Speaking of Inca: Elegy for a Small Black Cat

I didn’t think I would have to write this so soon. My cat Inca, my loving companion of 17 years, was dead on the floor when I got up the other morning.

I suppose she was lucky. She was rarely sick, and never seriously ill. She was still lithe and active, her fur thick and glossy. She attacked her evening treat last night with her usual impatient greed. She never suffered as some of my other pets have, with pain and illness. She didn’t have to be put down by the vet—a procedure that would have terrified her, as she was a very shy and nervous girl. Instead, she passed away, apparently in her sleep, with her people there, though we knew nothing about it until the morning. I guess I would be happy to go the same way.

But there is a painful, Inca-shaped hole inside me right now. So let me tell you about Inca.

I got Inca right after my beautiful cat Phoenix died of cancer (actually of vet, but the end was very near). I was heartbroken, but a friend said I should rescue another cat in Phoenix’s honor—he was sure it would make me feel better. (Incidentally, he was right.) I started looking at shelter cats and ran into an organization called 13th Street Cat Rescue in San Jose, CA. I asked about a black cat they had because the very first cat I remember was my brother’s black cat, Flinky, and he was a very sweet boy. The cat I asked about was taken, but they asked if I was interested in adopting a black cat, because people are often highly superstitious about them, so black cats (and other melanistic pets) tend to sit on the shelf. The organization happened to have a nine-month-old black cat, part of a litter that had been rescued from a trailer park. The kittens had been too old for adoption, but the trailer park manager threatened to kill the whole lot if 13th Street didn’t take them.

Inca on her personal cat-warmer.

It turned out all the kittens, though feral, were adapting nicely to domestic life. Inky (as she was called then) was no exception. I met her at one of the volunteers’ houses, and she sat on my lap and purred. Inca was beautiful, black with bright yellow-green eyes. She always had a few scattered white hairs among the black. In the sunlight, her fur looked chocolate brown.

We agreed to adopt her. I’m afraid I could not have a black cat named Inky. First I tried naming her Flinky, after that first black kitty, but it never suited her. The name Inca just came out of the blue one day, and I loved it right off. It seemed to suit her elegance.

At the time, we had a wonderful dog named Gigi. Gigi was a German shepherd-Labrador mix, 75 pounds, and, though a sweet and gentle dog, she was obviously terrifying to a tiny black cat. We kept Inca sequestered in a bathroom for a week, then let her out into the house. We really didn’t see her for the next two weeks—just a flicker of black at the corner of the eye, like a bat.

Then one day I was sitting on the couch and Inca strolled calmly into the room and jumped into my lap. I petted her, delighted, and she purred. After a few minutes, Gigi entered the room and I braced for a cat freakout. Instead, Inca ran down the length of the couch toward Gigi, mewing loudly. Gigi came over, and they kissed each other. Somehow, without my ever observing it, Gigi made friends with this timorous wee beastie and convinced her she was in a safe place. Their friendship ended only when Gigi died. I have many photos of the two of them cuddling together.

After Gigi died, Inca became even more attached to her humans, especially my husband, Tom. She began to sit on his lap at night when he watched TV. She was never a playful cat. Once in a while she would bat a toy around for a few minutes, but that was the extent of it. She didn’t have cute habits or do funny things, But she was a powerful engine of love and cuddles, happy to be petted at any time of the day or night.

Inca was also the best-behaved cat I have ever had. She didn’t potty outside her box. She didn’t scratch the furniture. With the exception of one fern, she never touched an indoor plant (the fern survived). She was the opposite of picky about food, eating whatever I put in front of her. She didn’t destroy stuff. Once in a while, we did get cat gak, but hairballs are part of being a cat. She bit gently when she felt affectionate, but rarely scratched. She loved our grandchildren and was gentle with them.

Inca did not like her tummy to be touched. If her tummy was stroked, she did that cat thing, turning into a ball of needles. After Inca was introduced to civilization by Gigi, the two of them tended to go with me wherever I was in the house. One day, Gigi laid down for a good tummy-rub and I obliged her. I rubbed and rubbed, and Gigi moaned with happiness as Inca watched. When I stopped rubbing Gigi’s tummy, Inca flopped over and presented her tummy for a rub. She found that she enjoyed it and would often ask for a tummy rub in the years to come. I was very intrigued that she observed, learned, and experimented.

She even learned some tricks at an advanced age. As she aged, she was still active, but could no longer jump to the top of the bed like Superman in a single bound. I bought her some stairs so she could climb our bed without clawing her way up the sides, shredding the bedclothes and on one occasion, me (it was an accident, but still). She would look at me with those bright eyes, clearly planning to scramble up the side of the bed, and I started gesturing to the stairs and telling her “Go up the stairs.” She learned to do this on command and (mostly) stopped clawing her way up the sheets.

I was facing major surgery and worried that Inca would continue to treat my body as a nice place to stomp around in the evenings. I never could figure out why she sat calmly on Tom’s lap, but wanted to stomp around on me. I had to teach her not to stand on my body, which must have been confusing to her after so many years of doing so. But she did learn, and only ran over me once after the surgery—right over the incision, as it happened. But mostly, she remembered not to. I felt kind of bad about making her stay off me (though I welcomed her to cuddle by my side), especially now, knowing how little time she had left. I did stop many times throughout every day to pet and cuddle her; I wanted her to know that I loved her as much as ever.

Inca was still so beautiful and healthy at 17 years old that I was convinced she would last a couple of years more. Unlike other elderly cats I’ve had, she did not become skinny, her fur was still thick and shiny, and she was as enthusiastic about food, treats, and petting as ever.

