A really good day. I had breakfast in the Rainmaker's dining room -- a big improvement over the snack bar. I had lots of papaya and pineapple, lamb ribs, fish, eggs, taro with coconut cream. Then I went for a walk, came back and called Pili. He and Gretchen came by with their youngest son Caleb, and we all went for a ride over to the other side of the island to the village where their friends Vernon and Limu live.

​Spectacular scenery on the mountain pass. I may drive back up there if I can get a car. Their village is in a little cove -- picture-postcard Samoa. Mostly new style houses, but very pretty -- white stucco, bright colors. All around the village, young men were sitting around grating coconuts. Vernon and Limu's house is modern. We sat around drinking Vailima (beer made in Western Samoa), half-watching movies on their VCR and talking about their jobs and Samoa today.

Vernon teaches Phys Ed at the community college where Pili also teaches. Both said they get several thousand dollars a year for "supplies," but are not allowed to spend it on equipment, which is what they really need. Vernon said the locker-room washing machine has been broken since November. Can't get it fixed or replaced. Pili said he's trying to do an oral history project but doesn't have enough tape recorders and can't get them.The restriction on equipment apparently came because people were ordering video and other equipment and taking it home.

The old fale at the airport was dismantled to be used in a cultural center at the college. But it was done by Public Works Department workers with hammers and saws instead of by craftsmen. It had been put together in the traditional way, with no nails. Pili says it's in storage now and will probably rot before anyone puts it up.

​Another local concern is the purse seiners working out of the harbor. They've only been working the area a few years but have already overfished for tuna. The wahoo they just throw away or give to visiting dignitaries. Local people are outraged at the waste.

This is the third installment in a series of posts commemorating a very memorable journey.

Thirty-five years ago, I paid a visit to American Samoa. At that time, it had been twenty years since I left there after spending one of the most unforgettable years of my life on the main island of Tutuila -- a year chronicled in my memoir Mango Rash: Coming of Age in the Land of Frangipani and Fanta (Behler Publications, 2019).

In this series of posts, I'm sharing excerpts from my 1986 travel journal, along with photos from the trip. 
​
A note of clarification:

• The Rainmaker Hotel was the former Pago Pago Intercontinental Hotel, which opened in 1965, shortly after our arrival in Samoa.

At breakfast I meet two other guests -- airline company consultants from California and B.C. They ask why I'm here. I say I used to live here. One says, "Wasn't that enough?"

The one from B.C. says he was last here 10 years ago, and nothing has changed. The other one says he slept last night in the new addition -- an unfinished structure behind the main building. He stayed on the second floor, where there are balconies but no railings. "I'm glad I didn't come in drunk," he says.

Breakfast ($3) was Kellogg's Apple Jacks -- as soggy as the cardboard they're packaged in. Then a tomato omelette and three enormous pancakes.

​During breakfast I watch chickens walking around outside and feel myself settling into the pace.

​The rest of the day had a sad edge because of something that happened this morning. A woman named Debra from the tour agency picked me up at Apiolefaga to drive me to the Rainmaker. On the way, we were talking about where I used to live in Utulei, and she asked me if I remembered Jessop bakery. I said Thomas and Daisy Jessop were good friends when I lived here. She said she was their cousin. Then she told me Daisy died of cancer this year. She had 4 children -- the youngest only 2 or 3 years old.

All day I haven't been able to stop thinking about Daisy -- wishing somehow I'd managed to find her, feeling so sad for her.

​Random observation: Debra, Daisy's cousin, looks like she just flew in from Bloomfield Hills. Dark, honey-colored hair, cut short and curly; long, red nails; lipstick, perfect makeup; stylish clothes; driving a new Honda. The only tip-off is the band of intricate tattoos around her wrist.

Another weird thing was, I picked up a copy of the Samoa News and on the front page was a picture of a young woman dancing at the Flag Day celebration. It was Barb (Pegues) Scanlan's daughter. That was a shock. I figured Barb* had taken her with her if she left here, but apparently not. I'll  have to see what I can find out.

A more upbeat thing was talking to Pili Legalley. He was very friendly -- invited me out to his wife's 30th birthday party, but I didn't go because I wanted to get cleaned up, wash some clothes, try to call home. But maybe I'll go out there (Leone) tomorrow.

​I walked around town a lot this afternoon, going in the stores. Nia Marie, South Pacific, other familiar ones. They seem just the same -- selling the same fabric, cheap perfume, plastic jewelry.

This is the second installment in a series of posts commemorating a very memorable journey.

