I Know Your Heart (Lyrics)

Sometimes speaking your mind

Is the one thing you can’t do

And you struggle just to find

The words that won’t break through

The silence is your prison

But it doesn’t have to be

And all the love you’ve given

Ain’t just a memory

You don’t have to say it

You don’t even have to try

No matter how you play it

It’s right there in your eyes

Because I know your heart

I know your mind

I knew it from the start

I’ll know it for all time

So when you get to thinking

That you cannot find the words

Just remember this one thing

I already heard

Sometimes the things you feel

Get lost inside your head

It doesn’t mean they’re not real

Because they go unsaid

The silence is your prison

But it doesn’t have to be

Let all the love you’ve given

Be the love that sets you free

You don’t have to say it

You don’t even have to try

No matter how you play it

I can see it in your eyes

Because I know your heart

I know your mind

I knew it from the start

I’ll know it for all time

So when you get to thinking

That you cannot find the words

Just remember this one thing

I already heard

Russia, Tea & Me

I had a Russian tea service last night.

(Of all the things you might have expected to read, I bet that wasn’t one of them.)

Before you think I’ve defected — or simply become more cultured in the few days I’ve been away — let me tell you that I didn’t have to travel beyond the small town of Bolton (CT) for this pleasure.

I’ve been moderating the library’s adult book discussions for the past five or six years. In most cases, that would make me a veteran — but there are members of this particular group that have been meeting for over thirty years (or, to put it in perspective, so long that their adult children now attend.)

It’s a gig I sort of lucked into. One of my good friends and I share an interest in the JFK assassination and he suggested that we do a collaborative presentation on the topic for the 50th anniversary in 2013. (He heroically volunteered to put forth the Warren Commission argument, despite not believing it, so that I could make the case for conspiracy. This is why we’re friends.)

And — plot twist! — it just so happens that my friend’s wife is the town’s longtime library director.

Perhaps our presentation was an audition of sorts, then. It wasn’t long after that they approached me about the possibility of facilitating the group. I can only assume that my (occasional) ability to string sentences together semi-coherently and not wither under the pressures of an assertive audience won me some points.

I agreed, and we began with “John’s Choice” — a five-part series based on Marcia Clark’s first four crime novels and her Simpson trial memoir. (Surprise!) I chose the topic because it was one that I was both comfortable with and passionate about, and that I felt I could do justice (if you’ll pardon the pun) given my familiarity with the subject. Marcia even joined us via Skype for our last discussion.

That made enough of an impression that I was invited back. And then the real work began.

Creature of habit that I am, my reading tastes tend to include the following: mysteries, memoirs, and books on the craft of writing. Occasionally, for the thrill of spontaneity, I’ll pick up a popular novel or current events title.

This reading group, however, is erudite and diverse — both in terms of demographics and reading preferences. They have unique life and living experiences that they (literally) bring to the table, and they enjoy discourse — even when it’s respectfully disagreeable. Leading their discussions, then, is a challenge — but an invigorating one.

(I have led, and been a part of, other book clubs. Sometimes the book is merely a jumping off point for a digressive but enjoyable conversation. Other times, it’s a respectable excuse to get together to eat, drink, and kvetch.)

Consequently, we quickly moved from crime fiction to an array of other areas. To date, we’ve done both contemporary and historical classics, selections from the Great American Read, and even the Marie Benedict canon.

Last night, we launched a four-part discussion series featuring historical fiction titles set in Russia with Amor Towles’s A Gentleman in Moscow — a book that spent more than a year on the New York Times bestsellers list after its hardcover publication in 2016.

(To give you a bit more perspective: With the exception of the current presidency, the last time Russia demanded much of my attention was when I took Asian-Russian Studies as a high school upperclassmen; I made authentic fried rice for my final project, which was more Asian than Russian.)

The book — a sweeping, decades-long tale chronicling the life of former aristocrat, Count Alexander Rostov, who is subject to “house arrest” at the grand Metropol hotel in the aftermath of the revolution — was a special request from the group, most of whom had already read it.

To like a book so much that you want to re-read it is a high compliment — and to have consensus about its merits among such an opinionated group even more so. But the surprises did not stop there.

When I arrived at the library, it was to find that our core group — typically, eight to ten individuals — had more than doubled in size, necessitating the retrieval of more chairs and less personal space. Turns out another local book club had just read and discussed the book — and enjoyed it so much that they wanted to recreate the experience within a larger gathering!