When I found Inca’s body yesterday morning, she was already stiff and cold. I wrapped her in a clean towel, but her bowels and bladder did not void after death. She exited this life as she lived it—tidy, without making a fuss.

I miss my friend. I really, really miss her.

My Big, Fat, Weight-Loss Campaign Part 8: In Which I Finally Break through the Brick Wall

In my last post on the subject, I explained that I have been unable to move past a set-point weight. I have been at the same weight for almost two years, giver or take a few pounds

No one can continue to deprive themselves and do things they don’t want to do for two years in pursuit of an unattainable goal. it’s just not human nature. I confess there were weeks in which I decided that being fat wasn’t the worst fate in the world. Chocolate and red wine played a large factor in those weeks.

As I detailed earlier, I tried everything in the book to try to break past that stubborn set-point. I couldn’t believe that nothing was working. (I am still unwilling to do the 10-day vegetable cleanse.) So I decided to increase my cardio again and skip lunch, having a protein drink instead (I add a medium-sized banana to the smoothie for texture and ballast). I started doing six miles a day on the recumbent bike, with the intention of working up to ten.

Last week, I weighed myself, and I was five pounds over the set point. Today, I weighed myself, and I am five pounds UNDER the set point for the first time in who knows how long. I almost woke my husband up to tell him, but he was up late last night so I took pity on him.

Totally made my day. I am still grinning. Now I have to keep it going. My personal trainer (“Lord Taskmaster”) is pushing for weight training prior to doing the cardio because he swears it gets the weight off faster (and he is the personal trainer, so he probably knows more than me). So I’ve started doing that as well. He is also pushing for seven miles. All in good time, your Taskmastership.

My Big, Fat Weight-Loss Campaign: Part 7

It has been a long time since I last posted. With regard to my Big, Fat Weight-Loss Campaign, it’s because it got complicated.

I lost 55 pounds or so in one year. The next year, despite continuing to diet conscientiously and exercising regularly, I lost no weight at all.

None.

I made changes. I was using the Weight Watchers method. I switched to counting calories. I was exercising a few days a week. I upped it to six days a week, alternating cardio and weight training.

Nada.

I started taking protein supplements. My nails went from paper-like to strong and long, and my hair thickened as well.

Not another ounce came off.

I consulted a nutritionist who wanted me to go on a cleanse for 10 days eating nothing but protein and vegetables. This is intended to improve bile production and reduce blood sugar because she couldn’t find anything else impeding my weight loss. I bought her protein powder and supplements, but suddenly, I was scheduled for major surgery—a complete, reverse shoulder replacement. I decided to delay the cleanse, as the surgery was going to interfere in many ways with how my body was working and I didn’t want to play around with nutrition while I was in recovery.

The surgery went fine and I’m glad I did it even though the six weeks in a sling was tedious and uncomfortable. Still, the discomfort was far less (after the first week) than before. Prior to the surgery there were days when I was hurting so much I couldn’t leave the house. As I was lying on a gurney waiting for surgery, I was in so much pain I asked for pain-killers (I was unable to take any prior to getting to the hospital because I was following the surgeon’s orders about taking medication and water.) Bless the nurses. They got me pain-killers. I was grateful because I spent a long time on that gurney.

Then I spent six weeks doing nothing at all except watching television, reading, eating, and doing physical therapy. I couldn’t drive and I didn’t want to leave the house if I didn’t have to. After this slugfest I was sure I would gain weight, but I did not. I’m back to counting calories and just resumed cardio on a recumbent bike.

To be honest, I don’t want to do the cleanse if I can avoid it. I would have to fix all my meals separately from the rest of the family, and just protein and vegetables sounds…boring. I will still do it if I have to, but I am hoping that the surgery did a reset and my body will once more be open to shedding pounds.

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I had never heard of a total reverse shoulder replacement until I was told I needed one. It’s a technique they use when there is so much damage to the joint that a standard replacement won’t work as well. I have severe arthritis, which pretty much destroyed the humeral head (the “ball”) of the humerus (upper arm bone) and resulted in bone-on-bone action and bone spurs.

The procedure is to expose and dislocate the joint. The humeral head is sawn off and replaced with a titanium and plastic cup which is inserted into the humerus. A titanium ball is screwed into the shoulder blade. Thus, the structure of the joint is reversed. It’s kind of a brutal surgery, and I am DEEPLY grateful for anesthesia. The surgeons did an amazing job, and after the first week, I stopped taking opioids and used only Tylenol and CBD for the pain, which has diminished daily. I have good mobility for this stage of healing (because I do the physical therapy exercises religiously). I don’t think I will ever have the complete range of motion that my other shoulder has, but I’m OK with that—I’m no longer in agony. And at 74, I have no ambition to become a trapeze artist.

My Big, Fat Weight-Loss Campaign, Part 7: The Betrayal of the Body

On the one hand, I have lost 55 pounds in about two years—45 of them during 2024. On the other hand, I have been stuck at the same number for about six months, and I can’t seem to move past it.

There are a few reasons for this. One reason is that my left knee decided to join my right knee by becoming incredibly painful. At times, I could walk only with the help of two canes. This meant that the exercise program came to a grinding halt. Off I went to the orthopedic surgeon to get shots of hyaluronic acid gel. Not much improvement, so the doc felt around a bit and determined I had a “Baker’s cyst.” This, it turns out, is very common in people with arthritis. It is a cyst that forms at the back of the knee, filled with synovial fluid. (Hyaluronic acid is a precursor to synovial fluid, but the cyst appeared prior to the injections.)