Thirty-five years ago, I paid a visit to American Samoa. At that time, it had been twenty years since I left there after spending one of the most unforgettable years of my life on the main island of Tutuila -- a year chronicled in my memoir Mango Rash: Coming of Age in the Land of Frangipani and Fanta (Behler Publications, 2019).

In this series of posts, I'm sharing excerpts from my 1986 travel journal, along with photos from the trip. 

A few notes of clarification:

• Palusami: coconut cream baked in taro leaves
• Pisupo: corned beef
• My aversion to Samoan pudding was the result of stepping in a basket of it at a dance in my teens.
• ​Ross was my last name in 1986
• The Rainmaker Hotel was the former Pago Pago Intercontinental Hotel, which opened in 1965, shortly after our arrival in Samoa

​At first I think I'll just go to my room, clean up and sleep. Then I decide to call this woman Ruby Tuia, who was supposed to pick me up at the airport. There follows an absurd conversation in which I try to tell the person who answers (Ruby is out) that I'm calling to tell her I did get in and am at the hotel. She says, "But a Miss Ross already came in -- aren't you that person?"

Finally, we realize that I am calling another number in the hotel from the front desk, and the person I'm talking to is the woman who checked me in. We laugh -- it breaks the ice.

​I decide to give dinner a try. First she brings out a bowl of tepid cream of tomato soup, and I figure I'm getting standard tourist fare. Then she brings a big covered plate and lifts to top to reveal a whole spread of Samoan food -- raw fish, palusami, pisupo, boiled bananas, rice balls. It's wonderful, especially the palusami. I pass on dessert, fearing Samoan pudding. (Dinner was $6.)

Now I'm in my room. Until a few minutes ago, I could hear music drifting in from somewhere -- the same kind of music I remember: electric guitars. And ever since I got off the plane, I've smelled that smell -- that heady mixture of ginger and plumaria, rain and coconut oil. I wish I could bottle it and bring it out for a sniff whenever I need to feel secure and peaceful.

Tomorrow, if all goes as expected (and nothing has yet), I'll get to the Rainmaker, get myself organized, call home, go downtown, and start trying to renew old acquaintances.

Now I'll try to go to sleep. The music has started again, and outside my window are Samoan voices.

But first I have to describe my room: mint green cinder block walls; floor covered in a patchwork of different patterns of no-wax tile -- mostly in shades of green, gold and brown, with splashes of Delft blue and terra cotta. The curtains are a different shade of mint green with a palm leaf pattern. The bedspreads are brown and gold tapa designs. There's a refrigerator in the corner, but it was only plugged in when I checked in so I'm not terribly comforted by it.

There's a huge closet -- without hangers.

But the pièce de résistance is the table lamp on a long, low bench beside the bed. The shade alone is about the size of a 55-gallon drum, and the rest of the lamp is to scale.The base is iridescent white with simulated hand-painted flowers on it. I think the lamp is bigger than the bed.

​Well, time to start relaxing.

Started out in Aukland, where I spent the night. A very strange night, too. I had thought I'd check in, send my last story, then have a beer in my room, watch TV and go to sleep. But the phone receivers were too big to fit in the cuffs, so I tried to work something else out, but no phones in the place would work. So I had to wait till I knew someone would be at work in Detroit--after midnight Aukland time. I kept dozing off and waking up because I couldn't find my alarm clock and didn't want to rummage through my luggage. When my editor got in, she had Lois [the department assistant] call me back to take dictation at about 3:30 a.m. my time. All night I was taking little naps, dreaming, waking up and talking on the phone, going back to sleep. After awhile I didn't know what was real.

​I felt awful this morning--in no mood to start off on an adventure. But I tried to rise to the occasion.

At the Aukland airport,I got my first reminder of fa'a Samoa. I checked in early and got down to the gate about an hour before the 10:00 flight. At 9:30, when the flight was scheduled to start boarding, there was no one in the lounge--just a few other palagis and one Samoan woman with two babies. We boarded about 9:45--still only a few more people had drifted in. But once we were on the plane, at about 10:00, suddenly hordes of Polynesians swarmed on.

The next reminder was on Samoan personalities. I had forgotten that while Samoans may be friendly and warm, they're not outgoing (toward palagis, at least). They don't initiate conversations, and they may not answer you if you do.

​We arrived in Western Samoa, and the next reminder was the unbearable heat and humidity. It's like being locked in a bathroom where someone just took a very long, very hot shower. I remembered it, but there's no way the memory can approximate that suffocating feeling.

