Today’s post is a quickie—I’m popping in to ask a question. And I hope you’ll answer!

This post is meant for those of you who are either working on a book but can’t seem to complete it, or those of you who’ve been dreaming about writing a book for ages (maybe even wrote various notes and snippets over the years), but don’t know how to really get going on it.

If that’s not you, no need to read on.

If that IS you, I’d love to hear from you!

I’m collecting information from readers to learn more about where you’re at in your writing journey and your ideas about the process. Answers will be confidential, read only by me and used to help me better create an upcoming program for y’all.

I’m really excited about this one. It’s different from literally every writing program I’ve ever seen. And it will change how you approach writing while motivating you to keep writing your book—and finally get it done.

But I need to hear from you first!

If you’re willing to take just a few minutes to answer a few questions—this will be quick, I promise!—then please click here and let me know what you think.

Thank you so much for your help!

Hugs,

Ricki

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

Standing at the grocery checkout, I pulled out my cash as usual. As my eyes followed the prices flashing on the screen, I thought something was amiss. Then the cashier announced the total.

“Is there a sale on today?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Every Wednesday is Seniors’ Discount Day. You get 5% off because you’re a senior.”

It was one of those “Holy Crap” moments: first, the sting of “WTF? When the hell did I become a “senior”?! I am soooo OLD!” followed by “Holy Crap, you mean there are benefits to this thing?!”

Now that I’m undeniably a senior, I’ve come to appreciate the little perks that come along with the wisdom of age. I don’t have to put up with things I used to, like pretending to agree when someone says Julia Roberts is a good actress, or nodding sweetly when my boss tells me to revise my course outline for the 47th time. I can wear whatever I want, even if it means pink hair or sneakers to a wedding. I don’t care what (most) people think about me any more.

At the same time, I’ve been faced with raging hormones (What, again?! And 40 years later!), with slowing thought processes, with creaky joints and with the caution of a technician fixing the box that houses the nuclear codes whenever I walk along a winter sidewalk.

So once I became aware that things in my physical body were changing, I decided to take matters into my own hands (and feet, and muscles in general) and try to get stronger, get more flexible, and regain some of my previous balance.

Now, before you start inundating me with messages telling me that YOGA is the perfect way to retain (and even improve) strength and balance as you age–yes, I know this. In fact, one of my dear friends is a yoga instructor who’s just a few years younger than I, and she is not only still fit and flexible at our age, she also has the balance control to perform a perfect Tree Pose and hold it, well, as long as she feels like it. She’s been extolling the virtues of yoga for decades.

Despite my inherent dislike of yoga (I know, what am I, a monster?), I did give it a fair try back during the early days of COVID. Remember when we were all stuck in our homes and most people were discovering Zoom for the first time? When we all found online courses and fitness classes to keep us busy? When the world was in love with Yoga with Adriene? (Actually, at 13.6 million followers, I’d say the world is still in love with her).

Well, to appease my very insistent friends, I tuned in to Adriene’s YouTube channel just to see what the fuss was about. What I found was an affable young woman who presented yoga in what seemed clear and easy steps–in the company of what looked like an adorable Australian cattle dog, Benji. How could I resist?

I have to say, I did rather enjoy the sequences. What I didn’t realize, however, was just how much the poses required one to rest on one’s hands and knees. And for this rickety body, that meant causing myself some harm. After four days, I found myself with bursitis in the knee! I’m still getting over it, six years later.

So–no yoga for this senior. Luckily, I discovered Qi Gong back in 2014 when I spent three blissful weeks at the Hippocrates Institute (now called Hippocrates Wellness) in Florida. There, along with a fully plant-based diet made up mostly of sprouts, green juices, coconut water and daily lessons in health and mindset, I also attended Qi Gong classes each morning. I loved the flow, the calm, the focus and the fact that the entire class was performed while standing, without any special equipment (really couldn’t stand those boxes in yoga) or even having to stand barefoot.

If you’re new to it and Qi-curious, Kseny’s classes are short and super easy to follow (not an affiliate link). Or just choose another class of your choice. I’m still working on some of the single-leg poses, but I do love every minute of it. When a class is done, I feel as if I just spent those minutes meditating. My mind is relaxed and calm (too bad it doesn’t last all day).

So yeah, physical changes are a big deal for those of us in our “advancing years.” But another major difference is memory.

Now, I’ll preface this by saying that there are natural diminishments in memory that have nothing to do with modern technology. Is it my cell phone’s fault that when I’m telling the HH a story, I might just as easily forget the word “mitten” as the word “hermeneutics”? Clearly, no. That’s all hormones.

But other lapses are, indeed, related to that miniature computer we tend to carry around with us all day and refer to for, well, way too many things.

When I was younger, I had my mother’s gift of remembering phone numbers, usually after calling them just once. In fact, “number memory” was a trait that we shared, almost like a party trick. I tend to remember numbers better than words, so if someone tells me their birthday, or their address, I am likely to remember those specific digits. A few months ago, I was chatting with an acquaintance and wished her luck, as she had gum surgery scheduled the following week.

“Wow,” she said. “How did you remember that?!” I could sense the slight discomfort in her voice. The unspoken remainder of the sentence was something like, “Have you been recording what I tell you? Did you write it down? Why would you take note of that date? ARE YOU STALKING ME?!!!” I made a point of relating this “number memory” skill so she wouldn’t consider me, well, a psycho.

While I do still tend to remember numbers more easily than names or facts, my ability to memorize phone numbers after a single use has completely disappeared. And this without relying on my phone to make those calls for me!

I did notice, in addition, that in the last year I’d come to rely on GPS a little too much for my comfort. When the HH and I visited my cousin CBC in Boston last August, we used Maps to guide us to our hotel in Albany. As we drove into the parking lot, the HH remarked how “I have no idea where we actually are”--in other words, had we driven east, west, north or south off the highway to get to that hotel? Was it near the city center or way on the outskirts of town? Without the full mental map in our heads, we were, effectively, lost. We could have driven in circles for those five hours, landing only 20 miles from home, and we wouldn’t have known the difference.

So, how does one deal with this deluge of newfound challenges, both mental and physical? I’m sure there are myriad ways, but I’ll share just a few that have worked really well for me.

When the emotions rage:

This is where–sorry to be the one to say this yet again–meditation works wonders. And yes, just stopping in the middle of an argument to meditate might suffice, but I’m talking about the long-term effects of regular, daily meditation. You’ll react differently to heightened emotional situations, and might not even realize the change until it happens.

Back when I used to meditate daily with absolute fidelity, I felt generally good, but didn’t notice anything major to write home about.

Until.

One day, in my car as I pulled toward a red light, I was cut off by some maniac who just HAD to turn right–from the lane to my left. I blinked and kind of shook my head, thinking, “well, that wasn’t very smart.” Then it hit me: just months earlier, I would have been screeching at the guy through the windshield, banging my fist against the steering wheel, having a veritable stroke with rage. But not that day. 345 days of consistent meditation made a HUGE difference.

The calm and more reasoned reactions will serve you well in other contexts, too. Like when your husband puts the whisk away in a brand-new location (even though it’s been in the same drawer since you moved into this house 20 years ago, and he’s been putting dishes away that long as well) and you search everywhere and can’t find it and you NEED that whisk and you call him but his phone is turned off, as usual, and now you have to whisk your matcha with a fork and you get those little clumps of separated matcha floating on top of your tea and by now your tea is cold.

Or, you know, some other totally fictional example.

When your memory fails:

I’ve just accepted that my memory isn’t what it used to be. Never mind the occasional forgetting to honor appointments even when they’re in my calendar (I sometimes forget to consult my calendar).

Never mind having to conduct a 10-minute conversation with someone you bump into on the street, hoping throughout the “How are the kids?” and “Do you still have that Goldendoodle?” and “I still remember those chocolate chip cookies you brought to mah jong!” that they don’t say something requiring you to state their name.

Never mind recounting a story to your husband and having to utter, “You know! You KNOW the word I mean! It’s a simple word! It’s that thing–that thing that sits at the table and has four legs, and you sit on it when you eat dinner. . . that THING!!!” because you can’t remember a simple word like “chair.”

For me, recently, the biggest shock to my sense of “I have a decent memory” was starting to play bridge. Holy Overcall, Batman! The sheer number of rules, numbers, plays and cute naming conventions you have to remember is just mind-boggling. I thought I’d memorized the basic rules, but then I started to play. So you mean now, on top of remembering the value of each card, the points in my hand, and what my partner’s bid is supposed to be telling me (at least five high cards, 10-12 points and a stopper??), I ALSO have to remember each and every card that each and every other player has played? And you keep those cards face DOWN after you play them???