(An aside: As I was doing my preparation — I like to offer an author sketch, trivia about the book, and some contextual information in addition to developing questions — my wife said I should just “wing it.” Who wings Russia? I’m glad I didn’t listen.)

Beyond the expansiveness of the group, there was another unexpected treat. One of the regulars (Jackie, a former school teacher) brought her antique samovar — a device mentioned in on of the book’s scenes — to heat and serve tea imported from Russia. (Shortbread, too, but that originated domestically.)

Needless to say, the discussion was lively — and the authentic tea service greatly enhanced the experience.

All this to say that I may have gotten a bit of culture after all.

JBV

PS — We petitioned to serve vodka next month but were turned down. Apparently that’s a library no-no. Ah, well.

Mary Higgins Clark: The Queen (Still) Reigns Supreme

Heartbroken to learn that Mary Higgins Clark, our reigning Queen of Suspense, has passed away at the age of 92. She was my first “adult” author – I still remember the book that made me a fan: ALL AROUND THE TOWN – and I’ve never stopped reading her books, even these many years later. Despite her subject matter – murder, mystery, and all other sorts of mayhem – her novels have always been grounded in good, old fashioned storytelling rather than gratuity. I believe this is one of the reasons her popularity has endured. Beyond that, she was unfailingly kind and generous. I had the good fortune of meeting her (and her equally delightful daughter, Carol Higgins Clark) on many occasions throughout the years, and even had the privilege of interviewing her a few times – most recently about her collaboration with Alafair Burke, for a feature article which ran in Mystery Scene Magazine. That was a surreal moment and one of my proudest accomplishments, because I knew then – and I know now – that I wouldn’t be the reader, or writer, I am today if not for her influence and encouragement. Mary Higgins Clark was a class act – as humble as she was accomplished. She made every reader feel appreciated and important. To know her was to love her. Though the light has dimmed, she is forever a luminary – and her legacy will be an eternal testament to this …

***

I just finished writing a personal remembrance of Mary Higgins Clark. Though my intent was to post it here, I ended up offering it to Criminal Element for their use and it sounds like they’ll be publishing it online tomorrow. In the meantime, here’s a short excerpt.

***

Meeting Mary in person wouldn’t happen until 2007, when she and her daughter, fellow novelist Carol Higgins Clark, came to nearby Foxwoods Casino on book tour. In one of those ironic twists of fate, my then fiancée (and now wife) was interning there and got tasked with interviewing them beforehand – never mind that, as of then, she hadn’t read any of their books.

So I did what any good husband-to-be would and helped her develop a set of interview questions, all the while trying to contain my jealousy. I didn’t get backstage the night of the event – college interns only have so much sway – but I did get to meet both Mary (dazzlingly bejeweled and impeccably coiffed) and Carol in the signing line following their public discussion. They were equally delightful, asked all about our wedding and honeymoon plans, and freely offered up their own sage advice. You would have thought, for those brief moments, that we were the only people in the room.

Much as I might have liked to think this attention was special to us, it wasn’t. The Clarks greeted each and every reader with the same energy and enthusiasm regardless of the amount of time that had passed, the quantity of books signed, and the number of pictures posed for.

It was a scene I’d watch unfold several times in the years ahead, and one I’d always marvel at. Despite the absolute enormity of her success, Mary Higgins Clark took the time to make each reader feel appreciated and important, as if she was writing books just for them. Which, in a way, she was.

    Turning The (Calendar) Page …

    February may just be my new favorite f-word.

    (Fortunately, it’s not in competition for my favorite four-letter f-word.)

    It’s never been one of my favorite months, though; quite the opposite. February is cold. It’s dark. It’s unpredictable. The potential for snow and ice and other inclement weather lingers, taunting and tormenting with its bluster.

    Consequently, I’ve always looked toward March – and its promise of rebirth, rejuvenation, and renewal – with great anticipation.

    But I felt a great sense of relief turning the calendar page this morning.

    The last three months have marked three significant “firsts” since Ryan’s passing: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Birthday.

    The days themselves were difficult, but the near-month-long wait for each was even worse. The anticipation. The anxiety. The absolute dread. Bad for me. Worse for mom.

    For somebody who has great difficulty following a calendar – even when we X-out the days as they pass – she can be consumed by dates. Distractedly so. This has gotten worse in her grief.

    And yet calendars are an absolute necessity. (We’ve been averaging at least five appointments per week in recent months.) There’s the master calendar on the refrigerator. The pocket calendar to travel with. And the three calendars in mom’s bedroom. Because horses, kittens, and flowers … duh!