We got in the terminal. I struggled through customs with my bags (of course, no luggage carts--the terminal is just a big barn with open rafters and ceiling fans). Then the customs inspector said, "This fellow will take your bags for you," and I thought "great." But the fellow just carried my bags out the door and dumped them on the curb in the midst of a mob as unyielding as only a Samoan mob can be.

In the heat and humidity, I tried to load up the luggage cart I had finally found, feeling kind of idiotic but realizing there was no other way to get the 30 feet to the baggage check for the next flight. Remembering my first day in Samoa in 1965, I  had tried to prepare myself for that scene. But still, it came as a shock--the hordes, the heat, the feeling of  isolation when no one talks to you and they all talk to one another in a language you don't understand well.

I had bought film in Tonga so I could take pictures on the way to Pago. But I absent-mindedly checked the bag with my camera in it. As it turned out, it was getting dark when we approached American Samoa. And it was hard for me to recognize things from the air.

​At the airport, I was disoriented because I didn't see the old fale. Finally I saw where it had been, but only the base is there. 

The airport seemed deserted, compared to what it used to be like--maybe it's still that way when big flights come in.

​Someone was supposed to meet me, but when I was still standing there 45 minutes after the plane came in, I took a taxi to the Apiolefaga Inn.

You come in to a big room with a second-floor balcony all around it. There are tables all around, each with a vase of tropical flowers. Linoleum floors, sparkly plaster ceilings and a collection of chandeliers that looks like someone had a friend in the lighting department of Kmart. They all have prisms and more prisms--mostly dingy and covered with cobwebs.

​I pay for my room--$36 for a $35.70 room. The woman says, "I owe you 30 cents--I'll give it to you later." She takes out a book to write me a receipt and stuffs my money into the  book along with several hundred-dollar bills stuck in the pages. I look in the guest register--see names from Denver, London, lots from California. Wonder what brought these people here and what they thought about the place.
​

Dear HeartWood readers:
 
After much thought, I’ve decided to take a break from HeartWood for at least a few months.
 
I’ve been writing this blog for almost five years now, and I’ve loved writing it and hearing from readers. Until the past year, I got a lot of my ideas from just being out and about and interacting with people in our community and beyond. But the pandemic has changed all of that, and while I look forward to a time when it all becomes possible again, we’re not there yet. To be honest, I’m starting to run dry! 
 
I’m also feeling a need to recharge and devote time to other projects over the winter. Putting HeartWood on pause will allow me to do that.
 
So I want to take this opportunity to thank you all for being such faithful readers over the past five years. I really am looking at this as a time-out, not a conclusion. You can be sure I’ll be in touch when I’m ready to start up again.

In the meantime, feel free to browse the Archives and Categories for posts you may have missed over the years. I will still be reading and responding to comments.

♥ Nan

​Around mid-December, a friend posed this question on Facebook: What’s something that you thought you’d do this year during your changed world due to the pandemic, but turns out you didn’t do?

​In the comments under her post, a few other people said they’d planned to learn something new—a language or a skill like baking bread—or spend more time doing something they already enjoyed, like painting. Or something they perhaps didn’t enjoy so much—working out, for instance—but resolved to do. Yet even in their changed worlds, days filled up with routine tasks like bill-paying, yard work, and household chores, on top of which some had the added responsibility of teaching homebound children.

​Then there were those who were sure they’d use their extra home-time to finally get organized. Garages, closets, storerooms all would be neat and orderly by the end of 2020. That didn’t always happen, either. Turns out those tasks are no less tedious when you have time for them than when you’re occupied with other things.

​I made that discovery myself. After an initial blitz of cleaning out cabinets, drawers, and closets, culling stuff, stuff, and more stuff, I hit a wall. Or maybe it was that warm weather arrived, and outdoor projects had more appeal. 

​​About those outdoor projects: there again, I had big plans for finishing the landscaping we’ve been trying over the past few summers to complete. I did make progress, but finish? Nope. Maybe next summer.

​What about you? What became of your intentions for 2020? What got done, and what got left undone? Does the answer to that question reflect a shift in priorities, or merely an adjustment to reality? 

​​My answer to that last question is, a little of both. Working on my novel-in-progress became a higher priority than cleaning out every last file drawer. Organizing Zoom readings of my memoir took precedence over reorganizing my wardrobe. And some days, watching movies, playing Scrabble, or going for a long drive with Ray—compensating for the concerts, readings, and other live events we could no longer attend—felt more important than accomplishing anything at all.