So yeah, my memory isn’t what it used to be. Here’s what I do.

When I know I’ve got an appointment or an important meeting coming up, I set the timer on my phone. Obvious, right? I generally have my phone with me most of the time, so when it goes off, I’m reminded of what I need to get ready for at that moment (I’ll set it between 20 and 5 minutes before the actual time, depending on how much prep I need).

And before you say it, yes, sometimes I forget what the timer is for! But then I just open my calendar and see what’s listed in the upcoming timeslot. That usually takes care of it.

What about forgetting common words, or other people’s names? I haven’t solved that issue quite yet. But I am seriously considering returning to my undergrad practice of using vocabulary cars, and daily self-testing to see if I remember the definitions. If I remember to do it.

When dealing with newfound physical limitations:

This one takes a little more motivation and self-discipline. Because, after all, it’s so much easier to sit on the couch (or in my case, sit here at my desk) and not exercise–forget about actually building muscle at my age.

For me (and I bet this will surprise exactly nobody), dogs play a pivotal role in keeping me moving and getting the blood flowing. This works for pure exercise–walking an hour a day, rain or shine, has been shown to help increase lifespan–but even more in terms of blood flow to the most important centers of the brain, like the limbic system (responsible for happiness, and other emotions), or for the emission of oxytocin, the “cuddle chemical” your brain produces when you gaze into the eyes of a loved one, like your infant daughter, your best friend–or your dog.

When you’e hit with general malaise of being, well, Old:

When I’m feeling generally down about aging (let’s face it, I’ve got fewer years ahead of me than behind me), I look to role models who’ve aged gracefully or have shown me that you can continue to learn, grow, and thrive in your twilight years.

There’s the guy I met at a social club who, at 84, recently flew a helicopter over the Alaskan glaciers to “‘get a better view,” went skydiving, took up line dancing and started piano lessons–all within three months! This in addition to his daily workouts, guitar playing, choir, and who knows what else. My cousin CBC is always amazing me with her sharp brain (and incredible memory), optimism, openness to new ideas and technologies, and active engagement with a huge circle of friends. And then there’s my own dad, who, up until (almost) the end at 99, continued to tell stories, exercise, go dancing and generally throw his weight around.

If you don’t know anyone in your own circle who could serve as a role model for vibrant old age, consider William Shatner, who, at 95, continues to work (what appears to be) full-time, has a brain like a steel trap, and can throw out (correct) details or statistics about his past along with the best of them. Mel Brooks (99), continues to work in the industry, gearing up to star in a new movie! Imagine being able to memorize lines–at 99!! Sir David Attenborough recently turned 100 and still hasn’t retired. In fact, he just signed up to narrate a new documentary series! Or think about Mick Jagger (82) and his Cirque du Soleil-level gymnastics on stage. Like him or not, he’s maintained an ability to perform at the highest level, even as an octogenarian.

If they can do it, so can we.

As a friend of mine used to say, what’s the alternative?

So let’s be like George Burns, who famously said, “Every morning I wake up and read the obituaries. If my name’s not in there, I get up and start my day.” Because, as the saying goes, every day above ground is a good day.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

“You still talk to each other?” one friend marveled. “I’m not sure I could even look at my ex.”

“Wow, that’s really sweet,” another said. “I mean, how many people stay in touch with an ex?”

I guess I should clarify. When I say “ex,” I don’t mean “ex-husband” or “ex-adult partner.” I’m referring to youthful ardor–my very first boyfriend, the one with whom I fell madly in love during our first date at a local Italian place when he commented on the candlelight ambience (he knew the word “ambience”!); the one who was incredibly sweet and thoughtful, appearing on his own after class to walk me home along sketchy twilight streets; the who was and smart and funny and romantic, crafting handmade gifts and cards with proclamations of love; and, as I told him over baba ganoush and pita (hey, we’re getting older, who knows if I’ll have another chance?), the one who was the best first boyfriend I could ever have imagined.

Ever since we parted ways in 1983, we’ve been getting together pretty much every year as a joint celebration of our birthdays (mine in October, his in January). This gathering is made possible partly by the fact that we live in the same city, and the drive to meet is never more than an hour. In addition, though, the desire to see each other is still there.

I can see why people think the friendship is unusual. I mean, to be honest, I was the one who broke up with him, and had it been the other way around, I’m not sure I’d be so keen to keep in touch.

When I think back to previous bfs, I recall one who outright cheated on me (in retrospect, I suspect he wanted to get caught); one who broke the law repeatedly during our tenure; and another who opened a conversation by announcing he could no longer see me after he’d bumped into his ex, experienced a “coup de foudre” (I imagined a stream of floating hearts pouring out of Pepe Le Pew when he first saw his “lov-ehrrrr”) and knew immediately she was The One (what did that make me? The Two?). Clearly, not much chance of ongoing camaraderie in those instances.

Given my friendship with Mr. Ex–and given how great he is–I get asked fairly often, “Why didn’t you stay together, then?” A friend asked this very question recently, and all I could say was that we grew apart as we grew up. Our lives began to move in different directions, went in different trajectories, and ultimately ended up in different destinations.

In reality, it was a tad more complicated than that. Let’s face it: even two really nice people are not always the best match for each other. It might be that they’re at different points in their respective careers and the timing isn’t right. It may be that their positive traits are aligned, but then so might be their negative traits; I always say that if the HH were as hyper and type-A as me, we wouldn’t last a week. Or maybe, as in the case of me and Mr. Ex, one’s kindness and sweetness enabled the neuroses in the other (I take full responsibility for this one; at least I was aware of the need to eradicate those traits. More about that here.).

I used to entertain fantasies of us expanding the friendship to become Couple Friends, socializing together with our spouses, maybe even going on vacations together. I do have one friend, in fact, who seems to have mastered such a relationship with an ex and his family. Their daughters are even best friends. But given the HH’s disinterest, that was never a likely outcome in our case.

These once-a-year meetings have, over time, proven to bring with them a collection of unexpected benefits, though. Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate how our ongoing friendship has served as a kind of marker for events in our adult lives. As the years accumulated and we stayed in touch, we’ve each experienced many of the typical milestones in life. Each time we meet, we discuss what’s currently going on in our lives, leaving a permanent record of key life events.

For instance, since our first lunch post-dating, Mr. Ex has gone on to marry, become a dad, find work in a field he enjoyed, beam with pride when his daughter grew up and became a successful professional, retire from his job and pick up a number of creative arts. I, on the other hand, partnered with the HH, brought multiple dogs into our lives, moved three times and pivoted in my career even more. Like a modern-day Same Time, Next Year (minus the sex, though), we meet for an annual catch-up of goings-on, hobbies, family and friends. It’s pleasant and, at the same time, a sobering reminder of time passing.

Our friendship has also taught me that, with maturity and distance, come new perspectives. . . and, at times, objectivity that wasn’t there before. It’s undoubtedly true that I also gained perspective regarding other boyfriends, such as Rocker Guy (he of the black leather pants)--but in those cases, it’s a one-sided review of history, since the other person is no longer in my life. With Mr. Ex, I can run a memory by him, see how he recollects it, and compare our two viewpoints. (More often than not, he has a much more tempered view of people and things than I do).

Most of all, though, our extended relationship has taught me, with time, to recognize that people’s values, beliefs, and desires change as they grow and evolve. I know that may seem obvious, but it really hits home while you’re enjoying a platonic lunch of chicken skewers and mujaddara with someone who used to make your knees quiver.

In retrospect, I know it was the right decision for us to part ways. Every time we meet, it’s a lovely encounter, yes, and I’m delighted to spend time in his company and hear all about what’s been going on with his daughter, his retirement, his travels. But I also know that we were not meant to be life partners.

Mr. Ex is perfectly content in his (almost 40-year!) marriage, and I’m equally steadfast in my relationship with the HH (soon-to-be 30 years together). At one point, a throwaway comment made it very clear that our views and even our fundamental values had traveled in very different directions. While a schism like that would ruin a romantic relationship, it was easy to overlook in this case.

