I am raw, bleeding marrow and heart, when I speak of my husband, my dog, my writing– that which shapes my days. I whisper, as if the words might lacerate my mouth; I’m afraid to scare them away. Sometimes the richness of joy rends flesh from rib because we walk on gossamer, bound and blindfolded, when we love. That’s my truth. My sincerity.

1. My Husband

Okay, I know it’s cliché to wax poetic about how grateful we are for our spouses, but seriously. My husband is a good man. He’s been nothing but supportive and encouraging no matter how many hours I spend gallivanting around with fictional characters, and when I need someone to bounce ideas off of, he’s more than happy to oblige. When I’m having one of those inevitable, “What am I doing?” days with regard to my writing, he tells me  my words are magic and my heart pulses on the page. Even if no one else ever sees that, the fact that he does? That’s love. It’s also friendship, and that’s why we work so well.

2. Our Pets

The cute critters to the left are Esper, our Doberman, and J-Rod, our leopard gecko. I’m sure those of you with pets totally understand this. There’s a lot of laughter in our home, and quite often it’s because of one of these two goofballs. Especially Esper, who never fails to entertain with her toy obsession or her morning “zoomies” around the house.

3. Cosmology

Maybe this is a little corny, but I love keeping up with the latest studies in astronomy and theoretical physics. Mind you, I’m not exactly subscribing to academic journals. I read books on theoretical physics written for the armchair enthusiast, by authors like Michio Kaku and Paul Davies. The more we learn about the universe, the more questions there are.

4. Walks

Although you won’t see me kayaking and snowboarding, I love being outdoors. Something about moving the body and breathing fresh air helps spur creativity; I come up with some of my best ideas and plot resolutions while walking. As you can see by the photo to the left, Colorado is the place to do it.

5. Writing / Books

I know, I know. This is a given. Still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t include writing and books in a happiness list. They’re my life. Since devoting myself to being a storyteller, I feel like I’ve found my place in the world. All day, every day, I swim in the lives, thoughts, beliefs, and conflicts of fictional characters. I’d have it no other way. It’s also why I’ll never give up.

What five things make you happy, and why?

Photo of J by Laura Vasilion.

Today was our first snowfall of 2010. As I let the sky kiss my face with thick, white flakes and I acknowledged the crystals before they spent their short lives, I was grateful my friend and I had taken a day to meander aimlessly around Boulder.

The first days and weeks of the new year often seem pregnant with urgency. People chase ideals and inadequacies from room to room, polishing one and stuffing the other in empty filing cabinets. We wipe our brows and dust off our hands and nod, satisfied that we’ve put that year behind us, the year when such-and-such happened and you-know-what didn’t. We lock the cabinet drawers so the dearly departed year does nothing that ghosts are wont to do, like shattering our finest filigreed plates or stacking chairs in whimsical domestic sculptures.

We open the front door to the new year and the winter wind blows in with it. We’re stronger now, and so full of resolve, and there’s nothing we can’t withstand– certainly not a little chill and a few snowflakes in the foyer.

Because this is The Year, isn’t it? The year when life takes a turn for the better, when all our hard work pays off, when the chips fall favorably and champagne bottles shatter against pristine hulls.

2010 is that year. We should all believe it because there is no other year than this one. No moment beyond now. There’s so much assessment, appraisal, and intensity in January that it’s nice to take a few minutes to just be.

No resolutions, no intentions. Just existence, and the cloud dust in your hair.

More often than not, I’m wrapped in a wordsmithing cocoon, immersed in the world of whatever work in progress I happen to be giving my attention to at the time. Dodging falling prose and sharpshooting errant words is a lot easier when you have a space committed to editorial gymnastics, let me tell you. So, here’s my little office nook.

Having dual monitors makes my life so much easier. Usually, I have the manuscript open on the laptop’s screen and Microsoft OneNote open in the extra monitor. You can just barely see my little plastic alien friend who hangs out on the screen. And that’s my husband’s desk in the background.

The space looks bare because I straightened up before taking this picture. Trust me, it’s usually littered in notebooks, note cards, note smoke signals– pretty much anything I can grab when a thought kicks me in the face and demands I jot it down. You know how it is.

You can sort of see my character notes on the white board.  I love that thing, but I think I need a bigger one.

So, what about you? Do you have a preferred writing space? Share pictures and descriptions in the comments; let’s see where your creativity blooms.

As I watch the white blanket thicken from the warmth of my home, I think of the words in my head, the stories I’ve to tell, and I see them in every flake that flutters to the ground.

So I did. The other night, I was outside, walking in the cloak of dark as I always do. It’s a combination of being an avid skywatcher and finding the nighttime silence relaxing.

Some painful things have transpired in my life recently, and I was doing the existential thing. Admittedly, that involved talking to whatever might hear me Up There.

Then I heard it.

“Reece! Sampson!”

Someone called for their pets. I wiped my tears and jogged over to her, shoes sticking in the mud.

“Did you lose your dogs?”

“Yes!” She was frantic, all terrycloth robe and unkempt hair. “Have you seen them?”

“No, but I’ll help you look. What are their names again? Reece and Sampson? What do they look like? Are they friendly enough to approach?”

“Oh, yes! Yes! They’re friendly. One’s shy but they’re friendly. Reece and Sampson, yes. One’s white, one’s black. Oh, thank you!”

I moved to the top of a small nearby hill to see if I could see anything. Nothing moved in the cover of night. An occasional car drove by, headlights illuminating nooks and crannies, revealing nothing out of the ordinary. My eyes drifted to a location heavy with memory, one that reminded me of my pain, but I moved beyond it and choked back personal issues. It was time to think of Reece and Sampson, of their owner, of the warm home they would come back to.

Pacing, jogging, calling for them, I searched.

It took about thirty minutes, and then I heard it. A rustling in the nearby grass.

“Pup pup!” I clapped, loud kisses dotting the quiet. “Reece! Sampson!”

Two dark shadows darted out, bowing, wiggling, wagging, barking. Yay! Play with us!

“Oh boy! C’mere, kiddos! Reece! Sampson!” I ran in the opposite direction, back toward their home.

And they followed. Running circles around me, their joy and exuberance infiltrated my sadness. For a moment, nothing else existed, just the chill of night and the sound of their paws rustling the grass. Their panting, their playful barks disturbing the quiet neighborhood park, none of us caring about the sleeping humans around us. Nothing mattered but that moment, that instant, that sacred space we created in our play.

They chased me home, and their owner cried. “Thank you, oh god, thank you so much!”

“I have a dog,” I said. “I can’t imagine losing her. It was my pleasure. Have a good night!”

More thank yous, and love all around for Reece, Sampson and their owner.

I walked home and the sadness returned, tears storming the gates despite my happiness for the reunited family. But for a moment, something else meant more to me than my own pain, than my own sorrow, more than mourning the joy I’d lost.

For a moment, the world and my heart were silent, save for paws in the grass.