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SONJA HEISINGER

~ fine artist/novelist

SONJA HEISINGER

Category Archives: Blog

On Dying

01 Saturday Dec 2018

Posted by Sonja in Blog

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death, Devil's Grotto, hyperrealism artist, Liberty Hill, memoir, mortality, musings, on dying, Poverty Creek, short stories, Sonja Heisinger

“You were about to check out,” the doctor told me. “You’re a tough cookie.”

I’ve had four close encounters with death, all of which I remember vividly. 

That rush of adrenaline. That realization that the breath I was holding might be my last.

How many of us have lived through these moments? What were they like? Who were we before, and who are we after? Did we learn anything? Did we dismiss the experience, or did we learn from it? 

Did we share it? Can I share mine with you?

Each one of my stories varies drastically. The only common denominator is the ending: I lived.

I grew up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, where bears knocked over our trash cans at night, rattlesnakes sunbathed on hiking trails, and kamikaze deer leapt in front of our cars with alarming frequency. We respected the wildlife, dangerous as it was. Even loved it. The Emigrant Wilderness was our backyard. Beautiful. Deadly. We embraced it, and were proud to do so.

When I was fourteen, my best friend lived around the corner from me. There was a bus stop between our houses, and whenever one of us left the other’s house after nightfall, we accompanied each other halfway home in the dark. There were no street lamps in our rural mountain neighborhood, but usually one of us remembered to bring a flashlight. Jittery from the cold and the prospect of continuing on alone, we parted ways at the bus stop, running at a good clip until we reached the safety of our doorsteps. 

One night I forgot my flashlight. I remember watching the beam from Julie’s as it swung with the movement of her arms, the circle of illumination waxing and waning against the pavement and surrounding pines. Darkness overwhelmed me. I looked up at the Milky Way, pronounced and glimmering. It seemed to celebrate its reign over the night sky, free and unpolluted as the new moon hid behind a veil of shadow.

I’d walked that home stretch a thousand times. I took a deep breath and moved through the blackness.

Near the foot of our property, I was arrested by a sound. It came from the bushes a few steps ahead. Deep, reverberating, terrifying. The growl of a large animal. Certainly not a dog. I’d grown up with big dogs. This was wild. Powerful. Feline. 

A mountain lion.

Paralized, a wave of heat traveled through me, followed at once by an icy blast of fear. What to do? I had no knowledge of mountain lions, except that they prowled these mountains, occasionally jumping the unsuspecting hiker, but mostly preying on livestock, deer, foxes. I knew a little about bears. How you weren’t supposed to go near their young, or give them something to chase. Don’t run. Make noise. Pray you won’t end up like Alec Baldwin in The Edge, or Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.

For the first time in my life I felt the mysterious and unsettling sensation of being watched. What did this creature see as it appraised me in the dark? Did my fear pulse like ribbons of light? Could it hear my quickened breath? Was my horror malodorous, appealing, entertaining? 

I began to tremble. I didn’t want to be eaten. I was only fourteen. I could only imagine what was about to happen. Those teeth, those claws. The ripping, tearing, searing pain. The great sorrow that this was the end, that I was to leave behind a life I had hardly lived. 

I was drawn back to the stars. The only light in that world of darkness. They blinked as they spoke to me. I saw my future in their vast dominion. 

Hope. They burned with hope.

Something shifted within me. I smiled, and took an emboldened step. Out of the thick silence I raised my voice and sang a favorite song. Softly. Clearly.

I felt those eyes burning through me as I marched towards my house. I moved, wrapped in a chrysalis of courage. I was spellbound. Transfixed. I was alive.

The instant I reached my porch steps, I heard it again. Only this time, it wasn’t a growl. Mountain lions have a distinct roar, different from other large cats. It’s shrill. Jarring. Some say it sounds like a woman’s scream. 

The spell broke and my terror returned. I flew up those steps, crossed the porch, and lunged at the front door. I slammed it shut behind me and leaned heavily against it, my breaths rapid and tremulous, my body shaking violently. I flicked on the porch light, and glanced out the window, half expecting the beast’s yellow eyes to flash back at me.

Nothing. The lion was gone.

Several years later, I felt that rush of adrenaline again. Time slowed as I glanced in my rearview mirror and noticed another car barreling towards me. I was at a stop, waiting to make a left turn, when it slammed me into oncoming traffic. Somehow, I managed to maneuver my car off the road and out of harm’s way. The impact dislodged the stereo into my lap. My little Honda was totaled. Amazingly, no one was hurt.

