I didn't know it at the time, but I wasn't the best of friends in my younger years. I was filled with ego and a competitive streak, two traits not particularly attractive or conducive to being a good friend.

I may have been a passable childhood companion, when all we thought about was how to be the best cowgirl, make the tastiest mud pie, or figure out who done it, with what weapon, and in what room. There was no comparing gifts and talents--only the joy of sharing an afternoon in companionable bliss. But by the time I reached middle school, hypercriticism and doubt had taken root. I was so busy trying to figure out who I was and how I fit in, I didn't spend much time thinking about anyone else's pain or challenges. This self-focused, self-preservation mode continued through the minefield of embarrassment bombs that was high school.

Then I graduated and moved on to college. I settled into a relationship with my soon-to-be husband while most of my friends were enjoying their freedom, experiencing both the thrills and anguish of the dating scene. We didn't have much in common during those years, and I'm sure I felt quite smug that I was ahead of the game, making wedding plans while my friends were still searching. We lost our connections, if not on the surface, certainly in the ways that matter.

The years passed and they caught up and we eventually began buying houses and having children. Now we had more in common, but my competitive nature resurfaced (in all fairness, I don't think I was alone in this). Who had the better home and was more expensive better? Or was bigger better? Was cleaner better? And what about the kids? Was one kid smarter than the other? More talented? Was my kid better because their kid was having problems?

Believe me, I am not proud of this.

And then a lot of living happened, which has a way of pounding humility into you, of showing you what's really important, of making you feel a deep connection and empathy with another person who's feeling what you've felt. The grief of losing of a parent, or the stunning fear that envelops you when nursing an ill child. The realization that regardless of how much planning you do or wish something to be, in the end it's all a crapshoot. And if it weren't for your friends lifting you up, you'd be laid out on the floor, alone.

I am filled with gratitude that my friends have stuck with me through my selfish ways, teaching me to be steadfast, to love them the way they have loved me. Now, when we get together, our armor has melted away. When we hug, our love flows unrestricted. When we smile, it conveys an understanding that can only be gained by a shared history. 

They abide sweetly in me.

Many years ago I attended a writers seminar on characterization, and one of the speakers was a fireman. He told us about his training at the academy and life at the firehouse. He shared some of his experiences providing emergency care and fighting fires. But his comment that has really stuck with me over the years was, "When we arrive on scene, whatever the situation is, things should get better." That was his goal.

He was, of course, talking about controlling a threatening blaze and tending to the injured, but I thought, what a worthy intention. What if every one of us subscribed to it? What if when we arrived "on scene," whether it was a meeting at work, or dealing with a surly sales clerk, or simply walking through the door at the end of a long day, all of us looked around and asked, "How can I make this better?"

Case in point: A few years ago, I was standing in a very long line at the post office. The man in front of me was sighing and grumbling. Curious, I asked if he was in a hurry. He looked surprised at my question (or perhaps that I was even talking to him), but answered, "No, I just don't like wasting my time standing in long lines." Now, I was thinking to myself, this guy is probably unhappy no matter where he's standing, but I started up a conversion and by the time we got to the front of the line, I realized the time had passed pretty darned fast. And he didn't seem so grumpy any more.  (You're welcome, postal worker who had to wait on him.)

Confession--not quite on point: Sometimes when I'm standing in long lines, I fantasize about everyone chatting amicably or someone (not me, praise the Lord) breaking out in song to entertain us.  It just seems so weird that we're of the same species, standing in close proximity, and no one is saying a word to each other. (Hey, what can I say, fantasies can help pass the time, too.)

There are a million ways to make a situation better. Telling someone you like their nail polish--like someone told me today--or holding the door for the person behind you, or really listening to what someone has to say. So many people just want to be noticed. It's a big, loud, distracting world out there, and sometimes we forget that we, one on one, have the power to make it better. 

Has anyone else noticed the increasingly graphic nature of violence on TV? It seems the human body can't get no R-E-S-P-E-C-T anymore. If you look at classic movies, a gun is pointed, a shot is fired, a body falls. You'd rarely even see the bullet hole. Today, a gun is pointed, multiple shots are fired, the body twitching with each torn piece of flesh, the body falls, the aggressor approaches the body, the aggressor stomps the victim's head in, brain matter splatters, etc., etc.


