“Dear Grandma, I’ll call him Rafael de Espana. He transforms Spanish into more than grammar off the pages of a book. He brings it to life for me and takes the language barrier away. As he speaks to me slowly and without shouting, I feel beyond culture shock and am no longer homesick. I love this country now that I have Rafael as my friend. This sounds dramatic, Grandma, but I know you love reading romance. And I don’t mind living it!”—excerpt from the book Sanibel Scribbles

 After my grandfather died, my grandmother Betty Jann remained migratory, spending winters on Sanibel and summers in Saugatuck, Michigan where she nested in a cottage behind my family’s ice-cream shop. An eccentric bird wearing dark sunglasses and red and purple silk dresses from the Orient, my grandmother would sit on the pink radiator of our shop and chat with me as I worked. After work I would go to her cottage and because I was a teenager and she a night owl, we would stay awake all hours listening to Elvis Presley while burning sandalwood incense. I loved settling beside her on the twin bed as we ate Kit Kat bars and talked about the Nora Roberts novels she was reading, and about life!

 My sister and I spent our high school and college spring breaks visiting our grandma on Sanibel and we discovered how lonely she was with nothing but her seashell projects and romance novels to keep her company. And so I began writing her letters—not ordinary ‘how are you doing? I’m doing fine’ letters, but juicy ones about the boys I was dating—those I liked and didn’t. I left nothing out, writing consistently to my grandma about the adventurous details of my life. She called me one night at college and said, “Keep writing those letters. They’re adding spice to my life and they keep me going—waiting for the next. In fact, your letters are so good I just know you’ll become a novelist one day.” I’ll never forget those words because I wrote them in my journal.

 My last letter never arrived to Grandma. She died before it reached her. But in an effort to ‘keep her going’, when I wrote my first novel, Sanibel Scribbles, I made my grandmother one of the characters and interwove letters to her throughout the book. I am now living with my husband and children on Sanibel less than a mile from where she lived and bike past her old place, feeling blessed for the unique influence she had on my life. When mothers or grandmothers tell me their children want to be writers, and ask what they can do to encourage it, I tell them this: When your child writes something and wants to read it to you, stop everything! Turn the faucet off. Pull the car over. Stop folding laundry and listen! Listen as if their written words are what you’ve been waiting for. And tell them you can’t wait for more. Oh, and no need to critique it. There are plenty of other people in the world who will do that later on. 

 I hop off my bike and walk up the pathway to my grandma’s old place, wishing she were still alive so I could go inside and see if she has put her Nora Roberts novels aside, if she’s reading one of my three novels instead.

 Dear Grandma,

You once told me that the letters I wrote added spice to your life and kept you going. Well, the encouraging words you once gave me have kept me going, too.”—Sanibel Scribbles

“To an ordinary person, washing a pan is simple. But for a mother, who is also like a ringmaster in a three-ring circus, doing dishes is more hair-raisingly difficult than swallowing fire.”—an excerpt from the book Sand in My Eyes

 I’m often asked how long it takes for me to write a novel. If I were living a life of solitary confinement—in a convent or prison cell—I might crank one out in a few months. The reality is that I live in a noisy little house on stilts with three children, a husband, too, and the truth is, I can hardly wash a sink of dishes without getting interrupted ten times. Sometimes I go into the kitchen spinning like a top, dizzy from their demands and forgetting why I went in there in the first place.

 When I got the inspiration for Sand in My Eyes, ideas came fast and furious and I could see the characters, plot and story unfolding as a panorama in my mind. It would be a silly little story about a mother so overwhelmed that hardly was she seeing the beauty around her. I scribbled it all down in crayon on a coloring book, and then told my husband the good news—that all I need is two hours every single morning before the sun and kids rise and I could have this story written in two weeks!

 Also at this time my sister was training for the Chicago Marathon and I thought as she wakes early to run, I will wake early to write and by the time she runs the marathon, I will have written my novel. Well, she ran the marathon. And she ran it again the next year, and the next. And guess what? I was still writing my novel.

 Here’s what happened. Our landlords needed us out—writing postponed—they wanted to sell the house we had been renting, the one on Sanibel that inspired me immensely. Settled at last in a new rental, I set my alarm for five in the morning only to discover my laptop had died. It took me three months to afford a new one. Here we go again, I set my alarm to start writing this story and my son decides to wake along with me. This new routine (me on a coffee high hoping to write while watching The Wiggles instead) lasted for days until I decided to write in our pantry (also our laundry room) where my son couldn’t find me. From my new hideout I could hear my husband telling him, “Mommy went to work. She’ll be back when the sun comes up.”

