What an incredible week. It was a long 6 hour drive for those of us traveling from the Raleigh area, but soooo worth it. We stayed at Mary Kay Andrews adorable Breeze Inn. She usually makes that long drive up to  our neck of the woods, so it was time for us to go to her. There must be something in the air at Tybee that made us work like crazy. I bottled some of whatever it is and brought it home with me to keep me going.

Here we are at dinner last night. That’s Alex Sokoloff, Sarah Shaber, me, Mary Kay and Margaret Maron.  

One thing we realized is that we need a new name for ourselves. We used to call ourselves The Scribblers, but don’t like how “light” that sounds. We also call ourselves the Weymouth Seven because we often meet at the Weymouth Center for the Arts for our retreats. . . but sometimes we don’t, so we need a name that doesn’t lock us in to one locale. We’re open to suggestions!

Today is our last full day on Tybee Island. All five of us have worked so hard and achieved or surpassed our goals each day. So far. I have some hefty goals for today and can’t wait to buckle down. I’m so grateful to Mary Kay Andrews for inviting us to her beautiful cottage in this unique corner of the universe.

She took us on a little tour of the island the other day. What a fascinating island! Every turn in the road introduces you to an area that feels entirely different from the one you just left.

 The church in the picture is darling, but it’s not a real church. It was built for the filming of Nicholas Sparks’ book, The Last Song, starring Miley Cyrus. The movie’s coming out later this month and will apparently include a fire in the church–see the scorch marks near the windows and on the steeple?

We take off for home tomorrow. Although we’re all missing our men, our families, our dogs and our cats,  this is a week I will treasure forever!

Second full day on Tybee Island. 6 pages so far toward my daily goal of 10. Margaret snapped this pic of me happily typing away. One of my characters whom I pictured staid and reserved and very serious, turns out to be irreverent and a little kooky. I’m glad she didn’t wait any longer to let me in on her true personality or I would have been in trouble.

Alex just arrived, making five of us here now, so we had to stop and catch up with one another and eat the chicken soup Mary Kay just whipped up for us.

 Mary Kay gave us a little tour of the island last night. Here we are wearing our Tybee Island hats, getting ready to watch the sunset from the dock behind this restaurant. Tybee has such charm. It reminds me of some places I’ve visited in the British Virgin Islands. Very unpretentious, lots of palms and live oaks, and adorable little cottages filled with personality.

We played three games of Scrabble last night, which was so much fun, but I believe we’ll be brainstorming tonight instead of playing games. We all have plenty yet to accomplish. And it’s rainy and gray today, so I’m not tempted to go out on the beach, which is a good thing. More later. . .

Yup, I’m with my writing buds for a week of brainstorming and writing. We’re at Mary Kay Andrews’ fabulous Breeze Inn on Tybee Island. So far it’s me, Sarah Shaber, Margaret Maron and Mary Kay. Alex Sokoloff will be joining us tomorrow or Tuesday. I’ll keep you posted on our progress. Mary Kay has done such an amazing job with the Breeze Inn. More pictures coming, but right now we’re going to sit down to a roast chicken dinner. . .

Plant.

I’m nearly done with the first complete draft of my work-in-progress, currently titled The Midwife’s Confession, and if you were to check it for the most often used word (after “the” and “and” and character names), I bet it would be “plant.” Even though I’ve outlined ad nauseum, the characters and story change as I write, which necessitates changes in the chapters I’ve already written. Rather than stopping my momentum by returning to the earlier chapters to make the changes, I type the word “plant” followed by my brilliant new idea. Once I finish the current draft, I’ll do a search on the word “plant” and write down longhand all the changes I need to make in the next draft.

I write a very sloppy first draft for two main reasons: one is that I know I’ll need to make a million changes as the story emerges, so there’s no point in making it pretty the first time through, and two, I want to write fast to get the entire story down. That’s nerves, I think. I’m anxious to get it all down to see where I stand and what needs to be fixed. I can always pretty the writing up later; it’s the story and its structure, pacing and characterization that matter to me during the first draft. I envy those writers who polish as they go, ending up with a clean, nearly complete book by the end of their first draft. I’ve given up trying to make that system work for me. We all have to figure out what works for us as writers. There is no right or wrong way to write a book. 

I take about nine months to write a book and although I don’t have a set schedule, here is how my timing usually works out. During the first month, I come up with the idea for the story–the “what happens.” I start working on the outline, completing it sometime during the second month. Then I begin working on preliminary research, learning just enough to see how it will influence the story. Month three, I get to know my characters on a new level, using a variety of techniques I’ve developed over the years. Learning about my characters continues throughout the entire writing process.  The next few months I spend writing, fiddling, restructuring, and figuring out what works and what doesn’t. Around month five, I start seriously writing the first draft, and as I mentioned, the surprises continue and I fill the draft with “plants.” 