And then there is the callous attitude toward killing. People are murdered for barely a reason. Are you standing in the path of the gunslinger? Dead. Do you not answer a question fast enough? Dead. Fingers shaking? Can't get that safe opened up fast enough? Dead. In years past, people weren't murdered just for hanging out. Now, if you're anywhere near the scene of the crime, you're going down.

Case in point, I loved the first season of Vikings, a well-written series airing on the History Channel. Good story, interesting characters, cool hairdos. For some reason, by the second season the writers, possibly in crisis over their story-telling abilities, decided to up the violence. One episode contained a stomach turning five-minute depiction of an execution by torture that involved exposing the spine, breaking the ribs and pulling them back to resemble bloody wings. Trust me, the writers could have used four and a half of those minutes on character development and furthering the plot rather than sicken their viewers.

Is the quality of storytelling served by making violence more graphic? If character development is done correctly, I don't think so.  If the show is well written, I will find myself connected and caring about the dead guy or the conflict that drove the murderer to do the deed; the fact that the guy is dead will be disturbing enough. Seeing his body ripped to shreds won't make me care any more.

Last question: Is this a generational thing? Are younger audiences as disturbed by the escalating graphic nature of violence as I am? Are today's writers a product of an adolescence filled with violent video games depicting all manner of mayhem and resulting in desensitization?

Seriously, this really is the last question: Am I just wimpy?

My dog, Rosie, is an Incorrigible. You know, like those kids you see tearing down the aisles of the grocery store all wild-eyed or screaming through your neighborhood on their bicycles, popping out in front of traffic and giving you a heart attack. I used to think, Where are their parents? Were these kids raised by wolves? In answer to my thirst for understanding, God sent me Rosie.

Rosie is a Red-Tri Australian Shepherd. At forty pounds, she's small for her breed but deceptively strong. After six years of being pulled around at the end of her leash, massaging my shoulder, I can tell you she's missed her calling as a sled dog. 

We brought Rosie home the weekend after our youngest child flew the nest. She was one of five little balls of auburn, tan and white fluff, so cute it hurt your heart just to look at her. We knew she was the one because while the other pups tussled with each other or fell nose first into their communal food bowl, she walked over, sat on my husband's foot and started eating his shoelace. She's been sitting on our feet, and the feet of anyone else she wants to feel at home with our pack, ever since.

We'd retired from our day jobs a month before we brought Rosie home. With all that extra time for training, we had high hopes of raising the perfect pup. But Rosie had other ideas. At six months, after her puppy shots had taken effect, we started going to the park to socialize with other dogs. She loved it! But unfortunately they didn't love her so much.

She wanted play long and hard; they didn't quite have the stamina. She had no nerve endings and couldn't understand why the other dogs didn't want to go full out mauling, growling, and salivating all over each other. I think we could have worked on it, but I started feeling the chill from the owners of the other dogs. We were persona and canis non grata. We tried one more time when Ro was a couple years older. By then she'd learned at least the concept of moderation. It was all going pretty well until she peed on one of the other dogs' tennis ball. The owner looked horrified (for goodness sakes, it was just a little pee). We slinked away and haven't been back.

When people come to visit, Rosie gets overly excited and barks in this ear-splitting frequency for about ten seconds. That doesn't sound like a long time, but even I admit it can be annoying. She doesn't mean to be annoying, she's just overcome with anticipation. She loves people. Some of our visitors have misinterpreted her barking as a sign of aggression, but that's the farthest thing from Rosie's thoughts. (Rosie's thoughts: "Oh boy, people! I love people! What could be better than people!") A bark collar has been suggested, but how can a loving dog-parent be expected to rain on that kind of enthusiasm and good humor? People of well-trained dogs, please don't answer that.

So I say what any mother of an Incorrigible would say, "She's blessed with vim and vigor. She's precocious, you know, really smart, which creates a lot of energy that's difficult for her to contain. I'm certain she'll outgrow it and be an accomplished dog, certainly a dog among dogs one day. Probably get a scholarship and play in the big leagues, putting all her energy to good use . . ."

But when you all aren't looking, she is my shadow, my constant and devoted companion. She brings me my slippers and helps me with the laundry, picking up the pieces I drop on the way to the machine. She herds my car into the garage by barking and walking behind it in figure eights, certain that I can't maneuver it in without her help. She warms my feet when I watch TV and rests her head on my lap, gazing up at me as if I'm the best thing since peanut butter stuffed in a cow bone.