    Each, despite its entertainment value and pragmatic purpose, is a potential trigger.

    I cannot tell you how many times we’ve nearly been late for appointments because mom feels the need to check (and double-check and triple-check) the master calendar against the clock – which she also has trouble reading – rather than simply trusting me when I tell her that it’s time to get ready.

    Or how many times she’s initiated an emotional tailspin by insisting on looking at the calendar immediately before bed, thereby reminding herself of the very dates she’d been temporarily able to put out of her mind.

    It’s frustrating, and frustratingly sad, but I’ve realized that there’s not much I can do about it beyond initiating subtle diversions. This is all part of her process. Her need to feel in control of something, even if it results in (further) confusion.

    One of the things I agonized over was whether or not to mark Ryan’s birthday on the calendar. It’s not that I didn’t want to acknowledge it in advance of the actual day but because I didn’t know if a concrete daily reminder would make things better or worse (though I suspected the latter). After a few days of mom’s obsessing over it not being marked in early January, I circled the date. She obsessed over that, too – but maybe not as much as she would have otherwise.

    Who’s to know, really?

    One of the greatest challenges of caretaking – and of caretaking a parent/adult, in particular – is trying to find a balance between establishing healthy habits and respecting the person’s autonomy. Even when that means going against your better judgment and/or exposing yourself to your own personal triggers for their benefit.

    The calendar is a simple example, but it speaks to a greater truth: that caretaking is compromise – and often times the person being cared for can’t appreciate the compromise. Angers and frustrations and resentments fester on both sides, and all you can try to do is recognize and work through them. Forgive yourself your failures as you forgive others. (Easier said than done, and a topic for another day.)

    Simple things like dates on a calendar can exacerbate the everyday stressors exponentially. I believe mom realizes this, even if she can’t separate herself from it, which is why she always breathes a sigh of relief and allows herself to relax after each “occasion” has been crossed off – if only until the next one arises.

    I can only imagine she was as relieved as I was to turn the page on January. Maybe more so …

    JBV

    The Mourning After (Lyrics)

    It’s been six months and a couple of days

    A long, short time since you’ve gone away

    But broken hearts still beat in time

    The world still turns and words still rhyme

    I take one step and then another

    It doesn’t mean I don’t miss you, brother

    But suns and moons will rise and set

    Gotta take all the light that you can get

    Because when darkness comes it’s so inviting

    And your only defense is to keep on fighting

    You’ve got your life, your love, your laughter

    These are your weapons in the mourning after

    It’s been a lifetime and no time at all

    I’ve seen spirits rise and I’ve seen them fall

    Don’t let your guard down, not for a minute

    This is war but you can win it

    Because when darkness comes it’s so inviting

    And your only defense is to keep on fighting

    You’ve got your life, your love, your laughter

    These are your weapons in the mourning after

    JBV

    On What Would Have Been Your 39th Birthday …

    Dear Ryan,

    You would have been 39 today.

    It seems impossibly sad and entirely unfair that you’re not here to celebrate the occasion. But sometimes life is just that: impossibly sad and entirely unfair. Rather than thinking about what could have been – what should have been – I’m going to honor what was.

    Yes, your life was short – tragically so. But you did so much living, especially in those last years. Instead of succumbing to anger or self-pity (which would have been entirely justified) you found the courage and the fortitude to live, and to love, unflinchingly.

    Before then, you were a bit of a mystery to me. Deep thoughts but few words. You always preferred to show your feelings rather than speak them. Love was cutting the grass, patching the roof in a rainstorm, plowing the driveway. I always knew.

    Yet, despite your intensely private nature, when the reality of the situation became apparent you chose to let us in rather than shutting us out. I felt closer to you in those moments than in the thirty-some-odd-years that came before them. I know I’m not the only one.

    Thank you for being strong enough to show your vulnerability.

    As time grew shorter, you seldom mourned what wouldn’t be. Instead, you embraced each day and made new memories. You got married. You traveled the country and beyond. You made music and played hockey and went camping. You had bonfires and burned Christmas trees and lit firecrackers. You planted flowers that continue to bloom.

    Even when your days became a litany of appointments and pills and treatments, you found time – you made time – to meditate on beaches, take day trips, see movies, and dine at your favorite restaurants.

    And you were always there for mom – maybe not in the capacity you would have liked, but as fully as you could be – even when that meant downplaying the severity of your own condition to allow for the many complexities of hers. You made sure that she felt your presence. And you let her mother you as much as she could, regardless of her limitations. That brought her immeasurable comfort.