So the doc gave me a cortisone shot—and I immediately felt much worse, and took up both canes to walk again. So I spent probably two months or more sidelined from exercising. The knee gradually improved to the point where I started going to the gym again, but I decided to go to physical therapy to see if I could improve the situation a bit further.

The therapist thought the issue was not the Baker’s cyst (although it is definitely there), but an irritated meniscus. He gave me a simple leg-lifting exercise, and told me I would be way better in two weeks. He encouraged me to do the exercise as much as possible. I did a few reps the following day—and everything got worse. (I was spending a FORTUNE in CBD transdermal patches, by the way.) I reported this to the PT people, and during the next visit, I was assigned to another therapist, Kristie, whom I have worked with previously. Kristie determined that my knee was misaligned and I had probably been doing the leg lifts improperly. She gave me other exercises to do, and now, after about two weeks, I am almost pain-free!

Knowing that the knee is misaligned has been very helpful. For example, when I relax with my legs flat, either on my back in bed or sitting up in bed watching TV, my feet tend to rotate outwards significantly, especially my left foot, which shoves the knee out of kilter. I thought about this for a while and realized that for many, many years, I have allowed the weight of my bedcovers to force my feet outward because the pressure hurt my toes. So I bought a “blanket lifter” that keeps the bedclothes elevated over my feet—the relief is incredible. It also allows me to comfortably keep my feet—and ankles and knees and hips—in alignment. Zach, my trainer, suggested that my athletic shoes might be overly worn, and they were. I pronate badly (see misaligned feet), and the soles were badly worn on the outsides. So I bought new shoes. I am thrilled with my return to relative comfort and now I need to get back on the exercise trail in a more serious way.

I weighed myself and I haven’t gained any weight in the past few months, so that is the good news. Encouraged by this, I measured myself and found I had lost 5 inches from around my chest, 7 inches from my waist, and 11 inches from my hips. While I don’t think I will lose a lot of weight during the holiday season, I intend not to gain any either. That seems doable, right?

My Big Fat Weight Loss Campaign: Part 2—The Plan

Art by Nerita De Jong.

As I mentioned at the end of my last post, I needed outside help to successfully lose weight this time. I couldn’t put on my Nikes and run a few miles. I wasn’t even supposed to walk for exercise anymore, due to one knee being bone-on-bone and the other knee threatening to go the same way.

And yet, I have never lost weight through diet alone. Exercise is half of the equation. (God, I hate exercising.) I had no idea how to exercise without making the knee worse—or what kinds of exercises I needed to be doing to prepare for surgery. Obviously, I needed to get expert help.

Okay, another thing I have avoided in the past is paying for something I think I ought to be able to do myself for free. I avoided any sport that required an investment in memberships or expensive equipment, such as golf or skiing. I hated the idea of health club membership because I thought I ought to be able to exercise on my own by walking. But health clubs are where they have exercise equipment, so I needed to join one. I signed up with the health club down the street, which I had used (infrequently) in the past. Endearingly, it is a part of the local “Toadal Fitness” group of health clubs.

Physical therapy was also on my list, but PT only goes so far. I wanted to hire a personal trainer, someone who understood which areas I needed to focus on, and who could tell me how to use the equipment and create a workout routine for me. I mentioned this to my physical therapist, who recommended two trainers who work at my health club. The trainers had undergone training at my PT’s practice on how to work with people with injuries and constraints. So I trotted down to the club and was introduced to Zach. Zach showed me around and listened to me, asked a lot of questions, and we talked.

I don’t know what your idea of a personal trainer is, but Zach wasn’t mine. I guess I thought a trainer would be a lot younger than me, nauseatingly fit, and perky. Zach is starting to push past middle age. He’s fit enough, but not the muscle-bound person I was expecting, and he has his own issues relating to age and injury, so I feel comfortable talking to him about my multiple physical shortcomings. He’s got a sense of humor, which I enjoy. He also pushes me—not hard, but enough that I make progress every time we have a session.

What are we working on? For cardio, I do the recumbent bike. When I started, I could only do a quarter of a mile before my knees became too sore to continue. I decided I would just do what I could do when I could do it. I told myself all I had to do every day was go to the club and bicycle for a quarter of a mile. That seemed easy enough, and it got me to the club. Before long, I was doing a half a mile, then three-quarters, and so on. I am at two and a half miles now.

The program I am using on the recumbent bike is a racecourse, which I carefully selected because its steepest incline is only 3%, and the incline doesn’t last long, either. Right now, I am going for mileage, not endurance. I hate hills, don’t you?

Zach works with me on the machines and weights. We started with machines that work the thighs and hips and the muscles above and below the knees. I am one of God’s Clumsy Children, and some of those machines—especially the clamshells, the ones you exercise your thighs on—are lurking deathtraps, just waiting to break bones. Zach watches me anxiously as I slowly negotiate these complex contraptions—getting in and out is the hardest part. So far, I haven’t broken me or one of the machines. I am actually getting more graceful as I get used to them. Any day now, I might try using them without Zach to watch over me like a mother hen.

I meet Zach once a week at my health club. I haven’t said much about the club, but it’s friendly, and a large percentage of the clientele has gray or white hair. It feels neighborhood. It isn’t fancy, but it has all the stuff, including a saltwater pool.

Now, what about diet? I lost a fair amount of weight in the past using Weight Watchers. I found it an easy program to follow, but I did not enjoy the meetings. I was eating unprocessed, fresh foods. The people in my meeting seemed to find the time involved in preparing fresh food unacceptable. To be fair, many of them had kids at home to feed and deal with, and I certainly could empathize with that, but the discussions weren’t centered around any of my concerns.