Once more, in Texas, hiking beneath Old Baldy in Garner State Park. There came a piercing crack from a hundred feet overhead, followed by the sound of disturbed leaves and snapping tree limbs. A stone the size of a softball met the earth with a frightening thud only inches in front of me. My foot was still poised to step. 

I’m a tough cookie, the doctor told me. She didn’t know about any of these experiences. All she knew was two years ago, I went to a clinic for a skin condition and was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s Disease.

Hashimoto’s is very common and very treatable. It’s an autoimmune disease that attacks your thyroid, the organ responsible for regulating your metabolism. Your thyroid provides functionality to the rest of your body. Without it, the body shuts down.

Which is exactly what my body did.

A healthy person has a TSH (thyroid stimulating hormone) between .4 to 4.0, give or take a little. Someone with a thyroid problem will start feeling or acting drunk if their levels reach 50 or 60. 

Mine was 138.

“Oh my god!” This is never something you want to hear your doctor say. “Do you feel tired? Like you can hardly function?”

I told her yes. I’d felt that way for years. 

She looked me right in the eye and said, “I’m going to start you on medication today, but it may take several weeks to make a difference. Listen to me: if you wake up in the night and can’t move, or if you feel ANY changes for the worse, you need to go to the hospital immediately. Do you understand?”

I nodded. 

I was at risk for Myxedema Coma. That’s when you shut down and die. 

A week later, I was sitting at my dining room table with my eight-month-old son when I felt it. Like someone had pushed the Power Off button. Exhaustion washed over me. I slumped down in my seat. Then my hearing turned fuzzy, and my vision closed in. My heart beat lethargically, like it wanted to give up. 

This had happened before, and I always thought it was on account of low blood sugar, so I stumbled into the kitchen for an apple and a Sprite. Meanwhile my son babbled from his highchair, obliviously banging his spoon against the tray.

I felt a magnetic pull towards the floor. 

My husband was gone. Would be for a month, training for work. I was alone with my child.

I called my neighbor.

“Something’s not right. I don’t feel right. I need you to come over.”

In the time it took her to arrive and dial 911, my breathing grew shallow. My heart slowed. I was cold, shivering uncontrollably. 

I was dying. This was as clear to me as anything. I looked at my son and felt apologetic. 

I’m sorry I’m leaving you so soon. I’m sorry I’m going away.

I was also indignant. How could this be happening? I wanted to fight, but had nothing to fight with. Where was my sling and stone, my unlikely army, my thread of hope?

The whole experience was so inglorious. There was no bright light. No sense of peace. No calming voice from another realm. The world was simply slipping away. I was slipping away.

I was taken by ambulance to the hospital, where they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. They thought I’d suffered a stroke. 

Gradually, life returned. I recovered my senses, my strength. I went home that night and held my son for a long time.

Over the last two years I’ve learned to manage my condition. I’m on the proper dose of medication, and I feel relatively normal. My numbers are good. I’m no longer in danger.

Physicians always do a double-take when they look at my file. They see that number—that impressive 138—and their eyes become large and round. They mention it briefly with a wag of their heads, then seem to shake it off, as though it’s too frightful to ponder. And yet no one ever told me just how frightful it was. No one ever admitted I could have died.

Until two days ago. 

“You were about to check out,” the doctor said. She was new and unfamiliar to me. I could have embraced her. 

I went home and fell into my husband’s arms, crying. I’d gotten it. The truth. Validation. It wasn’t all in my head. It wasn’t a bad dream. Something I could have changed, or simply awoken from. 

I have a common disease that went undiagnosed and untreated for 28 years, and it nearly killed me.

I’m so thankful to be alive. To draw my pictures, write my stories, kiss my husband, hold my son. I’m so thankful for the rain outside, the glow of my Christmas tree, the taste of coffee first thing in the morning, the anticipation before a long-awaited vacation, the way sunlight changes in autumn, the feeling of accomplishment at the end of a challenging project. I’m so thankful for modern medicine, and safe cars, and reaching the peak at the end of a hike, and the limitless sky. I’m so thankful for every moment my story continues. 

I’m so thankful to be alive.

 

On Talent

07 Wednesday Nov 2018

Posted by Sonja in Blog

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artist, author, creativity, Devil's Grotto, historical fiction, Liberty Hill, on talent, Poverty Creek, Sonja Heisinger, talent, writer

I remember the moment I realized I could draw. 

