Writers block and missing Joan

A week or so ago, I realized that my feeling of apathy was the result of a writer's block, probably due to the pressure I was putting on myself to get three separate writing projects done. I didn't feel like working on any of them. My habit in such cases has always been to pick up the phone and call my writer sister. She would commiserate with me and we would have a long conversation about many things,  we'd laugh together, and she'd fix me.

The fact that she is no longer here for me to do that hit me harder than it has at any other time since she died almost a year ago. Oh, Joanie, my darling sister, my mentor, my best friend, my hero, how I miss you!

A few days later, my muse seemed to return, and I finished two of the projects in two days, leaving the biggest one, the one that is jointly mine and Joan's. She began a book years ago. During my visits with her during her last months, we discussed it. I read the parts she had written, and they are amazing.  She said she wanted it finished. She hoped she could do it, but in the end she just couldn't, and I promised her I would. Thanks to her drawing her characters so completely and the many hints about where the plot might go, I think I can.

But today, when I thought I would get back into it, I found myself doing other things, including writing poems. I know I will get back to writing, and the muse will be with me, and I will make more progress on her book called, Prism. In the meantime, let me share a little ditty I wrote about the seasons, because there is a bit about the book in there too.

TIME 
(September 2, 2014, 5:30 am)

Dang you time, you go so fast.
I'd rather see my summer last
A few more weeks so I can do
Half the things I've planned to do.

Yet autumn's here. I cannot waste
The lovely days with undue haste.
It's time to get up from my chair
And hike the hills when weather's fair.

Winter's coming. It won't be long,
Cold and dark. I must be strong,
And put the long, dark nights to use
Penning stories like a recluse.

I've finished two of my tasks this week
and now can return to Prism speak
And let the muse carry me on
To solve the mystery of where Deb has gone.

The Prism surely has some power
to transport her in the witching hour
So yes, I'll write to find the key
to unlock Prism's mystery.

Joan Bochmann's Writing

It's been a long time since I've posted here. Not because I've forgotten her—my dear sister, Joan. Far to the contrary. I miss her as much as ever, and I think of her a million times a day. I guess it's because it was just too hard at times. But Joan will never be forgotten, and in time, I will continue to share her wonderful writing—the book starts, the articles, and stories she entrusted to me—with the world.

I made a promise to Joan and I plan to keep it. She asked me to finish one of her books, if she didn't get it done. Unfortunately, she was unable to, although she worked on it almost up to the time of her death. The name of the book is Prism. There are nineteen chapters and various notes and possible inserts to it in her wonderful voice. It would be a shame to leave them hidden away in a box of file folders.

For a while, I suffered overwhelming sadness when I attempted to retrieve them. Besides, I was working on a novel of my own. I've finished the first draft of that, and so I attempted to delve into hers. At first I just couldn't do it. On the second attempt, I packed up all the files pertaining to that book and took them to a quiet coffee shop to work on them. It was a good start. I began by reading through her pages and taking notes on each chapter. In the process, I've been given ideas of where the story might go. Once I pick up her characters where she left them, I'll let them lead me to solve the story's mysteries and find the perfect ending. I don't know how long this will take. I've other jobs pressing for my time, making this a more or less spare-time endeavor.

I am somewhat surprised by the feeling that working on this book gives me. The grief and regrets that have plagued me since she died seem to be replaced by or maybe morphed into a feeling of solace as though through this work I am close to her.  Once again, I am blessed by her words.

A Memory from Childhood

As I look through the many essays, stories, and writing assignments that my sister left me, “for whatever they’re worth” I see a treasure trove of excellent writing and rich story-telling skills. An imagination backed by a close empathy with humanity that comes from not only experience, but also from a close observation of human nature. Joanie paid attention, and her intuitive understanding of people made her a master at characterization.

Today I picked up the workbook she wrote in when taking a writing class that I gave in Colorado several years ago. Here is the anecdote she wrote for lesson one. “Fiction is a Lens on Life” The instructions were to look into your memory and chose an incident in which you were embarrassed, humiliated. or had your feelings hurt by another person. This is a timed writing. You don’t have time to plan ahead or revise.

By the way, I’m only sharing this because Joan gave me permission. Customarily, anything written or discussed in any of my workshops is strictly confidential.