These days, you can purchase the WW app for your phone and not go to any of the meetings if you prefer (I do). The app allows you to look up the point value for a huge range of foods and adjust quantities. It tracks your points daily and weekly and keeps a food diary. You can create your own recipes for quickly entering meals you eat frequently. You can track your weight and the app adjusts your available points as you lose. It has lots of other features that track water consumption and exercise, and you can also look up WW recipes, but I don’t use all of its capabilities.

I was working with my doctor’s nurse practitioner, Ashzra, on all this. Ashzra questioned the Weight Watchers approach. She said I should be consuming no more than 1500 calories a day. Did WW conform to that? So for a week I tracked WW points versus calories. I was honest about it—WW counts certain things as zero points, such as fruit and fish, that still have calories. I tracked ALL the calories I consumed during that week. It turned out that using all the WW points for a given day came in at or under 1500 calories. One day, it was 1700, but I had come under the 1500 mark enough times that I was unconcerned.

So, physical therapy—check. Health club, personal trainer, and exercise program—check. Diet—check. The one element remaining was medication. The news is brimming with stories about the new weight loss drugs like Ozempic and Wegovy. The news is also full of how expensive these drugs are and how hard they are to get. 

Next installment: Part 3—The New Weight-Loss Medication Merry-Go-Round

My Big Fat Weight Loss Campaign: Part 1—How It Began

Image by Lazardo Art.

I gave up on losing weight a long time ago. I have all my life found the subject of my weight a huge embarrassment. I was not fat as a child, but I was plump, and bullies discovered early on that they could make me miserable by singing “Fatty Fatty Two-By-Four” on every occasion. My father harped on my weight all the time. He was thin as a blade without making any effort, and couldn’t understand why I wasn’t—clearly, it was some sort of character flaw in me. Extra weight always seemed to me like an embarrassing sin—but a sin that EVERYONE could SEE. It felt shameful.

In the past, I had lost significant amounts of weight. My methodology was to starve and run a few miles a day. I really had to dedicate a huge amount of awareness, energy, time, and brain power to make this happen. After a while, I just didn’t have the energy to put into this one more time—I kind of quit the whole idea that I would ever be a normal weight. It was too easy to gain, and way too hard to lose. I just wanted to enjoy life. Also, I had reached a point where running was uncomfortable—pregnancy and nursing had inflated my boobs to proportions that did not appreciate being violently bounced around.


I wasn’t always overweight. I was slender in my late teens and 20s. I started gaining weight after the birth of my first child in my 30s, and gradually kept on gaining. At my heaviest, I was over 300 pounds. Mind you, I am 5’10 inches tall, not a shortie, but still way, way too much weight.

It annoyed me seriously that my diet was pretty healthy while I gained all this weight. After about age 35, I ate very little sugar, never had sugary drinks or many sweets. I didn’t eat fast food or junk food. I avoided processed food and focused on whole foods, mostly prepared at home. I noticed that other people ate more than me—I often couldn’t finish portions that others did. I rarely took seconds. I didn’t eat between meals. I ate lots of vegetables, lean meats, and recently, began baking my own einkorn bread (I am allergic to modern wheat), which is lower in refined carbs and higher in protein and dietary fiber than modern wheat. You wouldn’t think I would gain a lot of weight this way—but I did. The difficulty of losing weight, despite a healthy diet, merely made me want to ignore the whole problem even more vigorously. What’s the point, if nothing works?

I began having knee problems. My form of exercise was walking. I went from four miles to two miles to one mile. During the pandemic, it was mostly no miles, as I disliked leaving the house for a while. In the meantime, severe arthritis ate away at my knee, and unbeknownst to myself, my shoulder. 

My body finally gave me an ultimatum. My right knee became increasingly painful. Then at Christmas last year (2023), I was strolling to the front door with a glass of wine in my hand, intending to lock the door, as it had gotten dark. As I approached the door, a jolt of agony surged up my leg from my right knee and I collapsed. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to hurl my wine glass away from me as I fell, so I didn’t wind up being cut to shreds by glass shards. I landed hard, throwing my back into spasm.

My beautiful family rallied around. My son-in-law Mike cleaned up the glass and spilled wine. My husband Tom got me a muscle relaxer and pillows. My dear friend Meg and Tom sat with me for a half an hour until the medication kicked in and I was able to get off the floor. This was definitely a warning, and I fell again the next day—luckily for me on a carpeted floor, and I didn’t hurt myself this time. I began walking with a cane or hiking sticks, even around the house.

As it happened, I already had an appointment with an orthopedist for January 2. He looked at my X-rays and told me my knee was bone-on-bone. I needed knee replacement surgery. But I couldn’t have the surgery until I lost 50 pounds (at this point I was under 300 pounds, but 50 pounds is a lot to lose no matter how much you weigh). He also gave me a cortisone shot in the knee, which had amazing effects, enabling me to walk without a cane for the most part.

Later, after my shoulder also became agonizingly painful, I was informed I needed a complete reverse shoulder replacement. And I had to lose weight for that surgery as well.

So now I had no choice. I could no longer ignore the elephant in the room. I had to lose the weight. I also had to lose the shame I felt around the whole subject of weight—the shame that made me just ignore it. (I recognize the irrationality of my last statement. But this is how it was.) I was going to be dealing with a lot of people for quite some time about my accumulation of avoirdupois, and continuing to be embarrassed and ashamed just seemed stupid. I let shame get me to this space; I didn’t want shame to keep me here. 