I’m not sure how old I was, but I was young enough to be in the church nursery. I was given a piece of paper and a crayon, and I drew a circle. And I remember looking down at that circle for a prolonged moment and thinking to myself, “Damn, that’s a perfect circle.”

Okay. Maybe I didn’t say damn. But I did feel pretty proud of myself. I was also a little surprised by my ability to draw such a rockin’ circle. 

In Kindergarten, I was drawing Disney princesses with strange accuracy. By fifth grade, I took my Star Wars obsession to the next level by sketching my first realistic portrait. Yes, it was of Queen Amidala, and no, I have no idea what happened to that drawing. But it was kickass.

In high school, I hit what I thought was my ceiling. I struggled with shading and perspective, but no matter how much time and effort I put into improvement, I just could not get better. This was because I had been riding on my own talent for so long, I’d never taken lessons or sought the knowledge and expertise of other artists. I thought I could be the best on my own. And I was wrong.

I was maybe sixteen when I was wandering around Barnes and Noble and noticed a book called How to Draw Realistic Portraits by artist Lee Hammond. I used my hard-earned movie theater popcorn girl money to acquire it, and my life was forever changed. This was the Holy Bible of drawing. Everything I’d been missing—from graphing to tools to structure—was there. I became a drawing machine. My abilities skyrocketed overnight. Knowledge. I had knowledge! I was saved.

Talent can only take you so far. Yes, I was born with raw talent, and with practice, I saw steady improvement. But without knowledge, I peaked as an amateur at best. The world of art only opened up for me when I decided to become a student instead of an expert, and the same is true for anything. Writing, acting, sports, cooking, sales, insert talent/interest/career here. 

The first thing I did after completing my last book, Devil’s Grotto, was order eight more books on how to become a better writer. My goal isn’t to write a good book and be done. I’m happy with Devil’s Grotto… I honestly don’t know how I can make it any better… and that’s how I know it’s time to improve my craft.

As Americans, we live in a society that holds talent as a virtue above all else. We adore everything that glitters. And in this day in age, where 15 minutes of fame has been reduced to 8 seconds, everyone is clamoring to be seen and appreciated for what they have to offer. Entertainment has become about who can be the most distracting, and whoever succeeds gets to enjoy their moment of glory for as long as it takes for the next video to go viral. 

If we not only want to succeed, but to contribute something that will be loved and remembered, we need more than luck, and we need more than what we were born with. Talent isn’t your ticket. Talent is your opportunity. It’s a foundation, and will never become anything more unless you build on it, using the proper tools, materials, mentorship, connections, and manuals. 

To grow stronger in the Force, even Anakin Skywalker had to become a padawan with a hideous ponytail/braid hairstyle. Talk about a lesson in humility. It was only when he thought he’d arrived that he turned to the Dark Side.

Success isn’t arriving. Success is growth. And as soon as you stop, you’re out of the game.

So I challenge you: whatever it is you do, how can you do it better? Find someone else who has achieved excellence in your field, chase them down (or buy their book, subscribe to their podcast, etc), and learn from them. Don’t just embrace your talents. Be worthy of them. Feed them. Give them time, and energy, and resources, and education to grow. You’ll be amazed by what they—what you—can become.

Let’s become more than clamoring, entitled, fleeting distractions. Let’s become legends.

 

On the Liberty Hill Series

17 Wednesday Oct 2018

Posted by Sonja in Blog, Novels

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author, book, California, California history, Devil's Grotto, gold rush, historical fiction, Liberty Hill, literature, Poverty Creek, Sonja Heisinger

An interview with the author

Q: Liberty Hill is a fictional three-part series about two Irish immigrants who settle in California during the Gold Rush. What’s the story behind the story? 

A: I grew up in Northern California. My hometown Sonora is known as “The Gem of the Southern Mines”, and it’s surrounded by historic Gold Rush sites. Calaveras, Murphys, Columbia, Angel’s Camp.  I spent my childhood and teenage years exploring these places. The history has always been so intriguing to me. Though it’s a small landmark now, Columbia was an enormous boomtown during the Gold Rush. There’s this beautiful cemetery where the tombstones are all weathered and covered in ivy and moss. Most of them are from the mid nineteenth century, belonging to immigrants from all over the world. I used to walk around and take pictures, and my imagination would run wild. Who was this person from Laos? What did their life look like? Who did they love? How did they die? That’s when the idea for Liberty Hill began to form. I wanted to recreate California as it was in 1849, when “the whole world was converging at once”.

Q: What were some aspects about the Gold Rush that make it a good setting for a story?