Joan remembered an incident from early elementary school that stayed with her for the rest of her life.  She wrote:

I was so excited. What a beautiful bauble! I hadn’t had that much luck lately, what with the hard time, Mom and dad in the mountains and me spending my third grade year with strangers. Now I’d found the pretty necklace in the dirt on the playground. I showed it to Susie, thinking it would surely elevate me in her eyes. She looked at it briefly and said nothing. The bell rang and I noticed Susie whispering something to the teacher.
“Joan,” the teacher said sternly, “Susie tell me you stole her necklace. Is that true?”
I felt my face flush as everyone stared. I was terrified. I thought I might wet my pants. There wasn’t a friendly face in the room.
I fingered the necklace I had put around my neck and looked at my shoes.
“Come up her,” the teacher commanded.
I couldn’t move.
She approached me and removed the beads from my neck. “Susie, is this your necklace?” she asked.
I stared in disbelief as Susie said, “Yes, It is.”
The entire class looked at me in disgust. I felt smaller and smaller and hoped I would just disappear!


A subsequent lesson from the workshop is on Point of View, and in order to get back into the realm of fiction, as well as to get writers thinking from a perspective other than their own, the exercise asks the writer to take the antagonist from the exercise above and get into that person’s head. What might have been going on to provoke the behavior that caused so much humiliation?  In the next post, I’ll share what Joan did with that assignment.

Our first Christmas without Her

The Muirhead tradition is one that continues from the days of our childhood. We always celebrated and opened our gifts on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas morning. I'm not sure why, but I loved it that way. Maybe it had to do with all the chores that a cattle rancher and dairyman has to do every morning, starting at 4 or 5 in the morning with milking, feeding calves, chickens, etc. After a break for breakfast, it was time to harness the workhorses to the big sled on runners and load it with hay to carry to the feed yards for the cattle. With snow that accumulated to depths of four, five, or more feet in the winter, that could take until past noon.

After we moved from the Yampa Valley and even after Mom and Dad quit ranching, and their kids had moved away and formed families of their own, the tradition of meeting at our parents' house on the day before Christmas continued. When Mom died, 5 years after Dad passed away, our sister Sharon bought their house and continues to live there so that it is still the place for everyone to come the day before Christmas for a potluck dinner, gift exchange, and camaraderie. Kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids all crowd into the old ranch house* where memories of Mom and Dad are strong. (*When Dad was superintendent of a ditch company, he and Mom bought the house that was part of the old Benson homestead north of Lake Loveland. It's now pretty much in the middle of town as the city has grown up around it.)

As with many Christmases over the years, I have not been part of that nostalgic setting because of the distance I live from my Colorado roots, the threat of bad roads and weather, and the draw of my own offspring to stay here in Montana. And it was a lovely Christmas Day here—relaxed, peaceful, and fun, as I basked in the presence of 3 of my children, their spouses and families that included 6 of my 8 grandchildren and 2 of my 3 great-grandchildren.

Still, I missed Joan very much. Just knowing she wouldn't be with the family for Christmas Eve-day, for the first time—ever—as far as I know, was sad. Ever since she passed away in September, it's been hard to realize that she is not just a phone call away, for we used to talk on the phone daily. So, the day before Christmas, I called my niece to commiserate. When I reached her, she was at Sharon's house. For her it was weird and sad to get there and not see her mom, for Joan was usually the first to arrive.

Oh how we miss her! She will never be forgotten, just as Mom and Dad still live in our memory as vivid as the day we last saw them.

Holidays—times for joy and celebration—are also a time of sorrow as we long for those who have gone to rest. They are a time for remembering, too, keeping the influence of our departed loved ones ever with us. And in that, I take comfort.

The history of a book — and, unfortunately, a disease

(Joan Bochmann wrote this essay in February, 2012, almost two years ago.  She called it the Journey of a Book, but it is much more than that.)


It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. This is probably the best known first line of any novel ever written. I have pretty much forgotten the story Dickens was beginning with this line, but the words seem to describe some of the roller coaster rides I have been on since mid-December. January 2012 brought a virtual torrent of good news, bad news, euphoria and dread. I don’t think I’ve had such a tangle of emotions in many years. Unfortunately, the first part of February hasn’t relieved the chaos all that much. 

January, 2012 was the 6^th anniversary of the publication of a book that was born in the late 70s. I completed my first novel in, I believe, 1975. After a few rejections, I was fortunate enough to hook up with an editor from Pelican and to work with her in polishing my precious novel for publication. (Best of times.) Unfortunately when my editor, who was by then a good friend, was hit by a car while crossing a Chicago street, Pelican returned the manuscript with the news of my friend’s death and their decision not to do any of her “projects.” (Worst of times.)  