In the end, I must admit I’m proud we’ve maintained this connection. And I truly feel what can only be described as love for this man. But it’s the kind of love I feel for a It’s a Wonderful Life at Christmas time, or the sound of the family of robins returning to the tree in our front yard each spring, or the chewiness of a really good chocolate chip cookie. They’re all lovely and enjoyable and familiar, but not essential to my happiness.

I’ll look forward to next year’s birthday lunch with the usual pleasant anticipation, eager to hear about Mr. Ex’s latest exploits with watercolors or pickleball, or where he and his wife have gone cruising. And as expected, I’m sure I’ll smile and enjoy our meeting, knowing that this friendship will forever remain a defining memory in my mind.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

What do you think of when you think of the card game bridge? I suspect most people’s minds move to blue-haired old ladies with floral fascinators or crotchety old men whose burgeoning ear hairs need tending, like dandelions in a garden.

And with good reason: the average age of bridge players today is 69.55. Yet, as with so many life choices, seems I’m the exception to that rule.

Yes, I currently qualify as an old lady–okay, fine, a “senior.” But I’ve dreamt about playing bridge since my early teens, when I took an “easy” high school credit course with my friend Babe (not her real name, obvi) to learn the game.

We spent our semester staring at cards with Mrs. Leduc, the gym teacher, who also doubled as the bridge teacher, learning about bidding, trump, and logical thought processes. We got our “easy” B+ grades (I was kinda bummed, to be honest, since it ruined my A streak), then promptly forgot all about it and moved on.

Fifty years later, I was determined to re-learn the game. Why? I’m not quite sure, to be honest. I must have held on to some sense that the game had been fun, and was challenging, and that I’d enjoyed it. Plus, it’s a great way to meet new people, something I’m also determined to do post-Covid, now that too many of us remain sequestered on the couch at home most of the time.

From the first lesson, I discovered I’d retained exactly nothing from the high school experience (well, except the knowledge that Mrs. Leduc was a really hard marker). But I believed my subconscious would help me ease back into it quickly–sort of like riding a bike.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Meg Jenson on Unsplash

Post-lesson, I returned home eager to review my notes and commit the initial rules to memory. Aces are worth four points. Kings worth three, Queens worth two, Jacks worth but one. The order of suits, from most valuable to least, is spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs (easy to remember since it’s in reverse alphabetical order!). Trump beats all (I will ignore the opportunity for endless puns or snarky jokes on this one).

As I sat memorizing, my mind wandered: wait, wouldn’t it make more sense for aces to be one point, since the actual number on the card is “one”? Why are spades the most powerful suit? Because we can dig trenches or build foundations with spades in real life? But then what about diamonds, which are more valuable in real life? And hey–the names are in reverse alphabetical order! And you sort of have to reverse-engineer how to win your tricks. Why are they called tricks, anyway. . . . ?

And so on.

Yep, I thought, this is going to be a blast! Easy peasy.

And then the following week, we embarked on Lesson Two: Opening Bids.

So much of it didn’t make sense. I mean, if you have some really good clubs, but not as great spades, you’re supposed to bid spades? Why do you need more tricks to win with No Trump? And why does the winning number of tricks always assume a starting point of six wins, then add on to that? Why not just say the total number of tricks you need to win?

Already, my head was spinning.

The upshot is that, no matter how much I practiced at home, when I returned to the lessons, I’d forgotten most of what I’d learned the previous week. I was horrified at how feeble my memory had become, unable to retain the play in my head (Did he already play the ace of hearts? How many points did we have?--and so on) and how the rules seemed to leave my mind almost as soon as I learned them, like sugar through a sieve.

And this game is supposed to be for OLD people?!

Yet while the experience has been very humbling, I’ve also noticed something intriguing going on. Ever since I started these lessons, my mind has been awash with new ideas for writing projects, from short stories to personal narrative to a new slant on my memoir. I conceived of a completely new way to approach my book coaching business that will help SO many more writers complete their books. I’ve even been more productive with editing tasks.

Coincidence? I think not.

As it turns out, learning something new sparks creativity.

Despite being frustrated that my brain won’t remember as easily as I’d like it to or that I can’t seem to hold the rules in mind while also strategizing for the game, the mere act of attempting to learn bridge is making my mind work in new ways and forge new connections. In other words, my brain’s neuroplasticity is laying down new neural pathways, thereby increasing my mental capacity–and my creativity.

How does this enhancement come about? Learning a new skill allows original connections in your brain between otherwise disparate concepts. Neural pathways link together parts of the brain that might not click simultaneously in other contexts, leading to novel ideas. You might see connections between something you discussed in yoga class and a recent deduction your accountant pointed out. Or maybe you’re hit with the similarity between the plot in the latest Ann Patchett novel and something in the self-help book you’re consuming.

This process of linking seemingly unrelated ideas is how groundbreaking discoveries are made: it’s how Sir Isaac Newton conceived of gravity after seeing an apple fall from a tree, how Archimedes discovered displacement in the bathtub, or how Watson envisioned DNA’s double helix structure after viewing an X-Ray image.

For me, the joy of tapping into my creativity far surpasses the frustration of slow and incremental learning. I can almost feel those pathways being laid down in that cerebrum. I can sense little sparks of electricity coursing through those new neural links. And I cherish the creative output that comes as a result of all that effort. It also reminds me that, at any age, we’re still capable of learning new things.

Despite the mental challenges, I really am enjoying bridge. The people are lovely, the game is fun, and the unexpected boost to my writing output is appreciated.

All that’s left now is to memorize those rules (well, and maybe buy a floral fascinator . . . ).

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

As Mother’s Day approaches, I’ve been thinking about my own mom and the fact that she’s now been gone from my life for 35 years. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long, or that she was so young when she died (62), or that I am now older than she was when we lost her.

I’ll write more about what it means to remember her and how to do that when there are precious few people still alive who can share what she was like when she was younger, or who have stories to tell. Although she was a reserved, shy and very quiet person, I felt very close to my mom, and it makes sense that my first published magazine piece, in Canadian Living Magazine, was about her.

In honor of Mum, here’s that piece again.

********************

When my two sisters and I were growing up in suburban Montreal, we’d often be asked to line up when our parents’ friends came to visit. As we stood in a row staring awkwardly at our toes, the guests would be challenged to determine which parent each of us most resembled. Inevitably, I’d be the one they pointed to, commenting, “Ah, you look most like your mother.” I’d mumble a perfunctory “thank you” and then bolt, embarrassed, from the room.

As I got older, however, I began to resent that clear resemblance more and more. After all, hadn’t my mother relinquished all her girlhood dreams in favor of marriage? Didn’t she cry so easily that a long-distance telephone commercial could leave her reduced to mush? And wasn’t she so soft-hearted and emotionally sensitive that she’d let anyone (her daughters included) take advantage of her passive nature, borrowing money or garnering favors because she was too unassertive to say “no”? No, I decided, I most definitely did not wish to turn out like my mother.

Yet secretly, I feared that I was, in fact, just like her. As a result, I spent most of my adult life in an effort to deny the similarities between us and reinvent myself as my mother’s opposite. I vowed never to suffer from the constant interruptions while I tried to talk, the friends’ overly confident requests for money or time, or my family’s disregard for my desires or opinions.

Over time, I fashioned a persona that was impervious to my mother’s brand of weakness: whereas my mother never finished high school and lived in the same city all her life, I attended university, earned a Ph.D, and moved to another province. Whereas my mother had married young, I waited until I was 30 to tie the knot--and then promptly got divorced. And if my mother resignedly capitulated in every argument with my father, I ensured that no man’s will would dominate mine. In fact, I refused to cohabit with my boyfriend until we had drafted, together, a written contract outlining our respective domestic tasks and responsibilities (I did stop short of making him sign in front of witnesses, however).

In the summer of 1991, when my mother was slowly dying in hospital, I found to my astonishment that my perspective began to shift. Perhaps it was because I was able to sit with her, every day, for those four months; perhaps because during that time we talked so openly and regained much of the closeness we’d shared when I was young.

Somehow, as I witnessed the steady stream of relatives, friends, and co-workers who’d regularly visit, sometimes waiting hours just to spend 5 minutes in her Intensive Care room, I gained a new insight into this gentle, unassuming woman. These people were here because they loved and appreciated her. And at once I, too, loved and admired her sweet, understated nature. What had bothered me, I realized, was not her emotional sensitivity, always ready to surface, but her lack of self-assurance or assertiveness that made this sensitivity a disadvantage.