    You apologized a lot, and I could never get you to stop. As if you had anything to be sorry for. As if you weren’t the one being robbed of a future that should have been bright with promise. I’m sorry you had to carry the burden of knowing what, and who, you would soon leave behind.

    You fought so damn hard, and for so damn long, just to be here. More so than you ever expected, or even wanted, to. You masked pain and the fear and the exhaustion for our benefit. I can only hope you got back some of what you gave.

    And when death closed in, you were dignified – and gloriously defiant – right up until the end. You made it home so that you could spend your final days surrounded by the people and things you loved most, and in the house you took so much pride in.  

    Against all odds and expectations, you refused to leave this world quickly or quietly. You dragged yourself outside to lay in the sun, to check on the flowers, to watch the fireworks. You drank a Cherry Limeade from Sonic and ate your beloved Vecchitto’s Italian Ice and somehow chewed on a fresh slice of watermelon when eating should have been beyond you.

    You battled to be present, even when that meant forgoing measures and medications that would have brought you more comfort but less clarity.

    You let everybody say their goodbyes before you said yours.

    In death, as in life, you did things on your own terms. And in dying, you taught us how to live.

    I don’t know any better way to honor your memory than to do just that. To live. So I’ll get up every day and keep looking for the joy, even when it’s hard to find. Especially then.

    I love you, brother, and I thank you. Happy birthday.

    John

    Onward

    The world did not stop turning yesterday.

    I may have failed to write a thought-provoking blog post — or much of anything, really (though I did post a fun picture for our enjoyment) — and nobody much cared.

    (Relief.)

    It wasn’t for lack of intention, though. My notebook, with its false starts and scratch outs (oh the horror!) will attest to this. I had ideas. They just weren’t the right ideas, or it wasn’t the right time, and so I let them go. At least for now.

    For the first time since starting this little experiment, I felt like a failure. Four weeks in and I dropped the proverbial ball. So I brooded a bit. Indulged those feelings of inadequacy.

    And then I said: F*ck it.

    It’s like that feeling you get when you buy a shiny new car. And then somebody dings it (or, worse yet, you ding it). The luster is immediately and irrevocably lost. But then, after wallowing a bit, you realize that the car still runs despite the dent in the fender or the scratch on the door. That there will be plenty more dings to come — and they’ll be slightly easier to sustain now that you’ve survived the first one.

    Or, in other words, the engine — the driving force — is just fine.

    I woke up this morning with the desire to begin again. To move forward rather than looking back. To get myself on the right side of momentum.

    Yesterday may not have been a win for writing goals, but it was a success in the life goals department. I got to see two of my very favorite people — one for coffee (yum!) and another for books and burritos (double yum!) — in the span of 12 hours.

    Which was a salient reminder that going out and living life, actually being present in the world when able, should always — or at least more often than not — take priority.

    Onward.

    JBV

    Will Write For Free (But Would Rather Be Paid)

    Ten days ago, I was contacted by one of the editors I write for. He asked if I could provide four book reviews for the next issue of his magazine and said he’d need them in about a week and a half. (Ahem, today.)

    Despite an even busier week with mom than usual — seven appointments in five days — and a few personal commitments, I said I’d do my best to deliver. (And then I took out a paper bag and forced myself to breathe into it.)

    Each book review requires at least three hours of writing and revising time, often more — and this doesn’t include the reading component. While I was able to pitch two books I’d already read, I also had to finish a third (already begun) and read a fourth. As a pdf file. (Call me old fashioned, but cell phones, Kindle, and other screens are not my preferred method consumption.)

    The time demands have been substantial. For instance, I was up until nearly 1 o’clock in the morning finishing the last of the books. So … sleep deprivation on top of needing to find an extra handful of hours in my day.

    Have I mentioned that this assignment is unpaid?

    I can hear the chorus of “Aww, hell no” that resounded with that revelation. But the truth is I could have said no. Was tempted to, even — and maybe should have. Nobody held a gun to my head.

    So why didn’t I say no?

    The easy answer is that I’m a people pleaser — a yes man, even when it’s to my own detriment. I don’t like to disappoint. I’ve been working on this aspect of my personality, but it’s difficult going against one’s nature.

    But there were other factors that informed my decision.