Here’s an example of a plant from The Secret Life of CeeCee Wilkes. When I outlined the book, Eve (CeeCee’s alias during her secret life) didn’t have rheumatoid arthritis. As I wrote the first draft, I hit a chapter late in the book in which Eve was suddenly limping, and I decided she should have RA. It would give the story and her character an interesting new dimension. So I wrote (plant: Eve has RA). In the second draft, I went back into those earlier chapters and “gave” her symptoms of RA. There were other more intriguing plants that came up during the writing of that book, but I’d be giving away too much if I told you what they were here. Suffice it to say, if you were surprised as you read that book, I was probably just as surprised as I wrote it!

I’m going back to work on The Midwife’s Confession right now. Can’t wait to see what I’ll plant next!

 Time for the reveal! We’ve had so much fun working with our friend Elizabeth as we remodeled our Topsail Island condo. The before and after pics don’t match up perfectly–this isn’t HGTV after all!–but you get the idea.

To start with, we painted the unit a buttery yellow, replaced the sofa and loveseat, painted the coffee table and end tables and replaced the throw on the wall with John’s shell photos. It’s hard to see, but behind the loveseat is a dining room set and a new chandelier. (The wall above the bar had yet to be painted when this picture was taken). I love to write from my perch on this sofa. The wall facing the loveseat is all glass and I can watch the dolphins and pelicans as I ponder my next sentence.

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

We ditched the old enterainment unit and bentwood rocker for a clean cottage style console and comfy rattan trimmed club chair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 We replaced the old barstools above with pretty new white ones below.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Instead of replacing the kitchen cabinets, we refaced them and they look amazing.

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 We left the master bedroom its pretty light green, but replaced the old headboard with a new one along with new bedding. The view stays the same!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The second bedroom is my favorite makeover! Could it be any more dramatic? I love these new headboards.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Above, the view from the deck, and below, the view from the balcony off the 2nd bedroom; that’s the intracoastal waterway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I decided to set a book on Topsail Island, I never would have guessed that my research would lead to me buying a place there.  I wonder where I’ll set the next book??

Writers spend hours and hours talking about writer’s block and in my opinion, there’s no greater waste of time.  Workshops at conferences are devoted to the topic, and writing magazines often run articles offering tips on coping with that paralytic state. For those of you who are readers instead of writers,  writer’s block is a panic-inducing feeling that you can’t write a single word. You may have an idea, but can’t get it on paper. The  feeling may last for minutes or it may last for years. There are all sorts of suggestions for getting past writer’s block. Here is my unsympathetic suggestion: snap out of it.

My first four books didn’t exactly write themselves, but I flew through them without a hitch. Then my “perfect” marriage of twenty years ended. It was one of those sudden, found-a-picture-of-the-other-woman endings. To say I was devastated is an understatement. To make matters worse, I’d just closed my private psychotherapy practice to write full time, knowing my husband’s income would support us both until I began making more money. So, in addition to riding an emotional roller coaster, I had the very real fear of not being able to support myself. I didn’t know where I would live. I’d lost the person I’d thought was my best friend as well as the future I’d mapped out for myself. For the first time, I couldn’t write. I’d stare at my notepad, my mind a pile of useless mush.

I had a contract for my fifth book, though, and I needed to earn a living. I was able to get a few months’ extension on my deadline so that I could move and get my life in order. Then, in my new digs and beginning my new life, I went back to work.  I had writer’s block then … and I’ve had writer’s block ever since. Writing has never come easily for me again. Yet I’ve written fifteen books since then. How?

I just did. That’s all.

Yes, I fret (as my faithful blog readers know!) I stew, I gripe, I complain and panic. But I don’t quit and I write even if what I’m turning out on any given day feels like garbage. I can make something pretty out of it later; the important thing is to get words on paper. 

I’m not amazing. Not brilliant. Definitely not disciplined! What I am is committed to my job, and my job is writing. Teachers and doctors and bank tellers and social workers can’t stay home from work for months on end when they feel stale or blank or uncreative. One can argue that writing is different in that it’s dependent on inspiration. On magic. I’ve made that argument myself, because it’s fun to think of my work as something magical. But really, it takes more skill and perseverence than magic to be a writer. The challenge  is to learn to work when the inspiration is absent. If I can do it, you can too.

I’m a sucker for the Olympics. So much youth, energy, skill and heart . . .and too often, heartbreak.  Behind every athlete a story, and you know how much I love a good story. I should be working, but I’m watching.  

We leave Topsail tomorrow. We’ve accomplished so much in the condo. The best part was getting John’s shell photos on the wall. He’s been doing fine art commissions for a long time but this is the first one he’s done just for us. He took all the images on the beach behind the condo the last time we were here, and that makes them extra special.

I just came in from taking the dogs out for their nightime stroll. It’s freezing, but the winter sky is incredible, with no lights or trees to block the view of Orion and all those other folks and animals who live up in the heavens. Just stunning.

My characters have been hanging out with me here, but they’d like a little more of my attention so tomorrow I’ll immerse myself in their world again and the handyman will take over here at the condo to finish the kitchen.

