Every Saturday at 7 p.m., near a warehouse off 5th and Main, there is an office between a daycare center and 7-Eleven. The office is nondescript. Boring beige miniblinds block any viewers from peering in. The scent of strong coffee emanates from beneath the office door, while inside, Dr. Shannon Lutz hosts a weekly therapy session for fictional characters who have been emotionally injured or otherwise tormented by their creators.

The waiting room is full, the clock is ticking, and someone is crying.  A wizard, sitting to the left of the receptionist, in a red leather chair with brass buttons, is trying to fill out intake forms with a quill that keeps catching fire. On the other side, Ms. Mable Thorn, lets out a shriek as she recounts the trials with her faithful companion, canine Ms. Eliza Doolittle, to a little boy holding a paintbrush dripping white paint over the antique linoleum flooring.  The boy, dressed in worn overalls, looks annoyed and somewhat mischievous. 

Ms. Lutz's session begins the same way every week: with a deep sigh from the protagonist, Jason Billingsly, who hasn’t slept since chapter two. He slumps onto the couch and explains, for the hundredth time, that his author refuses to let him rest. Every time he tries to take a nap, a new villain appears, or a prophecy is revealed, or a long‑lost relative shows up with a cryptic warning. He says he’s one dramatic monologue away from quitting the entire manuscript and moving to a quiet neighborhood in East LA where no one knows his name. He might even get a goat or two. 

Dr. Lutz nods sympathetically, her glasses bobbing on her nose, and writes something in her notebook that looks suspiciously like braindead, if the reflection in the mirror is accurate. 
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Next comes the side character, Damion Shadrack who knows, with absolute certainty, that he’s been created solely to die tragically. He wrings his hands as he explains that his author gave him a quirky personality, a tragic backstory, and a lovable dog — the holy trinity of emotional manipulation. And that doesn't include the talking parrot that will live longer than he will. He’s convinced he’s living on borrowed time. The dragon sitting beside him pats his shoulder gently, which is impressive considering the dragon’s claws are the size of salad tongs. Yet, the action doesn't go unnoticed as Mr. Shadrack leans in toward the dragon who then wraps him in a bony embrace. 

The villain clears his throat dramatically, as villains do, and announces that he’s not actually evil. He never wanted to be evil. He wanted to open a bakery. You know, donuts and things. Maybe some croissants.  But his author insists he needs to be brooding and morally ambiguous, so now he spends his days delivering monologues about evil when all he really wants is to perfect his sourdough starter.

"Have you tried communicating this to your creator?" Dr. Lutz asks in a throaty, cigarette-scarred pharyngical voice.

The romantic lead bursts in, late as usual, complaining that her entire persona is based on miscommunication. She's not emotional or emotive. She explains that if she ever said what she actually meant, the book would be over in forty pages. She has no intention of being ambiguous, instead, she’s forced to misunderstand everything, fall into the love interest’s arms repeatedly, even as he cheats on her with the harlot down the street. 

Liz, the dragon, who has been quietly steaming in the corner, finally speaks up. She's tired of being a metaphor for anger, greed, and trauma. She no longer wants to be a symbol of humanity's inner turmoil. She's tired of caves, scales, and a burning throat.  She just wants to be loved for herself. 

Dr. Lutz hands her a stress ball which immediately melts. 

During the break, the characters gather around the snack table to compare grievances. One complains about being stuck in a love triangle for seven years. Another says their author forgot they existed halfway through chapter nine, and what happened to the child she was to bear? A superhero mutters that they’ve been wearing the same outfit since 2014 and would kill for a pair of sweatpants. Liz, the dragon, eats the table.

When the session wraps up, Dr. Lutz leads them through affirmations. She reminds them that they are more than their trauma, more than their plot arcs, and are absolutely not responsible for their author’s deadlines. Everyone breathes deeply. Even the villain looks a little better.

As they file out — back to their quests, their heartbreaks, their battles, and their unresolved plot holes — one thing is clear: being fictional is hard. Being fictional with a dramatic, caffeine‑addicted writer pulling the strings is harder. But at least they have therapy, and of course, Ms. Lutz.

Writers, like me, pretend we're mysterious creatures--deep thinkers, tortured artists, vessels of creativity. Just ask my kids. But anyone who has ever watched me in the wild knows the truth. I can be funny one minute, unintentionally rude the next, and even kind all in the space of 30 seconds.  I am interesting, but boring to the wrong people. I like to think, and I like to have deep conversations. I have a distaste for gossip which makes me REALLY boring to a lot of people. 

I also have a special relationship with procrastination. I'll sit down to write, open my laptop, crack my knuckles, and spend four hours researching childhood trauma--of which I have plenty. I'm still in recovery. Saturday nights, 6:30 pm at the Lutheran Church. Of course this is all research for my next novel. 

And there's the fact that I talk to myself. A lot. Most of the time. Or I sing. Loudly. Frequently. Not sure how the neighbors feel about it. Full conversations happen in the kitchen while making coffee at 6 am. I argue with my characters, negotiate with them, and beg them to do what I want them to do without being overly insensitive to their or my needs. Hence the recovery aspect. Most of my characters have childhood trauma too. If you were on the outside looking in, I cannot image what you would think of me.