Since then I’ve striven to create a comfortable balance between the tenderness of femininity and the unwavering insouciance that is frequently accepted in men but usually taken as unkindness in women. By embracing my mother’s positive qualities in myself, I’ve become both a softer and a stronger individual. And I no longer feel the need to hide my tears from my partner, even if he does tease me mercilessly as my eyes fill up during sappy television commercials.

Last summer I returned home for an extended visit with my father. While taking a walk, we bumped into one of his old war buddies, with whom he chatted for a few minutes before remembering to introduce me as his “middle daughter.” The man took my hand warmly while studying my face intently. “I’ve met your sister,” he said. “But I can see that you, you are much more like your mother.”

“Thank you,” I said. And for the first time, I meant it.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (one-time donation)

********************

As a diabetic, my mom suffered relentlessly from a variety of yeast-related infections: her fingernails were constantly yellow (likely her toenails, too, though I never saw those up close); she endured persistent itchiness all over,, especially on her back, prompting her to request back scratches from us kids almost daily; and, of course, the classic women’s “yeast infections” that returned regularly, like the ugly teapot that’s repeatedly re-gifted because nobody wants it.

So maybe it was her natural instinct kicking in, but even as an accomplished baker, she was somehow averse to using yeast as an ingredient. Mom could whip up delicious quick breads, cakes, cookies, muffins, brownies or any other regular baked goods, but yeast bread? Never. (Well, except that one, standalone, instance, which I mentioned in my previous column).

Me, on the other hand? Well, I’m stubborn when it comes to baking. My sister tells me I’m like a Pitt Bull who won’t let go when I want to accomplish something. If it’s possible for someone else, I want to try it, too.

Case in point: when I wrote Naturally Sweet & Gluten-Free, my second book, the gluten-free, egg-free, dairy-free, sugar-free brownie recipe required 51 attempts to perfect the recipe. We had brownies on every counter, brownies overflowing in the fridge and freezer, brownies packed in the garage, and countless boxes of brownies offered to friends and colleagues or hauled to Second Harvest (which took home-baked goods back then).

But I’d be damned if I was going to publish a brownie with my name on it unless it was perfect and indistinguishable from “regular” brownies.

Which brings me to sourdough bread.

I’m not sure why it’s occurred to me only just now (I mean, Covid and its attendant sourdough craze was six years ago–I know, hard to believe) but I’ve finally decided to tackle this type of naturally-fermented bread.

As someone who’s also never even baked regular yeast-based bread, you’d think I’d start with something a tad easier than homemade sourdough starter. Oh, and let’s not forget that it’s also gluten-free sourdough starter, adding yet an additional layer of complexity to the process. But what’s the fun if you already know exactly what you’re doing, amiright?

So I found a clear and detailed recipe online (this one) and followed it to a “T.” (Side note: this website’s name is a perfect example of how French does *not* translate well to English. In French, the expression “frais est vrai” relates to the idea that fresh food is “real” food, ie, not processed. And it’s cute, too–it rhymes! Translate to English and you have a clunky, not-so-clear statement that makes one go, “huh?” Still, it doesn’t seem to have harmed the popularity of the Fresh is Real blog any).

Why sourdough? Well, it’s a baked good, and one I used to love, at that. I’ve been yearning for a delicious gluten-free sourdough bread ever since the HH and I went on a mini-vacation to Niagara Falls (Canadian side) a few years back and stayed at a somewhat disappointing hotel I’d read about. But the restaurant in the hotel served the BEST sourdough bread I’ve ever had. Even better than the regular wheat-based versions I remembered. Plus, baking is my go-to form of relaxation, meditation and self-therapy. So, all things considered, a no-brainer.

But also, in the past, I’ve had a modicum of success with other fermented recipes, such as sauerkraut (fussy and long, but delish); pickles (quick and easy, and holy moly! So good!); coconut yogurt (super simple and incredibly rich-tasting) and beet kvass (surprisingly good). So why not try the mother of all wild-yeast cultured recipes, bread?!

I followed the instructions religiously and had some early success. By Day 3, it looked as if it were starting to ferment, and I was elated.

By Day 5, it seemed to stop growing, though there were still bubbles throughout. I solicited advice from the Gluten-Free Sourdough Baking group on Facebook and was told this was normal and to keep going. So back to the flour/water additions.

Today is Day Eight. Is it ready? Well. . .

I’m not sure. It looks the way it should, full of bubbles and even a few light popping sounds. But for some unknown reason, the aroma isn’t what it should be. It’s not vile, mind you, just not . . . . fermenty.

Do I keep going? Do I give up? At this point, I’ve invested so much time (and flour) into the mix that I’m willing to let it grow a few more days and see what happens.

So here you have my in-process sourdough starter. Rather than wait until the bread was baked (I’ll post about that, too, once it’s done), I wanted to share during the process to encourage anyone out there to keep going with their own starter-in-progress, too. Even if it doesn’t work out, it’s definitely a learning experience. And a lesson in patience.

Plus, sourdough starter is one of those things that reminds us of all the “regular” magic in our lives. I mean, invisible bacteria and yeast spores that take flour + water and turn it into something light and bubbly and literally, ALIVE. Who needs to believe in aliens when we’ve got sourdough starter?

PS Have you ever made gluten-free sourdough starter? If so, would you let me know if I’m wasting my time and should just chuck the whole thing–?

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

One-time donation

A few weeks ago after an initial consult call, a writer gifted me with a copy of her self-published book.

When I receive a manuscript or book like this, one that’s been published without professional input, it would be easy for my editor’s brain to take over.

Sometimes elements don’t work or should have been modified because they interfere with our appreciation of the story: things like punctuation errors that change the intended meaning; spelling or usage problems, or malapropisms (as when the HH’s ex-buddy used to talk about the “busters” on street corners downtown); or structural components I would have altered as editor. Even the title can turn readers away from an otherwise deserving story.

But when I’m reading as a regular “civilian” reader, I don’t allow any of those professional concepts to hinder the experience. What struck me most about this person and the book they’d written was just how challenging their life had been–and, even more, how they’d remained positive and hopeful throughout. It was truly an inspiring read.

Why do some people respond positively to the world while others are so negative? Is it just “the way we were born”? More importantly, is there anything we can do about it?

Having parents with two diametrically opposed approaches to life, I’ve struggled since childhood to change the way I think toward a more positive outlook.

My mom was the Eternal Pessimist. No matter the situation, she’d see the worst possible outcome. I have vivid memories from childhood of Mom crying or wringing her hands over events that wouldn’t faze most people. If a jar fell from the countertop and crashed on the floor, there would be my mother, sobbing quietly while sweeping the shards onto the dustpan. “I knew that would happen!” she’d whimper while swirling the puddles of jam into the dishcloth. Or if a grocery bag would tear on the walk home from the store, shedding apples, bananas, or cans of peas and carrots on the sidewalk, she’d cry, “why do I always have such bad luck?”

When we were young, my parents regularly rented a cottage in the Laurentians for the two months of summer to give us time out of the city during the worst heat in July and August. Because he generally worked six days a week, my dad would drive us all up to the house on Friday afternoon, then after dinner, head back to the city so he could work at the store on Saturday. Every two weeks, he took Mondays off and would join us for the “weekend.”

One summer Friday, we arrived at the new place and Dad was already back on the road, likely halfway home by the time my mother started unpacking boxes and cleaning up the existing kitchen. Keep in mind that these were very basic cottages. Never mind a Keurig or Magic Bullet–these places didn’t even contain a basic coffee maker or modern washing machine.

But that day, the situation was even worse. It turned out the owner of the cottage had forgotten to turn on the hot water heater before our arrival, and only cold water flowed from the taps. Not at all savvy in these things, my mom had no idea how to turn on the heater. At the time, there were no cell phones (in fact, the home had no phone at all), so there was no way to contact my dad. He likely wouldn’t have turned around at that point in any case.

So my mother pulled her SOS pads from the box and started scrubbing all the pots and dishes in cold water, scraping the pads over the scuffed surfaces. As she scrubbed, tears flowed down her cheeks and she shuddered softly, mumbling to herself, “Why me? Why?” and “Why does this always happen to me?”

Those of you who ascribe to the philosophy of manifestation and affirmations will likely assume why it always happened. Because she expected it, because she couldn’t envision anything else, because she accepted that outcome as her destiny.

Later in her life, when she was about 50, we all had a scare when the doctor found a lump in Mom’s breast. This occurred on a Friday, and the lump was immediately sent off for biopsy. She was told she’d receive the test results by the following Monday (this was decades ago, remember, when the healthcare system still operated efficiently).