At the same time, I had no idea how I could alter my already-healthy diet to trigger weight loss, and with a bum knee, how would I exercise? I knew if I didn’t exercise, I would never lose the weight by diet alone. Also, I needed to build up muscle to prepare for the surgery. How could I exercise? And what exercises should I be doing?

I didn’t have the faintest idea. I needed outside help. Next installment: getting help.

A word about body positivity: I am all for it. I did my best to feel positively about my body—beauty comes in all shapes, etc. Sadly, my body did not react positively to being so heavy. When you come right down to it, how you feel is more important than how you look.

Note: Since keeping track of weight loss is how success is measured in this arena, here’s the latest progress. You have no idea how excruciating it is for me to make this public:

2020: 315 lbs

2023: 285 lbs

As of 4/5/2024: 270 lbs

Note: I have no intention of posting “Before” or “After” photos here. Use your imagination.

Costa Rica, Days 9, 10, and 11

On Day 9, we said farewell to the Royal Corin Spa, where they treated us like royalty. We filled out a survey, and we did not rate everything 100%. The food, in particular, was hit-or-miss. To our surprise, they wanted to ask us in person what was not perfectly to our satisfaction. A first, and I was impressed. We rated everything else very highly.

We hired a car and driver to get to Tamarindo—far cheaper than renting a car alone here. Misa spoke very good English. We saw a couple of coatis near the road, begging, but otherwise, the wildlife kept pretty much out of sight. The scenery gradually changed from lush cloud forest to dry chaparral as we came down out of the mountains and got closer to the coast.

We discussed the party atmosphere of Tamarindo. Misa said it was crazy this time of year, and it is. He also called it “TamaGringo,” which is accurate.

The Tamarindo Bay Boutique Hotel is a nice place, but it cannot compete with the luxury of the Royal Corin. Our room is large, with a huge dressing room, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. Very clean and comfortable.

Tamarindo is HOT, which my lizard husband loves. Me, not so much, and there is a howling, burning wind to boot. An American who is staying here said that going to the beach is an excellent exfoliant.

I am hurting rather badly, not from any expected source, like my bone-on-bone knee. I seem to have torn my rotary cuff, and it is not getting better. I may have to see a doctor as the pain is intense.

I saw a squirrel here within the first few minutes of arrival. I didn’t photograph it because he was too qui k for me, it there’s what he looked like.

Costa Rican squirrel.

We managed to eat at a restaurant that was only blasting rock music, and didn’t feature fire eaters or live bands, Green Papaya. They serve only tacos. I had shrimp tacos, and they were lovely and fresh.

On Day 10, we ran around taking care of laundry, buying food for lunches, etc. We discovered that in Costa Rica, pharmacists can administer cortisone shots. Filled with hope, we went to the local pharmacy, but they didn’t have the right kind of cortisone, so I will have to see a doctor.

I am sorry to say I spent the rest of the day in bed. We had dinner at a restaurant called the Falafel Bar. We weren’t especially in the mood for Middle Eastern food, but it came highly recommended. It was truly excellent food. We chatted with the couple next to us—Americans, of course. Turns out the husband, John, has had just about all of his major joints replaced—truly the bionic man. He seems fit and active, so there is hope! (This is what old people talk about all the time. I now understand the fascination.)

Early to bed, No photos. Sorry.

Day 11 started with getting a doctor’s appointment for 11 am. I have rarely been more thrilled with getting a doctor’s appointment. The owner or manager here is Marie, and she has been very helpful.

It is still very hot and very windy.

Doctor Piloto was a nice man maybe a few years younger than us. He said he could not do a shoulder injection because he wasn’t an orthopedic doctor. The nearest orthopedist is in Liberia, a city some 46 km from here. But he did offer me some anti-inflammatories and steroid pills, yay. There was a pharmacist right door, so that was easily taken care of.

While we were waiting for a taxi, we chatted with another American couple who were waiting for the doctor. They plan to move here next year. He can work remotely and she is retired. They are looking to get away from the stress, politics, and racism of the US. They mentioned seeing a very large snake in the road that acted quite aggressively. I found a photo of the very scary terciopelo (fer-de-lance), which is one of the deadliest and most aggressive snakes in the world. They agreed it was the snake they saw. I am hoping not to see one.

We waited for about an hour for the taxi back to the hotel. The medic who manned the front desk of Dr. Piloto’s tiny office invited us to stay inside in the air conditioning, and called the taxi company several times. So very kind.

We returned to Tamarindo Bay Boutique Hotel and ate some things we had picked up at the local supermercado (but not until I eagerly downed Dr. Piloto’s prescriptions). Then for the second day in a row, I flopped down and had a siesta. I am not a napper, but I do not do well with either heat or pain, so I guess my body was trying to tell me something.

In the evening, we went to a nearby restaurant called La Oveja Surf House, which means “the sheep surf house,” which makes no sense at all. The food was delicious, and we took our leftovers back to the hotel for lunch the next day.

Sorry this post wasn’t more exciting. ☹️

My So-Called Writing Process

This is my writing process, right here.

I don’t usually write about my “writing process.” (In point of fact, I hardly ever write things for this blog, but I’m trying to change all that.)

I had someone ask me once if I lit a candle before writing, or had a favorite shirt or something that I wore only to write. As someone who used to get paid to sit in an office and write all day, I find that notion hysterical. I can see me now: sitting in an open workspace in a Cisco Systems building, surrounded by my co-workers, wearing my favorite schlumpfy nightgown and fuzzy slippers, surrounded by rose-scented candles as I feverishly pound the keyboard. If that is what it took to inspire me to write, I would never have had a writing job. At least, I never would have kept a writing job.