    First, I like this editor. (Okay, I like all my editors.) Once upon a time, he sought me out at a conference to compliment my work — which he was actually familiar with — and invited me to contact him about writing for his magazine, should I wish to do so. And then he provided an opportunity to do just that when I emailed him to follow-up. Beyond business, he has taken an interest in my personal life, regularly inquiring about my family. That makes an impression.

    Second, the magazine — and its corresponding blog, which I’ve also written for on occasion — is prestigious. It’s somewhat of a coup to write for them (even if it is gratis). Those bylines increase the likelihood that other editors of repute will be open to having me write for them. Hopefully for monetary compensation.

    Third, I genuinely enjoyed the books and wasn’t slated to review them elsewhere. Perhaps my work will offer the author a bit more exposure or entice a reader to check out the title(s). That’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. Why wouldn’t I want to share my enthusiasm? Books bring me an inordinate amount of joy and this is often my way of returning the favor.

    Having said all that, I don’t believe that writers — or other artists, or anybody, really — should have to work for free. Or to be expected to. In fact, I know people that will not work for free regardless of the circumstances. And I respect that position. But I also think it’s wise to consider the pros and cons before drawing a firm line.

    For instance, if you write a blog that few people read, might it be beneficial to expend that energy elsewhere if it means reaching a substantially larger audience — and particularly if the subject matter is the same or similar? If you’re going to be writing for free anyway, you might as well maximize the benefit(s).

    If you simply cannot afford to write for free then don’t. If you have some flexibility in this regard, think about matters beyond money. Will the work introduce you to a new audience? Does the topic compel you? Might you be challenged to write beyond your comfort zone and/or style? Are you passionate enough about the subject that all other concerns are secondary?

    (A confession: I should probably tell you that my background is in working for non-profits. So perhaps I’m simply accustomed to doing a whole lot for very little. Make of that what you will.)

    I could go on about this at length — and maybe someday I will — but I’ve got a deadline to meet. And sometimes the mere act of completion, of hitting SEND, of crossing it off my “to do” list is payment enough.

    JBV

    The Library: A Hogwarts For Muggles

    I recently read an article that made me think there’s hope for humanity yet: “In 2019, more Americans went to the library that to the movies. Yes, really.”

    It was a piece for lithub recapping a new Gallup poll — the first of its kind since 2001 — that found patronizing the local library remains Americans’ most common cultural activity, with an average of 10.5 visits per year.

    In a country dominated by disspiriting news — or so it seems — this is a ray of light. Despite division and disparity, libraries remain the hubs of their community, offering safe havens for education, socialization, and exposure to ideas (and people) seemingly different than our own. And at no cost. (Well, unless you’ve been racking up late fees.)

    If knowledge is the antidote to fear, ignorance, and/or hate, then libraries may be our best defense in the war to save ourselves — and each other.

    I grew up a faithful devotee to my local library. I still remember the thrill of searching the stacks for the perfect book(s), the feeling that I was getting one over on somebody every time I made it out the door with more than I could possibly read before their due dates. (And yes, the burning shame of the occasional overdue item.) The possibilities were endless, and I was a little bit greedy in my desire for more, more, more.

    From picture books to chapter books to “adult books, and even audiobooks — not to mention magazines, movies, and music — the library may have been the truest mark of my (supposed) maturation.

    I’m ashamed to admit I let my card expire after I left Portland. The irony is that this coincided with my deeper involvement in the literary world as a reviewer/interviewer/fledgling writer, when I developed the compulsion to own (and thereby keep) all the books I’d been reading or wanting to read.

    That’s not to say I stopped patronizing libraries, though. I attended author discussions and conferences. Supported book sales (both through donations and purchases). I even moderated Portland’s One Book event after moving back to town in 2015 — hoping the entire time nobody would out me as a lapsed member. (The audience was made up largely of friends and family — so the likelihood of that happening was exponentially higher than normal.)

    But it wasn’t until this past summer that mom and I renewed our library cards. While my intention was to encourage mom to select magazines, movies, and music to diversify her entertainment habits — because how many Law & Order: SVU re-runs can one person possibly watch? — I found myself doing the same. Before I knew it, I was right back in the habit of borrowing more books than I could possibly read in the allotted time.

    And the librarian (Hi Janet!) would then give me that knowing smile and head nod. The one that says, “Yes, you are one of us.”

    Which brings me back to the point that libraries are a place of belonging, and not just for the well-read but for the curious. They offer entertainment and enrichment and foster a sense of connectedness. It’s magical, really — like a Hogwarts for mere Muggles.

    The cost is free but the value is priceless.

    JBV

    Design a site like this with WordPress.com
    Get started