I do have a flare for workspace rituals. I have my space heater which looks like a fireplace. A giant dog bed at my feet with both dogs napping makes a perfect scene.  I dress in shifts. First the pants, then the top, socks, and finally whatever sweatshirt is handy for warmth. I have lovely notebooks I've never written in and others, old and ratty, that I keep my shopping list in and a few well-placed ideas or notes to self.  Sometimes I delve into the no man's land of hyperbole where I lay face down on hardwood flooring and whisper, "Every word I've ever written is garbage." Over and again. This lasts for about 8 minutes and reoccurs every few hours. 

Lest I forget--my dramatic reading sessions. I'll say sentences out loud at least 20 times, adjusting the tone, the rhythm, even the breath space between words. I'll shout out things like WHIZ, BUMP, BANG! While pointing my finger gun. Embarrassing, I know.  My latest favorite is OUT! I randomly shout it at my dog, Pico, the puppy. It's a term I picked up playing pickleball. 

Have I mentioned my knee? 

Pickleball has left me many gifts. I have a complete horizonal tear of my meniscus, I tore the cartilage away from my femur AND my ACL is turning to jelly.  I also have a build-up of fluid behind my knee. It's either a humongous Baker's cyst or something is leaking somewhere. My whole leg used to swell but that seems to have subsided. I'm off to UC Davis on the 7th. I will say this; the pain is horrific. I understand why animals chew off their legs when in pain. Which brings me back to writing. Writers are tenacious. For the most part. I know I hate leaving things undone which is why I can complete a novel.  I also still play pickleball. I took a double dose of pain killers Monday night so I could play and it was wonderful. 
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The weirdest thing about me is the chaos angle. I love a messy story, and I love to make order out of chaos. I constantly complain about deadlines, plot holes, and unruly characters who refuse to cooperate. Just like the pickleball person on the other side who won't listen when I tell her to return the ball back to me between my shoulders and waist. They never listen and always aim for my feet. 

After deep self-reflection (recovery again) I discovered the making order out of chaos shadow in me. In physics, energy doesn't die, but what it does do, if left untended, is descend into chaos. Chaos was created just for me.  Writing (and pickleball) is messy, occasionally unhinged, but it is also magical, and full of laughter and friends. Sometimes everything just works. The muse and the pain pills. 

It is the moment I live for. 

​It is the reason I write (and play). 

The Season of Stories

Christmas is more than a holiday—it’s a season steeped in storytelling. From Dickens’ A Christmas Carol to modern holiday films, the Christmas season has always been fertile ground for writers to engage readers. There is a unique blend of joy, grief, nostalgia, reflection, and inspiration. All of this gives writers like me a unique blend of topics to choose from. 

I live in the foothills and sometimes we get snow. So, I will definitely commit to feeling nostalgic with a dash of grief as I watch Hallmark's The Christmas Card, view the decorated streets, warm firepits, and sometimes, snow in Nevada City and Grass Valley.  Of course, there are the roasted chestnuts served hot and crunchy, and carolers that patrol the streets during Cornish and Victorian Christmas that we celebrate each year. 

I do miss the family Christmas' where Dennis had meltdowns over putting together toys with incomplete directions. I can still hear him yelling. Then there was the year our oldest, Shannon, desperately wanted a new hair style so she begged for a permanent. We woke up Christmas morning to Little Orphan Annie sitting under the tree, her youngest brother Ryan running around bare from the waist down because he refused to wear pants, and Denny our middle-child completely unperturbed.  The only way to get a rise out of Denny was to discuss the nature of the universe. It was either that or he was chasing fairies.  Everything out of that kid's mouth was either why or hey Mommy did you see her?  Of course, I never did see her, but I followed him around the house as he chased her often enough.  By the time Shannon was in high school, she put her hair back to normal, Ryan had learned to wear pants, and while Denny still contemplated the nature of the universe, he no longer saw his fairy.  

I have a cold so over the weekend I was facetimed as my daughter chased her one-year-old grandson around the family room attempting to distract him from eating the pretty lights or breaking them. Whichever came first.  I wanted to tell her to put the lighted decorations up so she could enjoy the moment. They disappear so fast.  Before she knows it, he'll be grown and the one in the mommy oven will be chasing fairies, hopefully with pants on. 

This year we all agreed to cut back on presents and to donate the money normally used to worthy causes. We all have everything we need and even too much of what we want. As I sit here gazing out the window over a fog shrouded path, I am reminded of all the gifts I've been given. I would not change a thing in my life even though Christmas comes bittersweet nowadays. 

I find myself revisiting Christmas' as a child where the Christmas tree brought me hope that I would see my dad again. I was five when he died and for whatever reason, Christmas trees remind me of him. As does the music and the snow. I remember the last Christmas he was with us. He loved music and he loved to build things. He had built a contraption; I think it was called a hi-fi and ran the music out to our front porch. It wasn't going well, and he wasn't pleased, but when he finally got it to work our entire street was showered with the songs of Christmas. I remember standing next to plastic carolers with my mittens over my ears, in absolute joy at the look on my dad's face. For years afterwards, I would try to drag those plastic carolers out of the garage and try to get them to sing. My brother tried once as well, but it was not the same.  A tinge of grief here perhaps. 

For some reason, holiday stories endure.  While some are sad and some ecstatic, they all carry meaning. They have all taught us something. From Hannukah lights to Christmas trees to those who celebrate in other ways, the holidays are filled with stories.  This year let's listen. No judgement. No anger or angst. If we listen close enough, we will hear the humanity underneath, even if we do not agree.