From the moment she got home, my mother “knew” that the lump would be cancerous. She ended up baking bread that weekend, and as she stood and kneaded the dough over and over, she kept repeating, “This will be the last time I ever make bread.” As it turned out, it was–because as far as I remember, she had never baked bread before that day, and never did again. Not even once during the following 15 years–all of which she lived, cancer-free.

My father, on the other hand, was a Natural Optimist. Despite all the hardship he’d endured, having to flee his homeland at age sixteen and build a new life in a new country where he knew no one and didn’t speak the language, he maintained a positive outlook no matter what. One of his favorite phrases was, “Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.” He even continued to look ahead in his late 90s, planning, like George Burns before him, for his 100th birthday (which he missed by only two weeks).

When my mom died, my father was 70. They’d been together 40 years. The image of him embedded in my mind from that time was a man broken, crying incessantly. I’d never seen my dad cry at any point before that, but when my mother died, the floodgates opened.

As we all stood around at the house after the funeral, I can still envision him sitting on the couch surrounded by friends and family, appearing unnaturally small, hunched over in his grief. Then he said something I’ll never forget. He glanced up at no one in particular, his eyes rimmed in red, shimmering with tears.

“It feels terrible now,” he said, “But I know it will get better.”

I know it will get better. How does one acquire that kind of optimism?

For much of my life, I was more like my mom. I’d spent most of my childhood with her (Dad worked long hours, six days a week, after all), and her manner of being felt natural to me. I absorbed her pessimism and learned helplessness. I was diagnosed with depression at age 13.

But when I finally left home for university, it began to dawn on me, bit by bit, that I didn’t have to remain the way I was. It took many years of frustration, sadness, anxiety and feeling like nothing would change–plus many (many!) years of therapy, before it occurred to me one day: I’m different. Something had changed. I’m no longer mired in a haze of depression and unhappiness. I can look at a negative situation and see that there might be positive outcomes. I can imagine something better, and change my mind accordingly.

Don’t get me wrong, it took work. Conscious awareness and a deliberate attempt to change the way I think. And lots of repetition. With mindfulness, active attempts to change my mindset, and practice, I moved from always-negative to mostly-positive.

That is, until recent years.

Like so many of us, the pandemic and post-pandemic pandemonium has taken its toll on me, too. There are days I feel despair and days I feel as if nothing will ever change.

Then I have to remind myself: that’s not realistic. Because, like everything, this, too, will get better.

Maybe it doesn’t feel like that now, but clinging to that one truth is essential for each and every one of us if we are to move forward toward a better world. When you look back through history at even the darkest periods on this planet, the situation did, eventually, turn around. Negativity and evil cannot thrive indefinitely. Decent people simply won’t abide it.

In the meantime, it takes self-discipline and imagination to keep returning to the positive. And even though I’m a broken record on this one, I know my dogs play a huge role for me. Dogs have an uncanny ability to find the joy in every moment. Sure, they can seem downtrodden when they’re ill, or (and it breaks my heart) when they’re stuck in a shelter for years on end. Hope may fade. But as soon as there’s even a glimmer of light, they gravitate toward it and recover immediately. (Check out this one dog’s story–adopted after over 450 days in the shelter!).

We humans can do it, too. We can seek out the good in others and focus on that instead of all the evil in the world. We can gravitate toward what we know brings happiness. We can savor the little things.

And yes, it will take effort. So why bother, you may ask? Is it worth it to train our brains to be more positive, even as the world blazes around us?

Well, to begin with, staying positive is actually healthier. Optimists live longer, and enjoy better physical wellness as they do. Couldn’t we all stand to be a little healthier (not to mention, you’ll need that physical strength to get through the next few years)? Optimists also experience more success in their chosen careers than pessimists. All sounds pretty good to me.

Most importantly, though, staying optimistic means you’ll be happier. You’ll be better prepared to deal with whatever comes. When there was a crisis in our house, my mother folded immediately. She crumpled up and cried. And then, she had to attend to the issue anyway. When I think back to my younger self, I realize I did the same thing as my mom. Yes, I survived all the awful times. But I did so full of anguish and resentment. What good did all the wailing do me? If anything, it made the suffering linger.

My dad, on the other hand, assessed the situation and took whatever action he could. As a result, he navigated the hard times and got through them faster. I recently witnessed the HH being the same way during a personal crisis. I had always thought he was more like my mom in temperament, but now realize he’s been an optimist from day one (sometimes to an annoying degree, if I’m being honest).

It’s not delusional to look for the positive, even in the harshest of times. It can be the difference between living and barely existing. As Viktor Frankl, psychologist, Holocaust survivor and author of Man’s Search for Meaning reminded us, “the meaning of life differs from man to man, from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person’s life at a given moment.” To remain positive even in negative times, we must keep searching for those moments.

The other night, the HH and I were watching a Netflix documentary about UFOs (yet another topic that seems to be adding to our collective emotional instability these days). I turned to him and remarked how magical it is that we humans evolved here on this planet, that this planet even exists, and how the stars aligned to create the human race.

He took a beat and then said, “Well, it’s all magical. The fact that everything here exists is magical.” He swept his arm across the room. Our glitchy TV? The dog-stained carpet? That old chair we got from a friend’s office waiting room? What, magical?

I was struck with a renewed appreciation for this eccentric, brilliant, hilarious, gentle and always optimistic partner I’d chosen to spend my adult life with. There he was, on a regular Tuesday night, still finding those moments.

Yes, it’s all equally magical. Why would we perceive the existence of the human race as more magical than that of a grain of salt? Or a dandelion? Or hamsters? Or cupcakes? Or mud? Or, basically, any single thing that exists on this planet? Each one is a fragment of magic. When you look at things that way, there’s a whole lot to be grateful for.

So yeah, we live in some of the most erratic, unstable, unhinged times in history. But, as in every era, there are people (and don’t let’s forget the dogs) still worth loving. Actions still worth taking. Memories worth making. Most of all, life worth living.

Consequently these days, I make a point of remembering my dad. And despite our differences, I’ll focus on his message that forever stays with me: Yes, it may feel terrible now. But I know it will get better.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a matcha (or coffee!)

Baldwin is brilliant in it. For weeks after seeing the film, my friends and I took the phrase and applied it to whatever was going on currently in our lives.

To wit:

“Always Be Shopping.”

“Always Be Dating.”

“Always Be Exercising.”

“Always Be Drinking.”

Etcetera.

Then we’d launch into that specific topic and why it was or wasn’t working out for us.

“Oh, those tan leather pumps!”

“Oh, that creep last weekend!”

“Oh, my bum is so sore!”

“Oh, I’ll never drink Shiraz again!” (back in the days when I still drank wine. . . ).

See how much fun?

Currently, I’m mostly focused on “Always Be Writing” (ABW). But before that could happen, there was another maxim: Always Be Learning.

When you’re a new writer and not quite sure what to put down on paper, what does “ABL” really mean?

First, it means giving yourself a break. Like any skill, learning to be a better writer will take some time and practice.

Then, it means you write.

You write when you have a few minutes between other tasks. You write rather than watch a movie on a plane (unless they happen to show Glengarry Glen Ross). You write when you’re stuck in line at the grocery store. You write when you’re finished Pilates and you have 15 minutes to spare.

Basically, you write any chance you get. And you write regularly.

Have you heard of Seth Godin? He’s known mostly as a marketer and blogger, but he’s so much more than that.

Godin is a role model for writers everywhere.

He started a blog back in 2002, long before most people had even heard of such things. And he’s published a post every single day since then. That’s right: he’s written a blog post every day for almost a quarter of a century!

Some of Seth Godin’s posts are brilliant, and have become classics in the world of marketing. Others are long, thoughtful examinations of current trends, psychological theories, or famous people.

Still others are only a single sentence. Many are just a few paragraphs. Some don’t quite hit the mark. And some are positively cringe-worthy.

But has that stopped him from posting? No sirree. And it’s also how Godin has become so well known, with more than 20 (!) bestselling books under his belt.

In describing his habit, Godin has mentioned that he writes whether he feels like it or not and publishes not necessarily because he’s got something brilliant to say, but because “it’s tomorrow.” It’s the daily habit, posting both good and bad, ensuring that somewhere in the mix, there will be a few gems.

I love this approach to writing. I’ve dubbed it the “Seth Godin Approach,” or SGA.