A: It was a crazy time. The more I researched, the more I was inspired. California truly was the Wild West. In 1848, the US had just won the war with Mexico, acquiring California just in time for John Sutter to discover gold in the American River. When the news spread, people from all of the world swarmed to the West. California wasn’t even Unionized yet, because the government couldn’t decide if it should be a slave state or free, so there was no law, no order. There was no government postal system, no banks, no railroad. And because nothing was regulated, inflation was ridiculous. One egg could set a miner back a whole dollar, which is equal to about $32 today. In Poverty Creek, one of my female characters charges $8 for a slice of pie. That was a real thing. And the men paid. Women could make a fortune—a literal fortune—just by baking. 

  Most of the outrageous things that happen in my books were inspired by true events. I couldn’t make that stuff up. And that’s why I needed three books to fit everything in.

Q: The boomtown your characters eventually settle in is called Prosperity. Real or fictional?

A: Fictional, though heavily influenced by where I grew up. 

Q: This series took eight years to write. Why so long?

A: In 2010, I wrote a novel with the same premise as the Liberty Hill series, only it was the whole story condensed into 300 pages. Lucius, Evelyn, and May Westerly (introduced in Poverty Creek) were the main characters, and Evelyn—though still her spitfire self—was a mute. When the manuscript was finished, I sent it to a writer friend, who I’m quite certain didn’t make it passed the first chapter. He essentially told me that the idea was great, but I packed way too much information into the first few pages. He encouraged me to expound. So I did. Those first few pages became Liberty Hill. 

   I wrote Liberty in three months, though I had spent the previous two years researching. I used the first chapter in my manuscript as an outline, and instead of making Evelyn a mute, I developed a new character, Josephine, who added a certain preternatural element to the story. 

  My husband and I were living in Africa at the time, and I was determined to publish as soon as we returned to the US. But shortly after we came home, my parents were killed in a car accident. I decided to move forward with publication, thinking it would be a good distraction from my grief. And for a very, very short time, it was. But when I sat down to write the sequel, Poverty Creek, I had significant writer’s block. I couldn’t bring myself to touch the story I had started when my parents were alive. They had loved Liberty Hill, and they would never know how the story ended. So for a few years, I thought about ditching the whole thing. But I couldn’t. I owed an ending to my story, my parents’ memory, and everyone who had loved the first book. Mostly, I owed it to myself.

  In 2017, I made the decision to finish the entire series in one fell swoop. I had just written a collection of short stories of which I was very proud, and that helped. My confidence was bolstered. Also, my husband and I were talking about having another baby, but I couldn’t imagine growing our family until I had finished my books. I set a goal to have the series written before we had our next child. And a year later, I’ve succeeded, with a final product that’s far better than what I originally imagined. 

Q: Do you feel like losing your parents was an experience that influenced your writing and/or story?

A: The whole “orphan” storyline is a popular one. I’m not sure why. Maybe because it immediately lends a character endearing traits like bravery, determination, and resilience. If they survive, we know it’s because they have a strong will. I wanted my readers to pick this up about my main characters, Lucius Flynn and Evelyn Brennan, from the very beginning. 

  When I wrote Liberty, I didn’t know much about loss, but both Lucius and Evelyn had lost a parent in their past. After my parents were killed, I made some revisions based on my own knowledge of what it felt like to be orphaned. I suddenly understood my characters better—especially Evelyn. 

  In Poverty Creek and Devil’s Grotto, my characters experience significant hardship and tragedy, and I feel like my intimate relationship with grief helped me convey their histories, actions, and emotions in believable ways.

Q: The whole series is very character-driven. Can you tell us a little about how you invent your characters? 

A: Characters inevitably develop beyond the original concept, which is one of the most rewarding aspects of writing fiction. My initial process varies. Sometimes I’ll build a character around a name, or I’ll have an image of what they look like. I’ve actually built a few characters around actors I’d cast if the story was a screenplay, like Sam Elliot, Robin Wright, Eddie Redmayne, and Hugh Jackman. Others were inspired by real people I read about while researching the Gold Rush. Nell Watson (introduced in Poverty Creek) is loosely based on Lola Montez, a famous dancer and courtesan. Tommy Jenks (also from Poverty Creek) was inspired by a young Argonaut named William Swain, whose story affected me deeply. One character, Father Wolfgang Johansson, was both named for and inspired by my father. And most of my female characters were developed out of a desire to see strong, admirable women rise to positions of power and independence despite crippling loss, difficult circumstances, and a culture dominated by men. 

Q: Do you have a favorite character?