Now, what mom of a fur-child would not love that?

First-time motherhood can be fulfilling bliss or at times a challenging reality. Of course there's the overwhelming love a new mother feels for her child. But even this doesn't come to all moms right away. Navigating the care and nurturing of a helpless infant can make a woman feel frustrated and incompetent, and at times even helpless and alone.

I've written a new short story, Caroline's Blues, about a young mother's whose idea of motherhood doesn't quite match the reality in which she finds herself—even though she's head over heals in love with her baby. The story is located at www.luerickson.com/carolines-blues.

I'd love to hear your comments and/or your own experiences by responding to this blog.

My body and I haven't always gotten along. There were decades where we pretty much snubbed each other.

 I think it began when I discovered that I couldn't run as fast as my friends or when my softball throw from second base bounced and dribbled its way to first. I was terribly thin and gained the nickname of "Toothpicks" with the boys in sixth grade. And then those horrid teen years came along with their hypercritical evaluations of everything, including how my body hadn't delivered on my pre-puberty expectations. Part of me was too small, another too big. My body had not followed my blueprint for the perfect (according to Seventeen magazine) figure.

After that, my body and I agreed to disagree and we went our separate ways, each of us doing what was required without much thought of the other. The years passed, my husband and I had two beautiful girls. I never even gave my body a pat on the back for that, even though I realize now how hard it worked to figure it all out.

Then in midlife, my body started to rebel, started demanding my attention. Getting out of bed, my back would take a moment to come into alignment, it would squawk as I bent over to get the dog's food. I could sneeze and give myself a stiff neck.

 My doctor recommended yoga and I blew her off. But my body became insistent with each new ache or pain. So I reluctantly started classes once a week. The positions were awkward and I didn't like down dog, which the instructor unbelievably called a "resting" pose. I'm not naturally flexible, so while others sat up straight with their legs out in front of them, I sat at 70 degrees. But after a few months I noticed that my body and I were making amends. In my late fifties, I wasn't losing strength, I was gaining it. I started going two, then three times a week and I marveled at my body's progress.

 One day I looked at my face in the mirror as I had so many other mornings. But instead of chastising myself for yet another new wrinkle, I saw my body as my friend. I looked deeper into its lines and creases and realized how far we'd come together. I thought about how many miles my body had walked for me, and how many cuts and bruises it had healed over the years without reproach for my carelessness. I was awestruck by how, with no prior experience, it had navigated the intricacies of child bearing and nursing. I was awash with gratitude for hands that could soothe a child and arms that could hug a friend.

 So I make this declaration to the world:  I LOVE MY FABULOUS BODY!

Many times when people ask me about writing they say, "Oh I could never do that." And yet, they seem intrigued by the idea. I can hear it in their voices, see it in the glint of an eye. I tell them truthfully I believe they can.

I wasn't born a writer. How many times have I heard an author say, "Oh yes, I wrote my first play as soon as I could hold a pen."? No, that wasn't me. I didn't write a word of fiction until I was almost 40, when I penned a children's book for my daughter. On a whim I showed it to a writer friend who encouraged (read "lovingly badgered") me to continue.

I've finished four novels over the years and yet every time I start a new project I'm overcome with self-doubt. I can't write an outline to save myself. When my fingers hit the keys in those first paragraphs, the words come slow and clunky. I can't find my rhythm. I stumble forward bemoaning the loss of any talent I might have possessed. And then, as I persevere and the stack of pages grows, something magical happens. I lose myself in the world I've imagined. The characters become real people with unique personalities. Conflict builds. In my mind, the setting grows rich in color and aroma. I have found my way to that creative river that runs through us all and have dipped my ladle. 

I ponder the source of creativity. It seems so fluid, so unpredictable--one day like a conduit running at capacity, the next, tightened down until only a few drips slip through. And yet it seems that the gods of authorship reward a stubborn heart. The very act of putting one's butt in the chair and fingers on a keyboard claims their attention.

So to anyone who has ever been so inclined, I say give it a try. Bring a couple of characters with you to the keyboard. Put them in a parlor of an old Victorian, or in a kayak in the middle of lake, or on top of a mountain in the middle of a snowstorm and see what they have to say, see what they do. They may have a story to tell. And you may be the author they've been looking for.