I put the manuscript on a shelf and got on with life. I longed to write again, and found a few opportunities to do short stories and essays for small publications. In 2001, my sister formed a small publishing company and urged me to take another look at the book which would become Absaroka. I pulled the  typewritten (yes, I did say typewritten) manuscript from its resting place and began to read. I fell in love with the story again. I did a little more research and some editing, and my sister’s company (Raven Publishing) agreed to publish the book. (Best of times.) My efforts to sell the book were hampered by the diagnosis of Stage IV lung cancer. (Worst of times.) God saw fit to heal my illness. (Best of times)

I have spent the last four years in praise and gratitude for God’s miraculous healing. In February of this year, (2012) a PET scan revealed the cancer has returned and metastasized to other parts of my body as well! Really? (Worst of Times.) While having it come back is disappointing, it doesn’t change the joy of those 4 years God gave me.  Contrary to my lifelong dream of a beach house on Malibu, a cabin in the mountains and fans clamoring for autographs, I did not get rich. Still, having a book published, going on a couple of book tours, giving book talks, getting some good reviews and winning two awards filled me with joy and gratitude (Best of Times).

Raven made the book available for digital download on Amazon Kindle and on Smashwords, but I yearned to have the story told well on a high quality audio book.

I wanted this very much so that the people who love stories, but don’t like reading books. can hear it in a very well-done audio version. I remember when I used to commute how much I loved listening to books on tape. When my mom lost her sight, I thought of all the visually impaired people who would get so much pleasure out of listening to a good book.  

It is odd that the new cancer diagnosis came at a time when I was in the process of working with a producer/engineer and a talented reader to get Absaroka made into an audio book. I think God is with me on this. A dear friend I had not seen for several years called me out of the blue. He had just read Absaroka and wanted to know if I was interested in making it an audio book. We began thinking about all the people who could benefit from a book they could listen to and we became more and more excited. Brett had the ability, resources, and talent to engineer and promote an audio book. Sky Dance Mountain had, in fact, already done a couple of small audio books.  
    

I was right in the middle of trying to do a marketing plan, promotion and other such issues when my health really took a nosedive. Still we all moved on. I realized that the book needed a good, strong male voice to do the voice over. Another little nod of approval from God became evident when Scott Tanner agreed to do the recording. Scott is not only extremely talented, but had begun investigating the possibility of getting into this business as a second career.  

Several recording sessions ensued. We missed a self-imposed deadline because we realized this book had the potential of being really moving and entertaining piece. We decided quality was more important than punctuality in this case. Now it’s here—the official release date of February 18^{th (2012).}  Ah, the joy. A book that was published six years ago has another life, another audience. I know the story inside out; Scott had read it when it came out, but just recently re-read it, and Brett had read it just a few weeks before. Despite this intimate knowledge of the story, while listening to it, all three of us were moved to tears at some touching scenes, and held our breath in suspense as it looked like the protagonist might not win.

{Joan Bochmann fought a good fight, but finally lost the battle against cancer and the accompanying disorder, cachecia disease, September 26, 2013. She outlived doctors' predictions and was grateful for each day of life in which to enjoy her son, daughter, grandsons, and great grandchildren. Before she died, she added one more tremendous accomplishment to her list. She narrated an entire novel in spite of weakness, shortness of breath, pain and illness. The result is her amazingly strong and expressive voice on the audio edition of Miranda and Starlight.

 During her last several months, she volunteered one day a week in the business office at her church, planted flowers and took care of her house, garden, and yard—with some volunteered help from friends and neighbors. She has good days (the best of times) and bad days when the pain and nausea immobilize her (the worst of times). Her life, an inspiration to all who knew her, and her books, a joy to all who read or listen, have been and continue to be a blessing to many.}

http://www.ravenpublishing.net/Joan_Bochmann.html

For the Love of a Son: A Miracle

Yesterday, November 12, when I began this post, was Joan's son Gary's birthday. Not long ago, Joan recounted the story of how close she came to losing him—and the miracle that he is still with us today.

Because of his birthday and because I found these pictures of him and his sister, taken when he was a baby I remembered this story and decided to share it.

Debbie holding her baby brother, Gary Zimmerman with their Grandma Muirhead close by

Debbie, making sure her baby brother is safe.

Now, I'll tell you, to the best of my ability to remember all that Joan told, me with the help of Gary's and Debbie's memories, the events that occurred approximately a year and a half to two years after that picture was taken.

Being a young mother has it's anxious time, but none so great as when a child develops life-threatening symptoms that stump the doctors. When Gary was two years old, his legs began giving out, losing strength and coordination. He was quickly losing the ability to walk, and he was in pain. Debbie remembers her parents wrapping his legs in hot towels to afford him some relief.

