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SONJA HEISINGER

~ fine artist/novelist

SONJA HEISINGER

Tag Archives: Liberty Hill

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. 

♣ Sonja Heisinger

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