Oh, what the heck!

I have no idea why my previous effort which I called Brainstorming refused to save. If it can choose what it wants to keep and what to toss, it maybe the first self-editing program I've come across. Don't think I like it much. I believe I should have the choice of what to keep and what not to. Okay, enough of the artistic whining.

The girls (Deborah, Mary Lee, Sheila, Luz and Nicole) and I talked about the events of January 15, 1989, in Memphis until we had it memorized. Then while they went shopping, or home -- just somewhere so I could hear myself think on Saturday folowing Christmas, I sat down and wrote a firat draft for the Memphis part of the Prologue, and followed it with what I remembered about what happened here later that day.

I have decided that I'm going to write this book as fiction. That should prevent any squabbles about whether remembered details are totally correct. The girls have agreed to allow me to use their names and the kinds of healing they do in any way I want to. The names of our patients/clients will all be changed except for Mary Lee and Elvis.

This first draft is not bad. I'm printing out a few copies to pass around this evening to see what everyone thinks. Deborah and Mary Lee have to leave for home. So I want them to be able to see some result of all the work we've put in this last week. We're having an editing brainstorming session tonight.

Mandy is spending the weekend with Tony's mother and a horde of her Alemeda cousins. Tony is ordering a buffet-type dinner to be delivered here at six o'clock. He's not about to be left out of this. He's every bit as nosy as Sheila and Nicole. It should be interesting. As long as I don 't let my ego overload my good sense. I cannot forget that the criticisms they are going to make will be aimed at the proposed product -- the Prologue of the book -- not me. I slip the copies of the manuscript pages into my top desk drawer. So I can pass them all out at the same time.

Looks like I have time to brew a pot of tea to take upstairs with me to enjoy while I soak in a lavender - scented tub with Elvis' gospel music playing in the background.

"Gramma, Gramma, where are you? I guess I just follow the sound of Elvis' voice."

My eyes pop open as Nicole sticks her head around the bathroom door. "Whaaat?"

"Oh, sorry, Gramma, I didn't know you were napping. Shall I go away again?"

I yawned and ran my wet fingers through my hair. "No, I'm awake now, come on in. What time is it? I keep swearing I'm going to put a clock in here, but I also keep forgetting to do it." I stare at Nicole and the fluffy orange object she's cuddling. "Whaat is that?"

"Your Christmas present. Listen to the beautiful purr he has for such a little guy. He's just barely eight weeks old. They wouldn't let me bring him home until he'd been neutered. That's why I couldn't get him until today. I went to Pet's Mart and got everything they said we'd need for a kitten. Isn't he darling?" She held him out to me.

"Don't drop him in this tub! I don't think he'd appreciate it, even if he does have a sore behind."

"No, they warned me not to get his stitches wet for a few days. I left the instructions down on the kitchen table."

I smiled at Nicole. "He's precious, sweetheart. He matches you. Same color orange hair and green eyes. But you hold him until I get out of here and get dressed. Okay?"

"Sure. I'll take him downstairs to one of the swing chairs."

Of course she left the bathroom door open, but she was too busy cuddling and cooing to that tiny ball of orange fluff who certainly did have a loud purr. I grinned, not sure who the kitten was a present for. It had been years since there'd been a kitten in this house. Marco Polo had been gone for at least ten years, and he'd come to me as an adult tomcat who was about ready to retire. I'd been thinking about him lately, even wrote about him this afternoon. Guess I'd been missing the old gentleman cat more than I'd allowed myself to admit.