So next time you think, “I’m not a good enough writer,” or “I have no experience writing a book,” just remember ABL and SGA.

“Always Be Learning” means you don’t have to start out perfect or already an expert when it comes to your writing. And the “Seth Godin Approach” guarantees that eventually, you, too, will be producing those writing gems.

*********************

A book coach provides guidance, mentoring, encouragement and accountability so you can meet those deadlines, stay motivated and feel supported through the process. You’ll also receive specific feedback (both in writing and in live calls) to help strengthen and enhance your writing so it flows more smoothly, expresses ideas clearly and sounds authentically like YOU.

If you’re ready to finally get your book done, let’s chat (I promise, I’m much nicer than Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross).

Learn more about book coaching here, and sign up if you’re ready to start writing!

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a matcha (or coffee!)

If you’ve been following along, I hope the prompts have shown you how easy it can be to find material for your personal essays, magazine articles, or short stories from your daily life.

Now, I’d love to hear from YOU.

Has the series been helpful? Have you used any of the prompts? Let me know!

Most importantly, what would you like to see going forward? More prompts? More articles? More dog stories? Please leave a comment below and let me know what you think.

And, if you’d like to join our free weekly writing room, sign up for Write with Ricki reminders. We meet every Wednesday at 9:00 AM Eastern (6:00 AM Pacific) and write together for an hour. It’s a great opportunity to write with other writers, focus on your work, feel motivated, and get stuff done!

SIGN UP FOR WRITE WITH RICKI here.

Hope to see you there!

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a matcha (or coffee!)

You can review the intro post here and video here.

HOW IT WORKS:

Five days a week, I’ll share a prompt based on something that happened in my day--just to show you how easy it can be.

AND I’M INVITING YOU TO WRITE ABOUT THE PROMPTS AND ENTER FOR A FREE DEVELOPMENTAL EDIT!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE IN THE PAD CHALLENGE:

Each weekday for a month, I’ll post a prompt here for you to use as a springboard to write either a nonfiction article (suitable to submit to a magazine or newspaper); a personal narrative (based on your real life); or a short story (fiction). NOTE: NO pornography, graphic violence, racism or the like.

Write a piece that’s 1000 words or less and submit it to me at ricki@rickiheller.com with the subject line, “PAD Submission.” You can send as a Word file, or simply copy/paste into the body of your email.

At the end of the month, I’ll randomly choose one submission for editing. You’ll receive your edits within 30 days after submission.

You can also see what I’ve done with the prompts on Substack., here:

NOTE: Submissions that do not comply with these rules will not be considered. No exceptions.

Questions? Leave ‘em in the comments!

SIGN UP FOR WRITE WITH RICKI here.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a matcha (or coffee!)

You can review the intro post here and video here.

HOW IT WORKS:

Five days a week, I’ll share a prompt based on something that happened in my day--just to show you how easy it can be.

AND I’M INVITING YOU TO WRITE ABOUT THE PROMPTS AND ENTER FOR A FREE DEVELOPMENTAL EDIT!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE IN THE PAD CHALLENGE:

Each weekday for a month, I’ll post a prompt here for you to use as a springboard to write either a nonfiction article (suitable to submit to a magazine or newspaper); a personal narrative (based on your real life); or a short story (fiction). NOTE: NO pornography, graphic violence, racism or the like.

Write a piece that’s 1000 words or less and submit it to me at ricki@rickiheller.com with the subject line, “PAD Submission.” You can send as a Word file, or simply copy/paste into the body of your email.

At the end of the month, I’ll randomly choose one submission for editing. You’ll receive your edits within 30 days after submission.

You can also see what I’ve done with the prompts on Substack., here:

NOTE: Submissions that do not comply with these rules will not be considered. No exceptions.

Questions? Leave ‘em in the comments!

SIGN UP FOR WRITE WITH RICKI here.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

********************

My new business coach (whom I adore) is basically the poster child for the expression, “American Dream Success Story.” Starting out with a negative bank account, no real place to live and having sold her sparse furniture to pay for her own coaching, within three years her business crossed the million-dollar mark. Even though she’s quite a bit younger than I, I consider her a role model. She shows the rest of us what’s possible when you work hard, implement, and serve your clients.

At one of our coaching calls last week, she told the story of how she learned to embrace her full self and accept both the good and the bad. After she first earned more than 10M per year, the trolls came out en masse on social media. She was criticized and people attempted to cancel her. Her solution? Acknowledge the kernels of truth that existed in their comments, accept the “negative” traits she possessed, and welcome them as part of the complete person.

It got me thinking about how many of us accept what we consider to be our flaws, how much we acknowledge them publicly, and how self-perception influences our behavior in the rest of our lives.

This concept came home for me a few weeks ago when I was out to brunch with a new-ish friend. Over Greek omelets and gluten-free toast, we chatted about hobbies, our family histories, pets and travel. We somehow got onto the topic of the pandemic (can you believe that was almost SIX years ago now?!) and how so many of us learned skills we hadn’t had before.

“I got pretty good at cutting my son’s hair,” she said. I laughed and noted I did the same for the HH.

“By the way, I love your hairstyle,” she continued. “Where did you get it done?”

There’s always a split-second hesitation on my part when I receive this question. But nowadays, the answer is usually quick and no longer self-conscious.

“It’s not my hair,” I told her. “This is a wig.”

It’s not the fact of wearing a wig that caused me to hesitate. It’s more about, “How much of the story do I tell to someone I don’t know that well?”

Don’t worry, the basics can be related in less than a minute. When I was treated for candida overgrowth in 2010, I needed to be on prescription antifungals for a long time (a loooooong time). As a result, after about nine months, my hair started to fall out. The way leaves blow off trees in the fall. The way dandelion blooms float along the breeze in late summer. The way followers run for the exits when the latest celebrity is canceled.

Over time, I lost about half my hair. Feeling extremely self-conscious with several large bald spots dotting my scalp, I decided to wear a wig. Then, as time passed and I healed my gut, about half of that loss came back. By then, I’d not only adapted to wearing wigs–I decided I actually prefer them.

At first, I was embarrassed and didn’t want anyone to know my hair wasn’t. . . well, MY hair. Because I chose a color and style that mimicked my actual hair, most people didn’t even realize what was going on. No one suspected that it was actually Raquel Welch who determined my haircut, and not me.

Over time, though, I loosened my grip on the secret. I mean, why should I even care? I felt better wearing it and the fact I wore a wig didn’t hurt anyone else, right?

Others’ reactions are always interesting, though. Friends who’ve known me for years and have seen my actual hair tell me, “it’s not so bad! You could totally go around without it.” I beg to differ. I’m pretty sure I’d walk out in the streets and frighten the horses.

Seriously, though, why not wear the thing that feels good to you? For a while, I thought my preference for wigs might mean I’m not fully accepting who I “really” am. But people have always worn accessories and enhancements to their appearance. (though there does seem to be a gender bias when it comes to faux hair).. I mean, if Willian Shatner can wear a toupee for over half a century now, why can’t women wear wigs–just because?

Once I looked into it further, I found that people have recently embraced wigs with great gusto. Approximately half of women admit to wearing them at least on occasion; and the global wig market is set to break the $10 billion mark in the next few years.

So what makes wigs so popular, even if you don’t “need” them? I’ve found quite a few reasons.

1. Wigs can bring out a sense of play.

Think of it as trying on different personalities for the day. I’ve never been a woman to dote on designer shoes or handbags; they just don’t do it for me. But wigs? I love the fact I can change up the color, length and style in seconds. Feel like a feisty redhead? Put on that auburn pageboy. Maybe you’re planning to wear your favorite gold earrings that day–go with the blonde bob. Sensing the need for a more mature perspective? Grab the grey layered number.

The fact is, I’ve come to consider wigs as an accessory, just like earrings or scarves. I’ve always loved my earring collection. Now, I’m building a wig collection, too (not quite Moira Rose just yet, but working on it).

2. Experience anti-aging technology–without surgery!

Years ago, a famous French actress (maybe Catherine Deneuve?) referred to bangs as “the French Facelift” because they cover forehead wrinkles. Wigs offer that same perk for all of us.

Because I’ve never had plastic surgery or used Botox/fillers, I consider wigs my personal vanity indulgence to keep me feeling younger. The cost is a tiny fraction of those other procedures (synthetic wigs are about the same price as a cute little sweater at Eileen Fisher or Talbots). So there’s no guilt when you collect them. Also, no mismatched face-vs-neck wrinkles (just the same wrinkles everywhere), too-tight cheekbones look or completely unrecognizable appearance that so many celebrities sport after multiple surgeries.

