Blog | “New”




Happy 2013! I will not be writing about my goals, resolutions, or asking you about yours in this first post of the year. Not because I don’t think that this isn’t a worthy idea, but because I’ve already been a guest on someone else’s blog answering such questions. Let’s face it: someone beat me to the punch, and that’s okay.

What I would like to do is break down the word new. Let’s explore what my computer gave me when I asked, “Give me something different for the word, ‘new’”.

  • novel
  • innovative
  • original
  • fresh
  • contemporary
  • pristine

I swear to you, without any pre-conceived thought, I plucked these six words from a list of at least twenty, and believe my sub-conscious mind is talking to me. If I had to place these words in a sentence, here’s what I think my sub-conscious is saying, “Susan, you need a novel that is innovative, original, fresh, contemporary, and pristine.”


You know what I really wanted to write about on this blog post, but chose against it, fearing it was too gloomy for a, Happy New Year!! post? I wanted to blog about my father’s death, how the stew of my childhood has been churned up, resulting in a bubbling over of midnight tears, awakened memories, resulting in new connected dots. I wanted to confess to you, my friends and readers, that I’ve been in the biggest writer’s slump of my life (well, to be fair, I’ve only been a writer for five years, but, you know, this is big for me), and that this death has given birth to an effortless stream of creativity.

With that, I’m taking a risk, and offering what I wanted to do: a chapter from what will probably be in my next novel. I pray that it is innovative. I know it’s original. Yes, it’s fresh. Contemporary, in that it takes place between the ’70s and now. As for pristine, well…you’ll be the judge. Enjoy…oh, and Happy New Year.


At what age are we able to see our parents as multi-dimensional people? Complete with faults, frailties, fears, poor judgment, anxieties, a history layered with unfulfilled dreams, passion, secrets, tears, joy, and everything smudgy that builds a life.

At five-years-old, my father was one giant ball of relief for me. At  5:00 pm, I would sit on our red shag-carpet, my eyes shifting back-and-forth between our cuckoo-clock and the Brady Bunch on TV, and my stomach flipping with excitement as I waited to hear my Daddy’s key fit into the front door lock.

As soon as he did, I would bolt from the floor, rush at him as though I’d not seen him for a month (perhaps a piece of me knew that every night could be the last…at least for a while), and spring into his arms, waiting for the ritualistic words I would hear every night—every night until he was gone—”How’s Daddy’s sweetheart, baby girl?” I’d breathe in the perfect mixture of pipe tobacco smoke, Aqua Velvet aftershave, and everything else masculine in my little mind. I don’t remember answering him, only being swayed back and forth, safe because Daddy was home.

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