My writing process is basically sitting down and writing. However, I do have a process for researching before writing, and it is the most enjoyable part. Until recently, I don’t start out with a story in mind. I decide where I want the story to be and I go there. I let the location tell me the story.

You might say that is an elaborate and expensive process for a fantasy writer. Why not just make it up? 

There are a couple of reasons why not. First, I have placed most of my fantasy fiction in the real world (past or present). I have not (until my current WIP) made up an entire world and the way it works like Brian Sanderson, who is a master of world-building and magical systems. My first novel, “The Obsidian Mirror,” took place primarily in Northern California. This was convenient, as I have lived in Northern California for more than 40 years, so I didn’t have to do much location research. I did revisit a few locales to refresh my memory. I also researched Native American traditions and folklore, and also threw in Voudún and meso-American elements just because I find them interesting. 

This is a fantasy rendering of my villain in “The Obsidian Mirror, Necocyotl. He is not a nice god.

I didn’t have a storyline before I started writing “The Obsidian Mirror.” Actually, I didn’t set out to write a book. I have done that before and never gotten anywhere. This time, I started with the concept of fantasy based on New World traditions and mythologies, which I hadn’t seen much of at this point. The first draft clearly reflected that I had written it by the seat of my pants. (Authors call this “pantsing.” Some writers do it well. I learned that I do not.) I rewrote the entire book and discovered that creating a plot outline is just a swell idea. 

During the time I was writing “The Obsidian Mirror,” I also had a full-time writing job at Cisco Systems, and it was tough to write all day at work and come home and write for fun. I took a few “staycations” just to work on the novel. It took me seven years to write, but I did learn a lot about what to do/not to do when writing a novel, so it was hardly time wasted.

After ”The Obsidian Mirror” was published, I decided to locate the next novel in Hawai’i, using the same set of characters. Like a good researcher, I tried to make appointments with a few experts on Hawai’ian culture, but never received any replies to my emails. So I changed all my travel plans and went to Moloka’i. I had never been there, but I found ancient references to the island as “the island of sorcerers,” which sounded about right for my purposes. 

I have told this story elsewhere (https://wordpress.com/post/theobsidianmirror.net/381Z), but long story short, before going to Moloka’i, I had an encounter with Pele, goddess of fire, and she blessed my work. Everything from that point flowed like hot maple syrup, so easily, so effortlessly, that I really did not doubt that I had been blessed. I met with every person I had intended to meet, and they gave me information so generously that “Fire in the Ocean” practically wrote itself. (I know that sounds woo-woo, and my husband would be the first to agree with you. I am not normally a woo-woo person, but I stand firm on this point. We still don’t know everything about this world or this life.)

Pele, goddess of fire.

I did a lot of book research for “Fire in the Ocean.” I read as much as I could from older sources about the religion and culture of the ancient Hawai’ians, with an emphasis on Moloka’i. Each of the islands had their own, slightly different culture, and I wanted this novel to be firmly rooted in the traditions of Moloka’i. I also wrote a plot outline for “Fire in the Ocean.” This time, the novel took me about a year and a half to write—a big improvement!

For the third novel in the trilogy, “Lords of the Night,” I had some difficult choices to make that involved whether or not to kill off a particular character. And there were some characters that had been central to “The Obsidian Mirror” and somewhat less involved in “Fire in the Ocean” that I just didn’t want to deal with in a third novel—but I also didn’t want to kill them. They didn’t deserve that. (Yes, these characters became absolutely real to me during the process of writing about them.)

So for various reasons—including that I just wanted to do it—I set the third novel in the pre-Columbian Mayan empire of the Yucatán Peninsula. This meant that I got to go to the Yucatán and wander around ancient ruins, which was irresistible. The story began to come together for me in the ruins of Calakmul, a once-great city in the middle of dense jungle. Calakmul was a peak experience for me. It is so remote that few tourists make it that far. The trees growing throughout the ruins made the heat and humidity somewhat more bearable. I had all the time I needed to wander and think. Calakmul—or as it was originally known, Ox Té Tuun—generated one of the major characters in “Lords of the Night,” a teenaged Mayan girl who was a strong enough character that she nearly upstaged my original characters, Sierra and Chaco. Again, the story almost wrote itself once I had generated a plot outline. The novel took me about a year to write—getting better!

Again, I did an enormous amount of book research for “Lords of the Night.” I read one of the few Mayan codexes still in existence, the “Popol Vuh,” in addition to books and academic articles on Mayan religion, culture, crafts, religion, and folktales. 

This is a minor character in “Lords of the Night: a mosquito. It is rendered and colored from a Mayan painting. The Maya drew lovely little caricatures of animals, some, like this one, anthropormorphized.

Sadly, this is where I lost my publisher, which decided to publish only non-fiction going forward. My first two novels are still with them, but “Lords of the Night” is available only as a Kindle book. Talking to agents, editors, and publishers convinced me that no publisher was going to pick up the final book of a trilogy.

I wanted to move on from the characters and premises of the trilogy at this point. I decided the next book would be set in Iceland. I originally had some vague ideas about setting it in modern Iceland and making it a paranormal mystery, but that is not the story that Iceland told me. I went to Iceland and visited many areas associated with the supernatural and magic. In the Settlement days of Iceland a thousand years ago, magic was accepted as normal and necessary, and magicians served an accepted purpose. Even after Christianity came to the island, Christian priests were sometimes known to be magicians without any stigma attached. 