3. Wigs can save you money.

Before I started wearing them, I believed that wigs were an ultra-expensive purchase. Maybe that was once true when all wigs were made from real human hair. However, I prefer synthetic wigs to human hair wigs for several reasons. When I got my first wig, I splurged on one with a mix of real and synthetic. The cost was astronomical, but the saleswoman convinced me that mostly-real hair would look SO much better, and that I’d feel more natural with someone else’s real hair on my head.

I can’t say she was right, but what I quickly discovered was that wigs made with human hair require all the same maintenance as real hair, too: you must wash them just as often, carefully dry them, and style them the way you do your own hair. What that meant was I spent time styling and blow-drying the wig almost daily. Who’s got time for that?!

Then I discovered synthetics. These days, they look just about the same as human-hair wigs, except they are permanently styled. And they cost a fraction of the price of human hair. Honestly, depending on the wig, you can get a really sharp style for around $200 USD. Think about it: a haircut at a salon these days costs about $80, plus a tip–let’s say $90 total. And if you have your hair done every six weeks (what hairdressers suggest), that’s about $780 per year. That doesn’t even account for blow-outs.

So you’re actually saving money with wigs (which normally last at least 6 months and up to a year with good care).

4. They’re just so convenient!

Did your friend call you last-minute to invite you to a movie? “I’ll be arriving in the Uber to pick you up in 25 minutes!” Guess what? With a wig, your hair is always done and you don’t have to worry about it–you’re always ready to go! Did you fall into bed after an evening out, wake up with mop-head, greasy hair? Well, you can still look fabulous for that brunch in an hour. If you wash a wig before bed, by the time you wake up–poof!--it’s ready to wear. That’s right, ladies: It’s always a Good Hair Day.

To be honest, the only drawback I’ve found with wigs is that your hair never does look messy or unkempt, even when you kind of wish it did, like while spending time on the weekend in sweats and slippers (though when I think about it, I’m not actually wearing a wig at those times). I vividly recall watching Grace and Frankie, the fabulous Netflix series with Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin. In one scene, Grace, Fonda’s character, stumbles out of bed one morning after a breakup, her “hair” supposedly neglected and spiked in all directions. Somehow, the scene fell flat, because a messy wig, unlike its intended appearance, looks like a messy wig.

So there you have it: all the reasons I love wigs. Have I convinced you, too?

I’ve come to think of wigs now almost as part of who I am, a reflection of my many moods and personas. I have a friend whose glasses feature interchangeable frames so she can match the color of the frame with what she’s wearing that day. I think that’s cool. Maybe you’ve got something different to inject a little frivolity in your life.

And while I do accept my thinning hair for what it is, that doesn’t mean I have to love it. I mean, I also accept that winter sucks and I’ll just have to deal with it for five months of the year. I accept that the HH is way more laid back than I am, which means certain tasks won’t receive the attention I believe they deserve. Besides, I figure if icons like Jane Fonda and Dolly Parton (who wore wigs before it was fashionable) can do it, it should be good for the rest of us, too.

These days, I fully embrace my fake hair. Just like earrings or scarves, I think of wigs as a fun and easy way to change up my appearance.

So let’s not get too wigged out about them. Just go ahead and have a little hairbrained fun.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

You can review the intro post here and video here.

HOW IT WORKS:

Five days a week, I’ll share a prompt based on something that happened in my day--just to show you how easy it can be.

AND I’M INVITING YOU TO WRITE ABOUT THE PROMPTS AND ENTER FOR A FREE DEVELOPMENTAL EDIT!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE IN THE PAD CHALLENGE:

Each weekday for a month, I’ll post a prompt here for you to use as a springboard to write either a nonfiction article (suitable to submit to a magazine or newspaper); a personal narrative (based on your real life); or a short story (fiction). NOTE: NO pornography, graphic violence, racism or the like.

Write a piece that’s 1000 words or less and submit it to me at ricki@rickiheller.com with the subject line, “PAD Submission.” You can send as a Word file, or simply copy/paste into the body of your email.

At the end of the month, I’ll randomly choose one submission for editing. You’ll receive your edits within 30 days after submission.

You can also see what I’ve done with the prompts on Substack., here:

NOTE: Submissions that do not comply with these rules will not be considered. No exceptions.

Questions? Leave ‘em in the comments!

SIGN UP FOR WRITE WITH RICKI here.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

of Prompt-a-Day! This series will help you keep up with your writing, stay motivated and use those creative muscles!

You can review the intro post here and video here.

HOW IT WORKS:

Five days a week, I’ll share a prompt based on something that happened in my day--just to show you how easy it can be.

AND I’M INVITING YOU TO WRITE ABOUT THE PROMPTS AND ENTER FOR A FREE DEVELOPMENTAL EDIT!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE IN THE PAD CHALLENGE:

Each weekday for a month, I’ll post a prompt here for you to use as a springboard to write either a nonfiction article (suitable to submit to a magazine or newspaper); a personal narrative (based on your real life); or a short story (fiction). NOTE: NO pornography, graphic violence, racism or the like.

Write a piece that’s 1000 words or less and submit it to me at ricki@rickiheller.com with the subject line, “PAD Submission.” You can send as a Word file, or simply copy/paste into the body of your email.

At the end of the month, I’ll randomly choose one submission for editing. You’ll receive your edits within 30 days after submission.

You can also see what I’ve done with the prompts on Substack., here:

NOTE: Submissions that do not comply with these rules will not be considered. No exceptions.

Questions? Leave ‘em in the comments!

SIGN UP FOR WRITE WITH RICKI here.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

You can review the intro post here and video here.

HOW IT WORKS:

Five days a week, I’ll share a prompt based on something that happened in my day--just to show you how easy it can be.

AND I’M INVITING YOU TO WRITE ABOUT THE PROMPTS AND ENTER FOR A FREE DEVELOPMENTAL EDIT!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE IN THE PAD CHALLENGE:

Each weekday for a month, I’ll post a prompt here for you to use as a springboard to write either a nonfiction article (suitable to submit to a magazine or newspaper); a personal narrative (based on your real life); or a short story (fiction). NOTE: NO pornography, graphic violence, racism or the like.

Write a piece that’s 1000 words or less and submit it to me at ricki@rickiheller.com with the subject line, “PAD Submission.” You can send as a Word file, or simply copy/paste into the body of your email.

At the end of the month, I’ll randomly choose one submission for editing. You’ll receive your edits within 30 days after submission.

You can also see what I’ve done with the prompts on Substack., here:

NOTE: Submissions that do not comply with these rules will not be considered. No exceptions.

Questions? Leave ‘em in the comments!

SIGN UP FOR WRITE WITH RICKI here.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a matcha (or coffee!)

********************

Ah, romance.

As a teenager with a ferocious crush on my high school French teacher, Mr. Krauser (commonly known among the girls as “Mr. Arrouser”) and then later, as a 20-something with a ferocious crush on my English professor, Dr. Ditsky, I used to fantasize about what “true love” would be all about.

Picture this scene: the lens is slightly out of focus, with the scene appearing a little foggy and even a little dreamy. Nineteen-year-old me floats in, wearing a pale pink chiffon number with layers and layers that undulate behind me as I walk, ever-so-gracefully, toward my beloved.

It’s been a hard day. He pats the plump off-white sofa seat beside him, beckoning me to sit. He just instinctively knows when I’m feeling a little low. I mean, he just “gets” me. He drapes his bulging, muscular arm around my shoulder like a cloak of safety. I feel safe and secure in his embrace.

“Oh my darling, whatever is wrong?” he whispers in his deep, gravelly and oh-so-masculine voice, gently cupping my chin in his hand. “What’s troubling you, my love? You know you can tell me anything.”

Do I ever. As I spill it all–”My dad won’t let me drive the car!” or “My Psychology professor doesn’t call on me in class!” or “My PhD advisor was mean to me again!”--he hugs me gently, caresses my long, auburn locks and soothes my troubled soul, promising it will all be okay and that he’ll take care of me, no matter what. I swoon a little, melting into his arms. How I love you, my dear Broderick!

Cut scene.

Seriously, what form of Harlequin-fantasy-hallucinogenic was I ingesting back then?