I hope you’re all keeping warm. I am so ready for winter to be over!

Well, Sunday is usually one of the days I update my blog, but this evening I have no time. You can see what I’m doing here: cleaning out my newly refaced cabinets at our Topsail Island condo, as well as many other household-y tasks. We just have two days here because snow, a rarity on the North Carolina coast, kept us away yesterday. When we arrived at three today, we had to scrape ice off the steps to get to the front door. My neighbor’s been redecorating the condo for me for the last couple of months and this is the first time I’ve seen it. There’s still a bit to do, but it looks fantastic. I can’t wait until I can put up the before and after pictures, and I will as soon as the after is really complete. You can see a few things still need doing in the kitchen–countertops, for starters.

Okay, I need to go back to work. See you with a real blog post midweek!

About thirty years ago, I was published for the first time. Not a novel, but an op-ed piece in the Los Angeles Times. I was working as a hospital social worker at the time, and after a particularly moving encounter with a family in the ER, I took a break and wrote this fictionalized account in my office. I submitted it to the Times and was thrilled when they accepted it for publication. I was bitten by the writing bug then. . . Well, I’d been bitten long before that, I guess. It’s probably more accurate to say I was bitten by the publication bug. And the rest is history. 

So I thought I’d share the op-ed piece that started my writing career. I’ll try not to edit it here, although there are a few lines I would dearly love to change, but that ship has sailed!  Oh, and you know how I complain that publishers often change an author’s titles? I complained thirty years ago as well. I’d titled this piece “One Man’s Family in the Emergency Room.” Oh well.

She’s a Stranger at the Wrong Kind of Family Reunion

by Diane Chamberlain

The ambulance backs up to the emergency room door and a patient is whisked past me into the trauma room. I can see the team of blue-garbed figures surround him before the door swings shut. Someone tells me that he is a 42-year-old executive who collapsed at his desk just minutes earlier. I wait to meet his wife.

She arrives almost immediately, shaking from head to toe. She looks like the type of woman who would never be caught outside her home in the old jeans and torn shirt that she is wearing—not unless there was no time to change or put on makeup or even run a comb through her hair.

I steer her into the tiny counseling room several yards from where the trauma team is working on her husband. I tell her that I am the hospital social worker, and that I will stay with her while she waits.

I feel that gnawing sense of powerlessness that is always my companion during times like these in the emergency room. I can only bring her coffee, hold her hand, listen to her tell me what a good man he is. There is nothing more that I can do. He is on the brink and I am utterly incapable of bringing him back.

She is agitated. It is normal, I know. She can’t sit still. She walks from wall to wall in our tiny cubicle, sits in every chair, pounds every table. “This can’t be happening!” she screams. “He was fine this morning!”

I am a complete stranger to her, yet she lets me hold her. For a moment she seems to welcome my arms around her. Then she is up again, walking, pounding.

I help her focus. Together we call her teen-age sons and her brother. She weeps into the phone. They tell her they will come right over.

I ask if she would like a clergyman or a friend to come. She shakes her head no.

Her sons, 17 and 18, arrive, followed moments later by her brother. They hug one another, cling together. I feel enormous strength and love coming from their little circle. She needs me less now.

I talk with the nurse outside the trauma room to see if there is any information that I can pass on to the family. The nurse says there is little chance that he will make it. I return to the counseling room and they look at me with wet, pleading eyes. I am careful not to give them hope. They need to be prepared for what is coming. He is not doing well, I tell them. They cry more, hugging one another, pushing me out of their circle.

The doctor comes in. His words are gently spoken, yet they cut like a knife. “I’m sorry,” he says. “We did everything we could, but weren’t able to save him.”

He waits while they cry, while they say that it just can’t be so. I don’t touch them now. I don’t comment. They don’t need me. I am awed, as I always am, at the way they hold one another up, how each puts aside his or her own pain to become a backbone for the others.

When they are ready to listen, the doctor tells them what was done to try to save him. They nod and nod. I wonder what they will remember of this explanation.

She wants to see her husband. I tell her about the tubes that have to remain in place until the coroner arrives. I take her and her sons into the room where the man is covered by a sheet up to his chin. He looks younger than I expected and I see my own husband in his face. I cry just a little as I watch them say goodbye. She touches his face and smoothes his hair. One son kisses his forehead. I walk into the hallway to give them privacy.

In my mind, I have lived through the deaths of my parents, my husband and my siblings in this emergency room. I can never see the body of someone’s loved one without thinking of someone I love.

Sometimes people ask me how I can tolerate this part of my job. I tell them of the love I have been privileged to see: the 3-year-old standing on tiptoe to kiss grandpa’s cold cheek; the burly truck driver rocking the body of his infant son in his arms, humming a lullaby. Families come together, the conflicts of yesterday and tomorrow suspended for today. I feel lucky to be able to see this part of life.

The man’s family leaves, each member circled by the arm of another, and I walk back to my office hoping that one of my co-workers is there. Right now, I don’t want to be alone.