I was standing deep underground in a massive lava tube in western Iceland when the story came to me almost full-blown. From that point on, everything I did was aimed at filling out the characters and plot. The people I talked to in Iceland were generous with their time and information—and again, I did the book research and even learned how to read Icelandic runes. (I’m out of practice now, so don’t ask for a reading.) It took me nine months to write “The Spell Book of Thorfinn Bare-Butt.” It isn’t on Amazon because I have been looking for an agent. 

The lava tube where the story for “The Spell Book of Thorfinn Bare-Butt” came to me.
Iceland is a wild and beautiful place.

If there is a Hades, he makes deceased writers eternally look for an agent in Hell. It’s like Sisyphus rolling the boulder uphill, or Tantalus, who can never reach the water or fruit to quench his thirst and hunger. I have contacted seventy-two agents so far without more than a “thanks but no thanks,” if that. I will keep trying for a while, but it was easier by far to find two publishers than it has been to find an agent. 

In the meantime, I am trying my hand at a middle-grade fantasy. This is my first stab at world-building, and also my first serious attempt at writing for young people. My process? There is no location or culture to research, because they are entirely fictional and created by my own imagination. So my process is that I wrote a plot outline and now I sit at the computer and write. Works for me.

Voyage to Budapest

Days 1 & 2: San Francisco to Amsterdam

We planned this trip for two years, believing that Covid might be over by then. It isn’t, of course, but we came anyway. I thought we would be traveling a lot after we retired but Covid put an end to that for a while. At my age, I don’t know how long we will be able to travel, and it is worth the risk. I, my husband Tom, and our friends Linda and Clod and Susan and David are doing a river cruise from Amsterdam to Budapest, something none of us have ever done. Apart from Amsterdam, this trip will be covering a huge swath of Europe Tom and I have never seen before. (The others in our group have seen some of the places we’re going, but not all.)

The Covid infection rate here in the Netherlands is 14 per 100,000, which is better than any place in the US. I believe this is because they are not encumbered with as many radical conservatives and conspiracy theorists, but that’s just a guess. Very few here are wearing masks, indoor or otherwise. I am not so trusting, and wear a mask indoors. If one of us gets Covid, they get kicked off the ship at the first opportunity to quarantine elsewhere, and who wants that?

We few over on United Polaris—Business Class. They have eliminated First Class. The seats fully reclined, but it didn’t help me. I have never been able to sleep on a plane. I took prescription medication in an effort to overcome this, with no success. I found it massively uncomfortable, but there were a lot of people who looked blissful tucked up in their reclining seats. Being tall does not help. The food sucked. Honestly. I can’t imagine what they served in Economy.

But it was my choice to watch “Cyrano,” with Peter Dinklage and Jennifer Lawrence. I love both of them. It was a massive waste of their considerable talent. Pretty much a hot mess with meh music and silly choreography. Cyrano is supposed to be a comedy. It opened with promise, but got less funny as time went on, with a tragic ending. Towards the finale, I found myself impatient for it to end. Don’t waste your time.

We are staying in a hotel in a park. You have to walk from the taxi drop-off to the hotel, not very far. The hotel is called “Conscious Hotel at Westerpark.” I thought that was amusing because when I am in a hotel, it is usually in an unconscious state. But the name refers to being ecology-conscious, green, etc. The front lobby looks like a snack shop, which threw us for a few minutes. The rooms are minimalist, but clean and extremely comfortable. The park is lovely. I fell asleep to the sound of happy, screaming children playing in the park. (I am only perturbed by unhappy, screaming children.)

Sitting in the middle of a pond in Westerpark. A statue of a court dress with no one in it. A statement?

The second couple, Susan and David, arrived not long after we did. We walked around looking for a restaurant with tables in the shade. The only one we could find was a vegetarian restaurant with the most wonderful veggie lasagna I have ever tasted. Then to bed again for about 10 hours of sleep. I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with no jet lag—a first. The bed here is seriously comfy.

The next day, we decided to walk to one of David’s fave breweries, located in an old windmill. While we were hoofing it, Linda and Clod checked in to the hotel and we arranged to meet them at a restaurant for lunch. I ordered a Caesar salad, but what arrived was basically a large quantity of fried meat on a meager bed of lettuce. It did have a lot of shaved Parmesan, but it was definitely not what I wanted on a hot afternoon. And I had developed a massive blister and went back to the hotel in a cab rather than walking another 3/4 mile on my abraded and bleeding toe. So I missed the beer. I imagine there will be other opportunities.

It was fun looking in the store windows and just soaking up the city. Head shops everywhere, which I don’t remember from my last visit here. I recall we had to go to a coffee shop to get weed. Not on my to-do list this time.

Tomorrow: the Reichsmuseum! I am so looking forward to that—but I will be wearing different shoes.

Where the Ideas Live

People sometimes ask me how I get ideas for my books. The short answer is: I don’t. I think people sometimes envision authors sitting at their elaborately carved Renaissance desk, complete with quill pen, and an exclamation point appears with a brand-new, amazing idea for a story! Eureka!

Maybe that’s how it works for some authors, I don’t know. The way it works for me is that I decide what part of the world I want a story to take place in, and then I go to that place. I let the place tell me the story. If that sounds mystical or authorish, it isn’t. It’s just how it works for me.

The first book of my trilogy, “The Obsidian Mirror,” took place mostly in Silicon Valley because that’s where I was living and working at the time. I understood the high tech industries, so my protagonist, Sierra, was a high tech public relations person (as I had been, many moons ago). The idea for the basis of the story came from my familiarity with the semiconductor industry and the ubiquity of integrated circuits around the world.