​Now, a new year lies ahead, but life isn’t likely to return to normal (whatever form that takes) for at least another few months. So how to spend the remainder of our reconfigured time? Tackle more tasks or take advantage of these more spacious days to let our imaginations wander and our creative impulses reign?

​I gave some thought to that question as 2020 wound down. While I had no trouble coming up with lists of household projects to finish and other business to take care of, I realized my choices for the past year pointed to the way forward for the next. The things that yielded satisfaction—writing and other creative work, keeping in touch with friends, spending time with Ray—are the things I want to devote the most time and energy to. 

​Not that I’ll ignore the rest. Checking off mundane tasks brings its own kind of satisfaction. ​But this time next year, I have a feeling the number of chores I’ve crossed off won’t matter nearly as much as the kind of contentment that comes from creativity and connection. (Oh, hey, that sounds like a catchy tagline for a blog!)

With in-person author events still on hold indefinitely, I'm devoting one blog post each month to an author interview.

This month's interview is with Janet Glaser, who writes as J.Q. Rose. Her mysteries, Deadly Undertaking, Terror on Sunshine Boulevard and Dangerous Sanctuary, released by Books We Love Publishing, offer readers chills, giggles, and quirky characters.
 
After presenting workshops on Writing Your Life Story for several years, Janet decided to take her advice and pen her memoir, Arranging a Dream: A Memoir. The book is scheduled for release January 1, 2021, also from Books We Love Publishing.
 
Arranging a Dream tells the story of how Janet and husband Ted, budding entrepreneurs with more enthusiasm than experience, purchased a floral shop and greenhouses in 1975, where they planned to grow their dream. Leaving friends and family behind in Illinois and losing the security of two paychecks, they transplanted themselves, their one-year-old daughter, and all their belongings to Fremont, Michigan, where they knew no one. 

Through trials and triumphs, Janet and Ted dug in to develop a blooming business while juggling parenting with work and keeping their marriage thriving.
 
To celebrate the Arranging a Dream: A Memoir Winter Virtual Book Tour, Janet is offering a free eBook to a lucky reader. Just leave a comment below to be entered in the drawing. Deadline for entries: Sunday, December 20, 9 pm Eastern Time.
​

I hope readers will be inspired to work toward their dreams. Use their passion to keep driving toward the future they envision.

Looking through the lens of time allowed me to put myself into the shoes of the previous owners of the flower shop, Hattie and Frank. After owning the business for so many years and deciding to sell it, I discovered I was like Hattie. We disagreed a lot with Hattie about how to run the shop and greenhouses because we wanted to use our new ideas and not listen to the tried-and-true methods she had developed during her years of experience. She was afraid we would fail by being so bold. I never thought I would admit I acted like Hattie when we sold our shop. I was also fearful the new owners would fail if they didn’t follow our ways of running things. Instead, they have been successful and are still in business. 

​Next, I hope to turn the book, Your Words, Your Life Story, into a course so I can reach more people and encourage them to write their stories, because I am a life storytelling evangelist. I always have ideas for stories swirling through my brain, so I will be writing, but I have not chosen which idea to develop at this time. I am just savoring touring around cyberspace, meeting authors and readers.

​Thank you, Nan, for hosting me during the Arranging a Dream: A Memoir Winter Virtual Book Tour!

Connect online with J.Q:
​J.Q. Rose blog
Facebook
J. Q.  Rose Amazon Author Page
Goodreads 
Pinterest
BWL  

Pre-order Arranging a Dream​
Kobo
BN.com - Nook
SmashWords 
Amazon - Kindle 
Amazon - paperback

​I'm never really sure what to call this list. My Most Want-to-Tell-You-About-Them Books of 2020? Or simply A Bunch of Books I Read This Year and Actually Remember Something About?
​
​Whatever you want to call it, here it is:

Check out my book lists from the past three years:
2019
2018
2017

Other books I read this year:
Nonfiction & Memoir
You Might Be A Crazy Cat Lady If . . .  by Janet Vormittag
The Devil in the White City, by Erik Larson
In the Shadow of the Valley: A Memoir, by Bobi Conn
Poetic License: A Memoir, by Gretchen Cherington
Rainbow Diner: A Memoir, by Astrid Arlen
Furiously Happy, by Jenny Lawson
The Answer Is, by Alex Trebek
Wounds A Collaborative Memoir in Stories, by Razel Jones and Daniel Abbott
Zeitoun, by Dave Eggers