A: I won’t create a character I’m not emotionally invested in, whether it’s love, hate, or something in between. That said, there are some I enjoy spending time with more than others, and for different reasons. I love the transitions my main characters make throughout the series, and the people they become. But I think it’s the supporting cast that really makes the story shine. 

  Overall, Adele Whitfield was probably my favorite character to write, because she had so much depth. And the deeper I got, the more I fell in love with her. She just never stopped surprising me. I wanted to be her, and be her best friend. 

 Q: It’s been five years since Liberty Hill was released. Do you recommend readers reread it before moving on to Poverty Creek and Devil’s Grotto?

A: Readers will be lost if they jump into Poverty Creek without reading Liberty Hill. The story picks up right where the other left off. That said, I tried to work reminders of what happened in Liberty throughout the subsequent books, so for those who remember the first book well enough, they should be able to reenter the series without a hitch.

Q: With so much outstanding fiction on the market, what’s different about the Liberty Hill series and why should people read it?

A: I don’t think epic love stories will ever go out of style, and that’s what this series is: an epic love story. It’s the one we want to hear over and over, in every way, shape, and form. The adventure with high stakes, the painfully anticipated romances, the beautiful tragedies. And it has a dynamite cast. The characters are people we relate to, in a time and place we can only imagine. It’s a western—complete with smoking guns, bar fights, scantily clad women, and handsome cowboys—but on a broader scale, it’s a story about the pursuit of dreams, and the struggle we all face to become our best selves. 

On Productivity

13 Saturday Oct 2018

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artist, author, book, creativity, fiction, fiction writer, historical fiction, literature, productivity, Sonja Heisinger

My son and I were just driving down the road listening to my most embarrassing show tunes playlist. (Don’t be so shocked. You know you have one too.) And I don’t even know why it’s embarrassing—musicals are the shit—but for some reason, I always decrease the volume when I’m rolling with the windows down because I’m afraid someone else will hear me belting out “Just Around the River Bend”. I really don’t want anyone else to hear that. But honestly, no one else cares. They don’t want to hear what I’m playing period, even if it’s the most popular song in the world, because it’s not their choice of music. I can respect that. God knows I don’t want to hear them blasting Jay-Z. Because by Playboy standards I’m a hundred years old. And I don’t care for Jay-Z.

I digress.

As we listened to this incredible playlist (which is made up of more than just Disney tunes, I might add), the song “Be Italian” by Fergie from the movie Nine came on. I don’t know any of the words other than… “Be Italian”. And I will sing them all damn day because they’re so catchy. But I’m pretty sure the gist of the song is to embrace your sexuality and use it. However, since I only know those two words by heart, I hear them over and over in my head and I think, “I’d make a terrible Italian.” Not because I don’t know how to embrace my sexuality (or use it for that matter), but because Italians are all about la dolce vita. The sweet life. I can imagine it. I dream about it. But I don’t do the sweet life. Not as well as I would like, and definitely not as well as an Italian. Why? Because I’m a tried and true American workaholic. 

Which also makes me a terrible Millennial. 

I should have been a man in the 1950’s. I would have kicked ass. I would have made a great Mad Man (Men? Men Man?) I’d be that guy drinking scotch at noon in my starched suit who’s more at home at the office than at home. 

I don’t exactly know why I am the way that I am. Then again, as my son says, “Oh, wait a second!” Yes I do. My dad was a workaholic. And I hated that about him. Not because I felt like he was a bad man, but because he was the best man and I wanted more time with him. So when I first entered the workplace at fifteen as a—wait for it—movie theater concession stand girl, I was the best shister you’d ever seen. I called in sick at least once a week to stay home and watch ER reruns. (Don’t judge me. I had priorities, okay?) Somehow I didn’t get fired. Probably because everyone else called in to watch ER reruns too. Or maybe because they were hungover from the night before, but I was a young Christian girl who didn’t know anything about that. 

A couple years later, I got hired at THE BEST Italian restaurant in the world, and the woman who helped me land the job looked me square in the eye—and I’m pretty sure she also poked me in the clavicle with her finger—and said, “Unless you’re on your death bed, you don’t call in sick here. You don’t skip work. If you’re on the schedule, you show up. No excuses. We’re a family, and we depend on each other.” Which makes her sound like a hard ass, but she wasn’t. She spent her off-hours with her kids singing to the Beach Boys and memorizing Shrek 2, which pretty much made her the greatest person in the world. (Miss you, Kim.) Despite her fun-loving self, she managed to put the fear of God into me. And you know, I never did call in sick to that job, unless I was certain I was next to dying, and I worked there on and off for several years. It was one of the best jobs I ever had. 