 The writing in the pantry was going fine until one morning I found myself tiptoeing to the bathroom to vomit—pregnant with our third. I wish I could say it was glamorous, but I wrote big chunks of Sand in My Eyes from the bathroom floor with the fan on to tune out the ‘beautiful chaos’ that was my family on the other side of the door. I didn’t like writing in the bathroom but if I left and headed for the pantry, the boys would intercept me and my writing session would end.

 I also experienced clusters of intense three-day headaches during the writing of this book. And my mom was diagnosed with cancer. Fear woke me in the middle of every night and had me twisting and turning through the fiery forest filled with worry. A writer needs sleep, and so does a mother. I consider giving up my story about the overwhelmed woman no longer seeing the beauty to life. But faith kept me going. I had to believe my inspiration was real. I had a choice. I could either let life get in the way of my writing or I could allow life to enhance my writing. I chose the latter and created characters in my story to help comfort me through. At times, while writing it, I felt as if the older me was talking to the younger me, telling it’s all just a phase, and one day you’ll wake and your house will be quiet and clean but your children grown so you might as well now—in the midst of the chaos—feel the beauty all around you.

 So how long does it take to write a novel? More than two weeks is all I’ll say!

 “Everything in life takes a certain amount of work. If you think getting what you want in life is easy, then you may as well walk over to your neighbor’s yard and steal one of her flowers when she isn’t looking, because life isn’t easy, nor is growing a garden, but once you start recognizing the pests and learning how to control the weeds, and all the other basics there are to learn, then the effort you put into your gardening becomes more pleasurable.”—Sand in My Eyes

 “When I entered the bay I put the paddle down, leaving the canoe to drift about under the morning sun while questioning how a mother knows when to give up certain selfish passions and fold laundry instead. I struggled with this, and needed to know whether I should hang my cravings to write out to dry until a different stage in life, or when I am old and there is no one to answer to but the flowers in my yard.”—excerpt from the book Sand in My Eyes

 Before I start writing a book, I go over the impracticalities in my mind. I’m not going to get the hours of sleep that I like. I won’t be saying ‘yes’ to all the social invitations. The laundry, which I fold at night, will start piling up again into mountains my children climb on. There will be no television watching, and hardly time for reading. The decision for me to write is similar to that of having another baby, or buying a puppy. There’s never a perfect time. It’s an emotional choice, and life-changing, too.

 But I think of the ideas I have, and how sad, if I don’t pursue them they’ll remain like seeds in a packet that never get opened. I make my choice to write and like a gardener stepping out into her patch of dirt, I begin raking through the mess, simplifying my life and clearing the way so I can write. All I need is a consistent two-hour chunk of time—morning or night. And because my three-year-old wakes early, climbing into my bed to cuddle, I decide at this particular stage, night writing will have to do. But that means I can’t get tired in the evenings. No falling asleep on the couch by nine!

 I find myself dusting my desk, emptying drawers, and clearing my schedule for upcoming months.  I also search for new music. I listened to Mozart while writing Sand in My Eyes, but need different music now. I buy a sandalwood candle and lotion for my fingers that will soon be hitting the keys. I switch from drinking two cups of coffee in the morning, to one, and then add two cups in the late afternoon, hoping for an added oomph. My husband questions whether all of this is a writer’s ritual or procrastination. I tell him it’s ‘nesting’—I’m carrying within an idea and preparing for it to come out.

 I laugh at myself, aware that when we pursue what we are passionate, it might at first look to others as if we are only playing in the dirt. But there is a difference between playing and toiling in that toiling brings forth change in your life—even if that change is in your state of mind. My state-of-mind is full of anticipation. I am ready to write! Whether or not my toiling turns into a garden, or a novel that others will like, it’s okay, because the process is already bringing me joy.

 For anyone choosing to pursue their passion, but wondering how they might go about finding the time and energy to start, try this: “…cut out that which isn’t needed in your garden, in your life, once, or twice a year. Trim away that which serves no purpose and benefits neither you nor others. And space your plants appropriately. Over planting, crowding your days with too many commitments, activities and involvements, may lead to disease and fungus, and the things you want to do won’t stand a chance of surviving.” –Sand in My Eyes