Fiction
Where the Crawdads Sing, by Delia Owen
Rain Crow Killing, by Jeff Millen
The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead
Homeland and Other Stories, by Barbara Kingsolver
The Lost Tiki Palaces of Detroit, by Michael Zadoorian
Coming to Be, by Rebecca Thaddeus
Olas Grandes, by Barbara Mahase Rodman
When We Were Orphans, by Kazuo Ishiguro
Maud's Line, by Margaret Verble
Moloka'i by Alan Brennart
Young Jane Young, by Gabrielle Zevin
Rodham, by Curtis Sittenfeld
Such a Fun Age, by Kiley Reid
Akua: A Novel of Samoa, by Daniel Pouesi

Poetry
And Then Snow, by Phillip Sterling
Far Out: Poems of the 60s, Wendy Barker and Dave Parsons, editors
One Less River, by Terry Blackhawk
Severance, by Robert Fanning
The Straits, by Kristin Palm
Trumbull Ave., by Michael Lauchlan

Last week I got back to work on my novel-in-progress after taking several weeks off to focus on other matters. There’s been some stuff going on, ya know?
​ 
There still is, but at least I’m able to inhabit islands of concentration here and there. Of course, it always takes time to get up to speed on something you’ve set aside, and that’s especially true in this case because I’m using a completely different (for me) approach with this writing project—one that requires a great deal of thought and patience.

​As I ease back into this painstaking process, I can’t help thinking it might serve as a model for how to approach life in general. I’ll elaborate on that in a moment, but first a little more about the writing part.
 
The method I’m following was developed by author Lisa Cron and detailed in her 2016 book Story Genius: How to Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste Three Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere). 

​What aspiring author wouldn’t be seduced by that title? Shave three years off the process and end up with a riveting novel? Sign me up!

​But it turns out the secret isn’t to power through, wildly racking up word counts. It’s to carefully “blueprint” every single scene, stifling the impulse to start writing the scene until you’ve answered several key questions. And I mean really answered them thoroughly, sometimes with pages of brainstorming ideas that will never make it into the manuscript.

​Questions such as:

• What does the main character go into the scene believing? Why does she believe it? Are her beliefs valid, or are they misbeliefs?
• What does the main character want the outcome of this scene to be?
• What is the seminal thing that happens in the scene? Why does it need to happen (what role does it play in the whole story)? Can it actually happen (logistically)? Why would it happen, given the main character’s internal struggle?
• What does the main character realize as a result of what happens in this scene? How does that change her beliefs (especially her misbeliefs), her worldview? What action does it lead her to take next?

​​Whew! See what I mean about a lot to think about? All this could easily be overwhelming if you had to lay out the whole novel, scene by scene, before writing a single word. But it doesn’t work that way.

You draft an opening scene—realizing it’s only a draft that will be revised many times—and an ending scene, again knowing it, too, will likely change. ​

Then you methodically fill the space between beginning and end, working in chunks of scenes. Map out a chunk, blueprinting scene by scene. Write those scenes. Then blueprint another chunk of scenes, one at a time, and write those. From time to time, spiral back to the scenes you’ve already written, and layer in new information, new setups and storylines that emerge as you go, always keeping the end in sight.

​Now, how does this apply to life in general? Obviously we can’t spiral back and rewrite parts of our lives, much as we might wish we could! Still, I do see a few parallels.

​​The first is that in the Story Genius method, the focus is on each scene. Instead of getting overwhelmed by the idea of writing a whole novel, you zero in on the scene in front of you, examine it from several angles, and think it through before moving on. Kind of like focusing on what’s happening right here, right now, each day instead of letting your mind get stuck in the “If only . . .” of your past or fast-forwarding into the “What if . . .?” of the future. 

​The idea isn’t to over-analyze each moment, but to be aware and focused on the here and now.

Second, just as writers following Story Genius ask what their characters believe and why, we all can benefit from examining our beliefs and motivations. Where do they come from, and how trustworthy are those sources? How do our beliefs affect our worldview, and how do our experiences change them? 

​​​Finally, unlike authors of novels, we can’t predict how our own stories will end. But we can keep in mind our ultimate goals and intentions and try to make sure every scene in our saga unfolds in a way that leads us in the direction we want to go.

So, there was a presidential election yesterday, right? Yet as of this morning, we don't know the outcome, and we may not know for some time. What to do until then (besides nail-biting and obsessively checking the news)? 

Let's all take a deep breath and enjoy another visual retreat with some of my favorite photos from the past four months.