Combined with my father’s example, I realized that work wasn’t so bad. In fact, if you did enough of it, you could make decent money. Personally, I felt better about myself when I did a good job. I liked being punctual. I liked being dependable. And I liked that tired feeling in my feet at the end of a long day. When I sat down, it felt like I had earned it. Resting had never felt so sweet. 

I’m a creative person, but I like structure. That’s probably why I don’t understand most contemporary art. I’m an old-fashioned realism kind of gal. Then again, I never got more than a high school diploma, so maybe I’m just not sophisticated. But because of my love for structure, I have a hard time relaxing before 8 pm. If the sun is up, it means I must be producing. I’ve been a “stay-at-home” mom for almost three years, and I still can’t stop working. Probably because I’ve discovered exactly what I’m passionate about.

If I’m not creating, I’m grumpy AF. You can ask my husband. (But please don’t. I’d hate to put him in that position.) I constantly have to be working on something, or else I feel useless, stagnant, bored as hell, worthless, ugly, fat… all the bad things. And yet when I have a project, I’m daydreamy… and neurotic. I’m frantic to get it done, even when it’s a huge commitment and I should be pacing myself. I lay awake at night thinking about it. I pretend to be listening when someone (my husband) is talking to me, but really I’m thinking about It. The big I-T. 

I guess, either way, no matter what I’m doing, I am just a crazy person. The only difference between when I’m busy and when I’m not is this: happiness. I am so insanely happy when I’m creating. Every time, it’s like falling in love. That’s the only thing I can compare it to. Whether it’s a drawing, or a story, or a song I’m learning on the piano. I’m entirely focused. I’m enthralled. I can’t get enough until I’ve seen the whole thing through. And even then I want to check in from time to time. “Hey, how are you? I’ve been thinking about you. You look good. Remember all those memories we made?” I guess that’s why I’m addicted. Creating is, in its own way, a euphoric experience. 

I’d probably work well into the night if I was a night owl. Unfortunately, my eyes quit working around 8 pm. No matter how much overtime I promise them, they always go home, make tea, snuggle into their oversized pajamas and watch 30 Rock. Also, I’m a morning person, so even if I could motivate my eyes to work till 4 AM, my body clock would still chime at 7 and demand coffee. And I would say to my body clock, “You know, I should really catch up on my sleep.” And it would reply, “Give me coffee or I will punch you in the face.” Needless to say, my body clock always wins.

I’m still learning how to relax. Unless I’m on a plane or a cruise ship, it’s really difficult. I feel antsy. Guilty. I really, really don’t like wasting time. My husband is constantly reminding me to take a break. Without him, I’d probably run myself ragged. 

However, I do think my motivation is a good thing. I just have to remember to control it rather than the other way around. At the end of my life, I’d like to be remembered as a great wife, mother, and friend, and secondly for the contributions I made to the world. Italians seem to have their priorities straight. Not only are they very family-oriented—they also gave us tiramisu. 

 

On Grief

12 Friday Oct 2018

Posted by Sonja in Blog

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artist, author, book, creativity, fiction writer, grief, grief management, historical fiction, literature, Sonja Heisinger

Yesterday was one of those days. 

I don’t know exactly how “those days” start. Sometimes with a dream, where one or both of my parents appear to me and life seems so completely normal. I study their faces, and I feel silly, because I could have sworn they were dead. But there they are, as alive as ever. Sometimes I’ll ask, “What happened? Where did you go?” And they never have an answer. They just smile and shrug, like it’s not completely bonkers that their daughter thought they died when they didn’t. 

But they did. And they are. Dead, I mean.

I’m just starting to get used to the idea, despite what my dreams will tell you. It’s almost been six years since they were t-boned at an intersection and pushed into an oncoming semi. 

A month earlier, my dad had narrowly survived a bypass for congestive heart failure. My mom was accompanying him to a check up. And then they were both gone. Just like that.

I was twenty-four.

The next morning I got a call from a job I’d applied to, and they asked me when I could start. It was a great job… I wish I’d been able to feel excited. Instead I heard myself saying, “Uh, we just had a family emergency. Can you give me ten days?” Because, you know, my siblings and I had to bury Mom and Dad. 

I designed their headstone on the flight. I had about ten minutes of emotional oblivion to get it done before the pain set in again.

