Something there is that doesn't love a wall...

This line from a Robert Frost poem has been running through my thoughts lately – since I decided to build a wall around part of my property. My reasons for needing a wall were to give myself a little more privacy from people passing on the road, to create a place where Leo can play outside without my having to worry about coyotes and wild dogs, and to have a garden safe from the depredations of prairie dogs.

It’s going to be of latillas – thin aspens faded to a delicate gray – interspersed with columns of concrete blocks, stuccoed the same color as the house. I hired a man to build it for me; he drew up the plans, and outlined its dimensions with metal stakes and bright magenta string. As I sit here at my desk, I can visualize where it will be and how it will look.

The blocks, cement and rebar were delivered this morning. The pallet of cement is sitting in my garage where my truck usually resides, and the rebar and blocks are in the yard. And all of a sudden I’m wondering – do I really want a wall?

What am I walling out? Can I keep the world at bay by building a wall? I need an oasis of peace in my life, but is this the way to do it? I’m not sure. Maybe the wall will give me an illusion of peace, anyway. I notice the ways we are bombarded by other people’s energy all day, every day. I’ve stopped reading the newspaper, except for the Taos News, I don’t watch tv and I rarely listen to the radio. And yet, I’m not exempt from the constant battering of “information” about all the horrible things that are going on in the world. A wall can’t keep that out.

And what am I walling in? I’m alone in this house (except for Leo) most of the time, and I enjoy my solitude. I revel in the peace and quiet that allow me to think and create. But when does solitude become isolationism? Is this wall becoming an outward and visible sign of an inner withdrawing from the world? And is it selfish not to share oneself with the world?

I don’t know the answers, but I do know that I still want my wall. I can choose to leave the gates unlocked.

Spring in Taos – the top of the Sacred Mountain still wears a mantle of snow, as we in the valley are basking in warm sunshine. The air is full of the sounds of birds calling, hawks whistling, and prairie dogs chirping in alarm at the sight of my cat, Leo the Ferocious Hunter (or so he imagines) prowling in the yard.

Life is renewing itself after the long winter’s quiet, and the daffodils and hyacinths I planted last fall are now flowering and the tulips have fat buds that will burst into glorious color any day. After living so many years in Florida, I savor the dramatic changes of seasons here in Northern New Mexico.

This year, the sights, smells and sounds of Spring have a special poignancy for me, as I am coming back from a long and often painful recuperation from a fractured pelvis. I walk slowly in my garden because I have to, and suddenly that limitation becomes an unexpected blessing as I am forced to notice each new little sprout of green. I see the brown canes of my rose bushes slowly turning bright green and I’m reminded of Colin and Mary in The Secret Garden shouting, “It’s wick! It’s truly wick!” as they witness the miracle of the dead garden’s rejuvenation.

As corny as it sounds, with Spring comes a desire to start new projects, so I’ve decided to start this blog, with the help of my assistant Celina Kay Porter, who is also an incredible fashion designer.

To be honest, writing a blog is a lot harder than writing fiction. I don’t know how people can write non-fiction – it’s so much easier just to make things up! But I will try to be honest and entertaining. So, Gentle Reader, welcome to my world and to my blog.

My novel, The Mistresses Club, is in the capable hands of my agent, Coleen O’Shea of the Allen O’Shea Literary Agency, and is being sent out to potential publishers even as I write this. The Mistresses Club does for sex addiction what Marian Keyes’ Rachel’s Holiday did for drug addiction – a candy-coated message about a serious subject. The story is told from the points of view of six women and one gay man, whose lives – and loves – intermingle.

Sally Van Neal has the milky complexion and freckles that come with her natural red hair. At her lover’s bidding, she changes her hazel eyes to a dramatic emerald green with the help of tinted contacts. Tall and slender, she projects an image of competent professionalism even in a casual setting. Only an almost-unnoticeable twitch of her full lower lip betrays that she does not feel as confident as she appears.

Slightly overweight, Marci Ferguson seems years older than Sally; she dresses in dowdy cotton prints more suitable to a woman twice her age. Her round face is bare of any makeup but for a smear of unflattering pale pink lipstick, her waist-length dark brown hair is scraped back in a tight bun. Her jewelry is a gold cross, which lays midway between her lace collar and her rigidly corseted generous bust. The only clue to her sensual nature is her deep brown bedroom eyes, kept discreetly lowered.

Desiree Thomas lives up to the promise of her name – she is dramatic and glamorous in her colorful kinte-cloth dress and head covering. With exotic slanting eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, an aquiline nose and a soft, full mouth, her face is an intriguing combination of angles. Her regal bearing makes her seem larger and taller than she really is.

One afternoon as she’s taking a shower in preparation for a tryst with Peter, her married lover, Sally is inspired to start a Saturday night support group for mistresses. After all, Saturday night is “family” night for adulterous mates, leaving mistresses all on their own and lonely. A discreet newspaper ad invites mistresses to the first meeting, where these three major characters are joined by twenty-two year old Tiffani Calder, whose manner makes her seem a stereotypical dumb blonde; Elise Jensen, a forty-something local high school English teacher who has just found out she is pregnant, and Gina Smithson Delacourt, the richest woman in town. Sally wants to invite a gay man to join the group, so interior designer Jesse Squires becomes a Mistress as well.

As the novel unfolds, the lives of the Mistresses and their lovers intertwine and unexpected friendships develop and surprising events occur, for as the characters come to terms with their love addiction, they learn new levels of compassion, sympathy and understanding as each must grapple with life’s complications both inside and outside the bedroom.