He'd been a healthy baby until that time successfully reaching all the usual milestones of babyhood accomplishment: rolling, crawling, walking, and talking. So the sudden weakness and uncontrollable muscle movements were alarming. Joan was terrified.

Gary became a case of great interest at Children's Hospital in Denver. Joan told me about a hoard of doctors convening in a room to observe Gary, making him walk as best he could over and over again, as they tried to diagnose him. (Gary's earliest memories are of his stay at Children's. He remembers getting his finger poked every morning, a rocking horse.) After a lot of time and consultation, they finally decided Gary had dystonia: "a disorder characterized by involuntary muscle contractions that cause slow repetitive movements or abnormal postures. The movements may be painful, and some individuals with dystonia may have a tremor or other neurological features.… The cause for the majority of cases is not known."

That was probably the hardest part for Gary's parents and loved ones—the unknown. Not knowing what was wrong, not knowing why, not knowing what could be done, not knowing if he would survive.

The doctors finally recommended a very risky brain surgery that could be performed by a neurology specialist in New York City. What an agonizing decision Joan and John had  to make. They wondered if it was the right thing to do even as they tried to find the financial means to do it. It seemed the only hope for curing him, but there were no guarantees that it would work. I know there were a lot of prayers on his behalf.

Sometime after they brought him home from Children's Hospital, Gary began getting well. In fact, as I understand it, his recovery was almost immediate. The doctors had no explanation for this turn of events, but there was great rejoicing by all who knew and loved this precious child and his family. There was never any recurrence of symptoms. 

Smoky, by Joan Bochmann

SMOKY

By

Joan Bochmann

            I was 16 years old, a girl, and one of six kids, so I lived to impress my father. My Dad was a man of few words but he had a face that expressed volumes. If he was pleased, he lit up and smiled not just with his mouth, but with his whole face. Despite this obvious sign of pleasure, he seldom complimented you with words.  How I longed to see that expression. If he was displeased or I was out of line, he could absolutely wither me with a look.  

            Dad had lots of horses in his lifetime, but his favorite of all was an iron gray gelding he trained himself. Smoky became the epitome of good horseflesh on our ranch, the one you measured all other horses by. You can only imagine my joy when Dad finally trusted me to ride him. Smoky knew more about cows than I could ever learn and when one broke away from the herd, Smoky’s rider became a mere passenger, hanging on for dear life as Smoky chased down and turned that wayward critter.

            Our pasture for the milk cows and extra horses extended across a slough and the railroad tracks. In late summer we pastured them across the tracks where there was still some good grass.  This required riding up a short but steep railroad bed, across the tracks, and down the bed and opening a gate. Dad let me take Smoky to get the cows one day and I was so proud of his trust in me.  I had crossed the slough and the tracks without incident, daydreaming of the day I would have my own horse ranch.  Smoky stopped at the barbed wire gate and I dismounted to open it.  I held his reins loosely, even though he was trained to ground-tie. I had the top wire off the gate post and was ready to lift the post from the bottom wire. To my horror I heard a train coming. I tightened my grip on the reins and spoke soothingly to Smoky. Everything would have been alright if the engineer had not decided he needed to blow the train whistle.

            Poor Smoky reared back, jerking me off my feet, As I felt the reins slip through my fingers Dad’s favorite horse was up on the tracks and running ahead of the train, prompting the stupid engineer to keep blowing the whistle. I could see pieces of railroad ties flying up from his hooves as the panicked animal raced down the tracks. I was about a mile from the house and I still don’t know for sure how I got back home and across that slough, but when I ran into the yard, Dad and Mom were getting the car out. They were on their way to see what in the world the whistle was about. I was bawling my eyes out but they seemed relieved to see me. I guess they worried that I might be hurt.

            We drove down the river road until we could see the train, its whistle finally silent, chugging its way into town. Dad got out and started walking back up the tracks until he found an exhausted, soaking wet Smoky off the side of the tracks. I was so glad to see him alive that I burst into tears again. Dad examined Smokey’s legs and talked to him gently. The saddle was scuffed and Smoky had some scrapes, leading Dad to believe had stumbled and possibly fallen going down the embankment.

            I don’t really remember what Dad had to say, but his expressive face reflected a combination of relief, sympathy and anger. I was sure he would never trust me with a horse again, but he assured me that there was nothing I could have done. It just took me a long time to believe that myself.