Grief is like that. It comes and goes in waves. One minute the laundry is the most pressing thing on your mind. The next, John Denver comes on the radio and the world falls apart.

That happened yesterday, during my “off” day. I usually steer clear of my “sadness triggers”, but since I’d already woken up feeling like shit, I thought it might be therapeutic to listen to the musician my parents loved so much. I grew up listening to John Denver, so sometimes it would be nice to listen to him just for me. God, just give me Annie’s Song, or Leaving on a Jetplane, or Rocky Mountain High, and I’m feeling high myself. But I can’t just listen to him anymore, because he belonged to them first. They played Sunshine at their funeral… and if I had known that was in my Spotify queue, I would have removed it. Nothing against the song, of course. It’s one of my favorites. But now it just takes me back to the memorial service, when someone other than my dad played it, and 400 grieving people sang along. 

On very rare occasions, the triggers can be cathartic. One morning I woke up desperate for some George Strait, who was another one of my dad’s favorites. I have this early memory of riding in the car when a song came on the country station, and my dad looked at me and said, “All right Sonja, who’s this? Garth Brooks or George Strait?” I must have been three or four at the time, because he was so tickled when I guessed correctly. 

But I don’t often listen to George Strait, and especially not John Denver. After (almost) six years, I still don’t look at pictures of my parents. Maybe that’s unhealthy, I don’t know. Honestly, everyone grieves differently. There’s not really a right or wrong way. For the first year, I lived in a sort of frantic haze. I wanted oblivion. I drank a lot. I stared at the wall and listened to music I had never listened to before. I wanted to disappear from life as I’d known it and reinvent an entirely new existence. It was… a very dark time.

But at some point, the haze went away. I calmed down. I stopped trying to leave my husband (and he stuck around! That amazing man.) I stopped drinking so much. I started creating again. I wasn’t just surviving anymore… I was living.

At some point though, I got really angry. That happened right around the two-year mark, when one of my brothers died from a catastrophic asthma attack. I was about six months pregnant with my son. I was renovating our new (old) house. It was really, really bad timing for another death in the family. As if there are good times. I felt like Wiley Coyote when he runs off a cliff and is suspended in midair until he realizes he’s about to fall to his oh-so-comical demise. My honest-to-God reaction was, “What?!” I couldn’t believe it. Not again.

I would spend entire days barefoot and pregnant, stripping wallpaper and screaming at the walls. My husband was at work, so I was the only person who knew I was acting crazy. 

I still get angry, probably more often (and more intensely) than I should. And I still get sad. Actually, I think the sadness never really goes away. It’s always there, right beneath the surface. But the difference between now and when everything happened is that I’ve learned to live with it. It’s still shocking sometimes… I have moments when I gasp and think, “Oh my god! I need to call my mom!” Or “I wonder how Stephen (my brother) is doing?” The absolute worst thing by far is when I have a question for them. The other day, I wanted to ask my mom if she had ever been part of a sorority. I had no idea. Other times I’ll remember something from my childhood and wish I could share it with them. “Dad, do you remember when you used to wrestle all three of us kids at the same time? And somehow I always managed to kick you in the groin? That was so fun.” My brother rarely smiled—like genuinely smiled—but when he did it was an event. Like the tip of a glacier crackling and crumbling into the sea. You wanted to see what else was underneath all that ice.

The most important thing I have learned is this: life continues. And you can either let it happen to you, or you can adapt. I don’t feel stronger… in fact, I feel like I have some serious handicaps, as if all those deaths chopped off my legs and gave me a bad lung… but I DO feel more motivated to take charge of my life and live the hell out of it. 

My husband recently said we don’t live like most people because we have another presence in our house, and that’s Death. That sounds spooky, but only if you don’t understand. I’m not talking about the Grim Reaper. I’m talking about a reason. Death is the reason we say yes to the unconventional, the risky, the happy, the hard, the rewarding. At times it makes us more cautious, others it makes us bolder. I would have never quit my job to be a full-time artist and author if I hadn’t lost my parents when I was young. I’m not saying their deaths were a good thing, but they gave me a profound knowledge of the transiency and value of life. I don’t want to waste another moment on anything that’s not meaningful. 

I admit, I’m not always okay. Sometimes I lash out, sometimes I drink too much, sometimes I have really, really dark thoughts. But most days, I’m able to extract joy from my husband, my son, and my work. Despite my intimate relationship with Death, I love my life. I’m not unbreakable, but I am resilient. 