When love finally did find me, it was in the form of a sweet young History major who was almost as green as I was (hey, Greene!). And while I do believe what we shared was more than mere infatuation, that first, fresh love wasn’t sturdy enough to weather my father disowning me, my burgeoning panic attacks, and a move to another city, five hours away.

Next!

On to the Starter Husband, whom I did also love, but who broke my heart (and kind of cracked the thin shell of my sanity) once I discovered what had been going on behind my back, basically since we’d met. Complete loss of trust led to loss of the marriage, too.

That betrayal led to a few years (okay, six) floating aimlessly in the Dating Sea and avoiding all suitors or serious relationships.

By then, I’d spent a lot of time in introspection, really digging deep into my own insecurities and what part I had had in those failed relationships.

I was, finally, perfectly happy in my own company, pursuing activities that felt fulfilling and personal, such as deepening my friendships, taking courses and volunteering (and take it from me: spending shifts at an all-night hotline answering calls from other people in serious distress will quickly help you realize just how good your own life is).

I took up hobbies, too, and thoroughly enjoyed learning to sew, knit, practice improv and even write my first book. Those days were filled with firsts.

But none compared to the first (and only) time I asked someone out on a date.

I mean, guys do it all the time, right? Why not me?

I met the HH at a party where I had no intention of meeting anyone. A birthday bash my friend Brian threw for himself, the guest list included the usual group of riffraff and anti-establishment folks (what we used to call “liberal” in those days). Having been to several of Brian’s parties before, I also knew that the majority of the guests would be gay.

Socializing with this group felt good to me: no pressure, just a chance to engage in interesting conversation, have some fun and not worry about dressing ”attractively,” flirting, or anything else to do with dating.

As it turned out, I spent most of the evening chatting with two men: Brian’s cousin, and the HH.

When it was over and the HH wrapped up the evening with a polite, “Great talking to you. Bye,” without so much as a “When can I see you again?” or even a “Can I have your number?” I bit the bullet. The next day, I called Brian and asked for the HH’s number.

“He’s probably the better choice,” Brian remarked. “At least he’s gainfully employed.”

I was surprised at how much I enjoyed our first date. Over dinner, we gabbed about every topic under the sun, we laughed, eyes sparkling as the server poured another glass of wine. The vibe continued after dinner at a bar around the corner. We lingered at our table until they began to clear up and asked us to leave.

Another enthusiastic, “This has been great!” when he dropped me off at my door.

And then... crickets.

About a month later while riding the subway, my head buried in a book, I felt a tap on the shoulder. Glancing up, who should I see but the HH, smiling broadly! What were the chances? We hopped off together, went out to dinner and had another stellar evening.

And then... radio silence.

“Forget about it,” I thought. And so I did. I went on with my life and didn’t really think about it again.

Except…

A couple months later, in a different subway headed in a different direction, I hopped on and, lo and behold–there stood the HH! AGAIN. In a city of five million people, we’d managed to meet by chance on the subway. Twice.

The HH says that was the moment he knew we were destined to be together (Uh, seriously? Wow, some people really do need to be hit over the head).

As it turns out, that meeting was 29 years ago. And despite a rocky start and more pebbles along the way, here we are, still together. Still chatting, still making each other laugh.

Back then, I really did believe I’d never have another relationship, let alone a relationship in which I found love (that’s why I chose a very particular name for my “First Born” dog).

The HH certainly didn’t fit my romantic fantasy. And he certainly wasn’t what I’d expected. But somehow, we’ve made it work (so far).

I guess that old saying is true: “When the Ricki is ready, the HH will appear.” Or something like that.

Have a Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.

PS For the record, the HH still hates talking on the phone.

PPS Writers! Sometimes you just need to take that leap with your book, too. Commit to finally writing it. Hire a coach. Block out time in your calendar. Just get the thing moving. Even if it feels scary, or like you’re not sure how it will work out. Because you never know where it might lead.

Kind of like asking a total stranger on a date.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a matcha (or coffee!)

You can review the intro post here and video here.

HOW IT WORKS:

Five days a week, I’ll share a prompt based on something that happened in my day--just to show you how easy it can be.

AND I’M INVITING YOU TO WRITE ABOUT THE PROMPTS AND ENTER FOR A FREE DEVELOPMENTAL EDIT!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE IN THE PAD CHALLENGE:

Each weekday for a month, I’ll post a prompt here for you to use as a springboard to write either a nonfiction article (suitable to submit to a magazine or newspaper); a personal narrative (based on your real life); or a short story (fiction). NOTE: NO pornography, graphic violence, racism or the like.

Write a piece that’s 1000 words or less and submit it to me at ricki@rickiheller.com with the subject line, “PAD Submission.” You can send as a Word file, or simply copy/paste into the body of your email.

At the end of the month, I’ll randomly choose one submission for editing. You’ll receive your edits within 30 days after submission.

You can also see what I’ve done with the prompts on Substack., here:

NOTE: Submissions that do not comply with these rules will not be considered. No exceptions.

Questions? Leave ‘em in the comments!

SIGN UP FOR WRITE WITH RICKI here.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

You can review the intro post here and video here.

HOW IT WORKS:

Five days a week, I’ll share a prompt based on something that happened in my day--just to show you how easy it can be.

AND I’M INVITING YOU TO WRITE ABOUT THE PROMPTS AND ENTER FOR A FREE DEVELOPMENTAL EDIT!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE IN THE PAD CHALLENGE:

Each weekday for a month, I’ll post a prompt here for you to use as a springboard to write either a nonfiction article (suitable to submit to a magazine or newspaper); a personal narrative (based on your real life); or a short story (fiction). NOTE: NO pornography, graphic violence, racism or the like.

Write a piece that’s 1000 words or less and submit it to me at ricki@rickiheller.com with the subject line, “PAD Submission.” You can send as a Word file, or simply copy/paste into the body of your email.

At the end of the month, I’ll randomly choose one submission for editing. You’ll receive your edits within 30 days after submission.

You can also see what I’ve done with the prompts on Substack., here:

NOTE: Submissions that do not comply with these rules will not be considered. No exceptions.

Questions? Leave ‘em in the comments!

SIGN UP FOR WRITE WITH RICKI here.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

You can review the intro post here and video here.

HOW IT WORKS:

Five days a week, I’ll share a prompt based on something that happened in my day--just to show you how easy it can be.

AND I’M INVITING YOU TO WRITE ABOUT THE PROMPTS AND ENTER FOR A FREE DEVELOPMENTAL EDIT!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE IN THE PAD CHALLENGE:

Each weekday for a month, I’ll post a prompt here for you to use as a springboard to write either a nonfiction article (suitable to submit to a magazine or newspaper); a personal narrative (based on your real life); or a short story (fiction). NOTE: NO pornography, graphic violence, racism or the like.

Write a piece that’s 1000 words or less and submit it to me at ricki@rickiheller.com with the subject line, “PAD Submission.” You can send as a Word file, or simply copy/paste into the body of your email.

At the end of the month, I’ll randomly choose one submission for editing. You’ll receive your edits within 30 days after submission.

NOTE: Submissions that do not comply with these rules will not be considered. No exceptions.

Questions? Leave ‘em in the comments!

SIGN UP FOR WRITE WITH RICKI here.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)

You can review the intro post here and video here.

HOW IT WORKS:

Five days a week, I’ll share a prompt based on something that happened in my day--just to show you how easy it can be.

AND I’M INVITING YOU TO WRITE ABOUT THE PROMPTS AND ENTER FOR A FREE DEVELOPMENTAL EDIT!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE IN THE PAD CHALLENGE:

Each weekday for a month, I’ll post a prompt here for you to use as a springboard to write either a nonfiction article (suitable to submit to a magazine or newspaper); a personal narrative (based on your real life); or a short story (fiction). NOTE: NO pornography, graphic violence, racism or the like.

Write a piece that’s 1000 words or less and submit it to me at ricki@rickiheller.com with the subject line, “PAD Submission.” You can send as a Word file, or simply copy/paste into the body of your email.

At the end of the month, I’ll randomly choose one submission for editing. You’ll receive your edits within 30 days after submission.

NOTE: Submissions that do not comply with these rules will not be considered. No exceptions.

Questions? Leave ‘em in the comments!

SIGN UP FOR WRITE WITH RICKI here.

********************

As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or consider supporting me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription or a one-time donation (see button below). I’ll be eternally grateful in any case!

*******************

Buy me a coffee (or matcha!)