Joan Bochmann—early adult years

In the previous post, I shared the first part of Joan's Toastmistress's speech where she told about school days up to her graduation, which took place in the spring of 1952. Although she was valedictorian, she didn't go to college—at least not right away. I never knew why, and guess I still don't, exactly. But here, I'll let her tell you, in the rest of that speech.

"Shortly after I was offered a scholarship to Colorado University, a family crisis arose and I was forced, or at least I thought then I was forced, to turn it down. I tell you this with much pain, as it was one of my greatest disappointments."

(I don't know what the family crisis was. I suppose at age 10, I didn't need to know, and my family shielded me from it. )

"So, I went to work for the County Agent. Now, for the benefit of any of you city lasses, a County Agent is the man who tells all the ranchers how to vaccinate their cows, dip their sheep, rotate their crops, etc. I worked exactly one year until June, when I was married and entered an entirely new dimension…service life."

(This is when, as I mentioned in an earlier post, her brand new husband, John Zimmerman, took her to faraway California, breaking my heart. The many months that passed before she returned seem like forever to me.)

"My husband was sent overseas and I returned to Steamboat to give birth to my daughter, a lovely feminine replica of her absent father. Two years later, the family again intact and civilian, my son was born.

"In 1959 we moved to Boulder and I found my second home. Not quite so safe and sheltered, so small and cozy, but alive and part of the world, a place to grow and live. 

"Perhaps it is because I love the mountains, because they have been such a part of my life, that I think of my goals and values as a range of glittering, shining peaks. Not goals attained, but prizes I still have to earn. Let me show you my majestic, mental mountains. The oldest peak in the range is called, 'sheepskin.' It represents the diploma from C. U. which I had to give up when I was 17. But I'm still going to get it. It may well be after my children have received theirs, but I am going to do it. Next, snow-capped and a little remote, we have 'Writer'. The day I stand on its summit I will have published something…not necessarily famous or best-selling, but something I know is good. But wait. A new peak is arising on the horizon, perhaps the highest, most formidable of all. It's title is 'Speaker'. It represent the day I stnad before you all and Dazzle you with my eloquence." 

"Thank you." 

Joan and I talked a lot, when not face to face, then on the phone, but now I see there was still so much I could have asked her if I'd only known the questions. I am grateful beyond words for the folders of her old college papers and other writings that give me further glimpses into the life of my sister, Joan, the person I most admired in the world. I am proud that she stood on the summit and saw the publication of many short stories and essays as well as her novel, Absaroka. Her many fans will attest to just how good it is.

Janet Muirhead Hill

First-born

When on November 21, 1934, Allen and Dorothy Muirhead of Steamboat Springs, Colorado, had their first child, they had a first name, Joan, picked out but couldn't decide on a middle name. Dorothy's sister, Hazel, who had recently given birth to a daughter she called Jean Carolyn, suggested a rhyming name for the baby, and so she became Joan Marilyn Muirhead, the pride and joy of this young couple.

Being first in a family has its upsides and its downsides. A first child is adored and doted on, given much attention, and watched over with care and caution. Parents are controlling, following every rule they know, and yet learning through trial and error. Not being there, I cannot say for sure how extreme these typical traits were in our parents. However, I know that Joan felt a big responsibility to be the best she could be. And I know how much our parents loved her and that she always strove to please them and make them proud. And as her siblings came along, she loved each of them and helped with their care.

As I read about firstborns I compare their traits with Joan's. It is said that they often tend to be:

• Reliable
• Conscientious
• Structured
• Cautious
• Controlling
• Achievers

Joan was all of these things and more. Coming from parents with a strong work ethic, she proved her reliability by going to work at the age of fourteen. She began by taking care of other people's kids and as a clerk in a grocery store. I don't know what all of her jobs were, but she told me she always worked until her retirement from a long career as a paralegal. But she didn't really retire, but continued to find work here and there. At any and every job, including volunteer work, she could be counted on to be there, never late and often early, always giving her best. Yes, she was as conscientious as anyone I've ever known.

Structured? Yes. By comparison to her younger sister, the middle one, she was very orderly, tidy, and, yes, structured. She could hardly stand an messy house or things out of place. However, her creative side—from which her natural love and talent for writing and storytelling came—probably made being structured and organized challenging.

And she was certainly cautious. She was quiet and shy, never quite certain that she could measure up to the expectations of others. It was hard for her to put herself forward where she might face criticism. But the fact that something was hard never stopped Joanie from doing it anyway. Controlling? Yes, I believe she was, though she may never have seen herself that way. How can anyone so conscientious not want to control their environment?

And Joan was an achiever. Oh, yes she was! As this blog goes on, you'll see many of the achievements of this wonderful woman.