The second novel, “Fire in the Ocean,” had its origins in a Hawai‘ian vacation on the island of Oahu. I decided I wanted to set a novel in Hawai’i. Once home, I began planning a research trip the way I thought an author ought to—I contacted the Bishop Museum, the leading museum of Polynesian culture in the world. I contacted the University of Hawaii Dept. of Hawaiian Studies (or some such). I made reservations to go to Oahu to meet with these knowledgeable people.

Crickets. No one ever responded to my requests. So I decided that the story would be set on Moloka‘i, because that is the island of sorcery, according to the ancient Hawai’ians, which made it extremely attractive to a fantasy writer (that would be me). I also wanted to visit my friend in Captain Cook on the Big Island, because I hoped he would introduce me to some local people who could tell me about myths and legends. I changed all the reservations, abandoning the idea of speaking to the academic experts in Oahu.

At this point in my journey, I didn’t have a story. I knew i would be using my protagonist Sierra, and probably her friend, Coyotl the Trickster, but there were several other characters involved, and I wasn’t sure how I would be using them: Clancy, Rose, Mama Labadie—and especially Fred.

So my husband Tom and I jetted off to the Big Island. My friend was not available to meet for a few days, so Tom and I found ways to entertain ourselves—snorkeling, sampling the local goods like honey and macadamia nuts and coffee. We tried the local Captain Cook grocery store for wine, but the selection was unappealing, so we made a trip to Costco in Kona. While standing in line, I noticed an enormous refrigerator nearby, full of leis. I have always wanted a maile leaf lei. They are made as garlands rather than necklaces, and they often use only the pleasantly vanilla-scented leaves, not flowers. Sure enough Costco had them, and I took my prize back to Captain Cook. 

I wore the lei the next day on a visit to Volcano National Park. Kilawea, Pele’s home volcano, was erupting, so I decided to sacrifice my lei to Pele, Goddess of Fire, and ask for her blessing on my work (which I hadn’t started because no story yet). To my disappointment, they wouldn’t let us anywhere near the actual flowing lava, but we were able to approach the rim of the caldera. It was clear this was the right place because there were other offering leis hanging in a tiny tree next to the railing, as well as on the railing itself. I held up my lei, asked for Pele’s blessing and whanged it right into the little tree, where it was securely caught in the branches. Then we turned around and started to walk away, but I wanted a photo of my lei hanging in the tree, so we went back after only a few steps. 

Flinging my maile lei into the tree at the rim of the Kilawea cauldera.

My lei had vanished. All the other leis were still there. It was absolutely still without a breath of wind. We looked all around the ground under the tree. No maile leaf lei to be seen. With that incident, the story began to take shape in my head, with Pele taking an important role. 

When I started thinking about “Lords of the Night” (I didn’t have a title at this point, by the way), I decided to write a historical fantasy—even though my characters were 21st century people. Why? I think it was the challenge. And I wanted to learn more about the ancient Maya. My mother helped to excavate several Mayan ruins in Yucatan and Guatemala, back when most of those great cities were still covered in jungle, and there were no roads to the excavation sites. So in addition to reading intensively about the Maya, their history, arts, mathematics, science, and culture, I set up a trip to the Yucatan Peninsula. (Actually, Tom does all the actual trip planning, based on what I want to see. He is wonderful that way!)

The ruins of a palace at Calakmul

I was blissfully untroubled by the problem of getting my 21st century characters back to the 5th century. This is fantasy! I can just make it up! As a writer, I adore that freedom. Why do you think I don’t write science fiction?

I also cleverly invited a couple to go along with us. Clod, the male half of the couple, was born and lived as a young person in Mexico City, with vacations in the Yucatan, which is where his father was raised. Linda studied Spanish in school. I speak Spanish like a first-year student with a strangely good accent (thanks to my Spanish-speaking mother). Tom has never studied Spanish. See how I did that?

The story began to take shape for me when we visited the ruins of Calakmul, which lie within the borders of a large biological reserve on the Guatemalan border. Calakmul had been my primary destination, though we did visit Tulum, Uxmal, and a few other archeological sites. I don’t know why Calakmul drew me so strongly. My mother didn’t excavate there, and I had never heard of it before beginning research for this trip. I had seen photos, and the city has a temple that rivals Egypt’s Great Pyramid for size. Plus, it is located in the middle of a jungle, far from the well-trod tourist trails. Intriguing, no?

There is only one hotel within the borders of the biological reserve. If you want to visit Calakmul, you more or less have to stay at Hotel Puerta Calakmul, because the hotel, deep in the jungle, is still 60 kilometers or so from the ruins, along an unpaved road. When you get to the drop-off place for the ruins, you still have to walk a kilometer to arrive at the actual city. 

At the base of one of the temples in Calakmul.

All of which made my visit to Calakmul everything I could have hoped for. As we walked along, I picked our guide’s brain about Mayan folk tales and we saw peacock-gorgeous oscillated turkeys, and monkeys, and javelinas. The ruins themselves were pleasantly shaded, with very few other people around. It was nothing like the wait-in-line-in-the-tropical-sun-with-a-million-other-tourists experience of the more popular sites. The temples, all of which have not yet been excavated, are impressive. In its time, Calakmul was one of the most powerful cities of the ancient Mayan world, and its name was Ox Té Tuun. Ox Té Tuun is central to “Lords of the Night,” and as I strolled along its broad avenues I developed the character of Ix Mol, a young Mayan girl from Ox Té Tuun with a very big problem who enlivens the pages of “Lords of the Night.”

More Calakmul.

All of which is a long-winded way of saying that place is central to my process as a writer. I have no idea why, but there’s nothing like a good trip to someplace far, far away to stimulate my creative juices.

That’s what I tell my husband, anyway.