On Writing

12 Friday Oct 2018

Posted by Sonja in Blog

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artist, author, book, creativity, fiction writer, historical fiction, humor, literature, Sonja Heisinger, writing

I have a process. I’m not saying it is “the” process for all writers, but after four novels and a collection of short stories, I’ve developed a bit of a routine. 

It starts with an idea. As soon as it comes to me, I write it down. This usually ends up looking like the synopsis from a book cover, except it includes all the spoilers (which is generally why I don’t allow anyone to read said synopsis). 

From there, I’ll develop my characters. Ex: Cindy is an entrepreneur struggling to find love in Los Angeles. She’s a brunette with big teeth and fair skin trying to pull off being a busty blonde with a perpetual tan. And she’s in love with her partner Larry, a younger man fresh out of college who doesn’t seem to have a clue. She does XYZ to win him over. (Not the greatest plot, but you get the idea. Not gonna copyright this one, so have at it! You’re welcome.)

When I get serious about my idea, I’ll expand the synopsis. This becomes the outline for the book. I write out the entire story as if I’m relating it to a friend. “Cindy does this, and then she does this. Then this thing happens, and Larry reacts this way…” I summarize every scene, from beginning to end, often elaborating on any ideas and/or character development I think of along the way. (Some things will inevitably change as I write the book, because characters can surprise you by doing or saying shocking things, and you have to go along with it. You only have so much control over them.)

Once I’ve got a thorough outline, I write my story in full. Beginnings can be tough. It’s hard to know what will catch and hold my reader for the rest of the story. Usually I won’t begin writing until I have a beginning that’s so vivid and clear I can’t get it out of my head. It plays over and over. It may not even be an entire scene. It may be a single frame. But it’s something I can work with. 

Throughout my story, I inevitably run into roadblocks. This usually occurs during scene transitions or descriptions. If you haven’t noticed, I love dialogue. I can write dialogue all day, and my fingers will fly so fast smoke will come off the keyboard. But I hate descriptions. Descriptions are work. Sometimes, however, they’re necessary to give the reader a sense of place and/or emotion (as my lovely editor likes to remind me… often. Thanks, Monica! She’s the best. I’m serious.) 

And as for scene transitions… these are also not my forte. I can mentally grind for hours over a scene transition. I’ll lose sleep. This happens when I want two certain things to happen in succession, but I have no idea how to bridge them. Here’s an example: Devil’s Grotto is a fairly dark book, so I wanted something good to happen for my main characters at some point. I knew what I wanted it to be, but I had no idea how to make it work. It felt wrong—and honestly a little boring—to just jump right into it. So after agonizing for a week or so, I resorted to something I did a few times in Liberty Hill: I wrote a flashback, and the flashback tied in to the present. It was the perfect segue, and it made the writing process enjoyable again. 

Roadblocks are usually an opportunity to do something unconventional (otherwise known as “interesting”). Such as using a flashback as a transition, or even using dialogue to convey emotion or give a “sense of place”. Instead of writing, “The foothills shimmered like gold against a backdrop of blue mountains”—which, hey, isn’t half bad… maybe that’s a poor example—a character could comment to another, “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? Them hills are like gold against a backdrop of…” Okay, this isn’t working. What I’m trying to say is, if you prefer writing dialogue (like yours truly), write more dialogue. You can describe how hot the weather is, or you can have your character complain about it while she fans herself with an open book.

This brings me to something I feel is very important, so put on your listening ears. Or reading eyes. Are you ready? This is just an opinion, but it may be the most helpful thing you hear all day: There are no rules in writing. Yes, there are rules in the English language, and there are rules in grammar, but when it comes to writing, rules are more like guidelines. A wise pirate named Geoffrey Rush taught me that. He wasn’t talking about writing, but I thought it was applicable. You, as a writer, have a unique voice. Some of the greatest novelists of our time don’t use quotation marks. Or give their characters names. Some don’t give us a sense of place or emotion at all—we just get peppered with dialogue and have to figure it out for ourselves. Some writers portray accents with their dialogue while others believe that’s a distraction, and some believe you should put an S at the end of every plural, even if it’s a name that ends in an S and a simple apostrophe will do (i.e. Lucius’s vs. Lucius’). And God forbid if you present two different points of view in the same scene, there are other writers who’ll be so offended they’ll leave you a scathing review on Amazon (or so I’m told). 

My point is, no one else has your voice. So use it. And if those guidelines help you get your point across, then by all means, use them too.  

Lastly, if you haven’t read Stephen King’s “On Writing” or Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird”, I strongly suggest you do.

♣ Sonja Heisinger

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