my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.

I love you sweet buddy. I miss you so very, very much. Save me a spot, put in a good word, play with Chaser and Riley. I'll see you when I get there.