Apart from my son, the two men I know best are my dad and my husband. I would have said they are nothing alike, but today I caught myself thinking of a few similarities, as well as several differences.

In general, my father has always been an optimist, always encouraging me and my sister to be the same. Yet, because of this optimism, he often sets himself up for disappointment. When he sees a doctor for one problem, he will share his life story, given any encouragement.

“About thirty years ago, I quit having kidney stones,” he’ll tell a cardiologist or orthopedic surgeon. He’ll go on to explain why, in his opinion, this happened.

When the doctors’ tone becomes abrupt, or they fail to zero in on the cause of the current issue, my dad’s disappointed. “I thought he was going to be different,” he’ll say, or “I thought she was going to connect all the dots.”

My husband, who went to veterinary school, knows better than to expect too much from doctors. Nonetheless, he’s likely to follow their instructions to the tee. If they misdiagnose, he’ll make excuses for them. “If you hear hoof beats, don’t look for zebras,” he’ll say.

When it comes to sports, they both enjoy watching games on TV. If I hear my dad whooping, I know it’s because our team just scored, made a great play, or otherwise advanced the cause.

When my husband becomes vocal, I’m equally sure it’s the opposite. Either the other team has made a great play, or our team just blundered or missed an opportunity. (My son must have picked up habits from both because he shouts either way.)

The similarity I’m thinking of lies in the way they each combine traits of optimism with those of pessimism. If I present an idea to my husband, I’m pretty sure his first words will be “The problem with that is…”

If I present an idea to my dad, he’s more likely to say, “That’s a great idea,” and nod his approval.

Down the road, however, my dad’s attitude toward the idea, the doctor, the team, or even the novel he’s reading may turn sour. My husband, on the other hand, will likely get onboard, once he has prepared us both for trouble ahead.

“I’m not a pessimist,” he’ll say. “I’m a realist.” When our team loses, he says, “At least I didn’t have any money on it,” or “There’s always next year.”

Do you prefer to read books about optimists or pessimists? Or is the blended character best of all?

If you looked at my reading lists, you’d see a lot of diversity. You would see books I’ve relished and a few I’ve tried but didn’t care for. Likely there were some I found so absorbing I forgot to input them.

I like stories about relationships, a bit of romance, a hint of mystery, more than a bit of family drama, and I don’t mind a touch of philosophy. In short, it would be difficult to name the genre.

This is also true of what I write. If you like to stick to a particular genre, one where you know what to expect (even if the expectation is a twist at the end), my books might not all be to your taste. But if you’re prepared to try something different, I hope you will.

I write a lot from personal experience, but also a lot from my imagination. About half of my upcoming books are largely nonfictional, though written like novels, while the other half are mainly fiction.

Because my books are so diverse, you might find you like some of them but not others. When I find an author I enjoy, I tend to read all, or most, of their books. When I was a teen and I discovered Jane Austen, Herman Wouk, Louisa May Alcott, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and the Bronte sisters, I loved everything they wrote (yes, that’s quite a diverse list).

More recently, I have enjoyed some books by Chris Bohjalian but not all. I read The Good Mother by Sue Miller years ago. I didn’t like it at the time. During the past year, I decided to give her books another chance, and I quite enjoyed some of her work. I think how we react to a book is often a function of our frame of mind and stage of life. When I was a kid, I loved The Witch of Blackbird Pond. As an adult, I started it again and had trouble really getting into it.
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Over the next few weeks, I plan to share information on some of my upcoming books, about seven in all. These are nearing completion but have yet to be released for public viewing. I’m hoping that will follow soon after…

​Is your significant other a control freak? Are you? My husband would probably say I am, and I’d say he is. I’ve reluctantly come to the conclusion that most of us are, though in varied ways.

For instance, I’m very picky about the tastes of food and drink; what, when, and where I eat; and what we buy at the grocery (yes, I see a pattern here). My husband is very particular about how we arrange the groceries or luggage in the car, how we load the dishwasher, and whether we turn off all the lights and lock the doors when we leave or go to bed.

The challenges arise when our quirks clash. I hate being early. He hates being late. Since it’s almost impossible to be exactly on time, we compromise by being a little early but not overly so. Still, we end up with more extra (I’d call it wasted) time than I prefer, but enough to keep him from stressing out completely.

Sometimes I bite my tongue and say “okay.” I’m sure he does the same. Some battles just aren’t worth fighting. Isn’t that what we do as parents—choose our battles? I guess marriage and parenting have more in common than you’d think. Some matters don’t really matter (no pun intended).

When my daughter was little and we’d go hiking, she always wanted to carry the leader stick. “Nikki’s got the leader stick,” we’d say.
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Over the years, this has become a familiar phrase in our family. When decisions are needed, we turn to Nikki. (Good thing her husband doesn’t seem to be too much of a control freak.)

Maybe these compromises become easier over time, and perhaps that’s why you sometimes hear the first year of marriage can be the hardest. Throughout my novel, Song of Sugar Sands, Peter and Acadia struggle to figure this out. Some issues are far easier to deal with than others, and Peter and Acadia must come to terms with serious matters like faith and communication. 
 
When one of our kids or grandchildren shows “control freak” tendencies, my husband will look at me and say, “I wonder where he gets that.”
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“So do I,” I reply. “So do I.” 

At what age do your kids reveal their true colors?

Last night my sister-in-law called. “Jay is thinking about dropping out of college!” she wailed. “What will he do with his life?”

My husband spent much of the next hour assuring her there are many occupations that do not require a college degree, and Jay would be just fine.

When my two were living at home, their attitudes toward money were diametrically opposed. Now their attitudes seem to have reversed.
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“Do you know what I love most in the world? Do you?” Rebecca Gibbs asks in Thornton Wilder’s play, Our Town. “Money!”

Our daughter landed this role in community theatre when she was about ten. The line cracked us up because Nikki was nothing like the character she played. She still isn’t, but she has learned to be careful with money, now that she’s managing a family of her own.

When she and her brother lived at home, I kept a tally of the money each accumulated from allowances, chores, birthday and Christmas gifts. Almost every year our daughter would run a deficit and start borrowing from her brother, who was more of a saver. Back then.

Not any longer. My mother occasionally recalls Clay saying, “I like to save money.”

If she says this in Nikki’s hearing, my daughter replies, “That Clay doesn’t exist anymore.”

Both Nikki and Clay are generous-hearted and charitable-minded, though. Although quite different from each other in their spending patterns, I remain optimistic that each is optimizing his or her potential for happiness in their own way.

At some point, our children and grandchildren must make these decisions for themselves. For some of us, letting go proves difficult.
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These issues may be even harder if you come into their lives when they are a bit older. In my novel, Joy After Noon, Joy finds herself in a situation where her stepdaughters have already decided to dislike her. What influence can she possibly have? You might be surprised. 

     I recently saw a former colleague at a memorial service. “You may not remember me,” she said and told me her name.
    “I often forget names,” I admitted. This was true enough, but only half the story.
    My sister and I have both begun to suspect we have trouble with face recognition. Not the extreme case, but I imagine—like so much else—face recognition lies on a spectrum.
    My husband and I started watching a comedy series starring an actor who played Penny on another series we watched. He recognized her right off.
    “Are you sure?” I said. “It sounds like her, but I see no resemblance.”
    He said nothing.
    “I suppose you saw her name in the credits?”
    Again, he said nothing. He’s gotten used to this struggle of mine. Over the years I’ve come to realize I identify people by specific clues, like hair color or style or body structure. I’ve often complained about casting decisions for TV shows and movies.
    “It’s like they have a specific type they are looking for, and use all the actors they don’t cast in the lead in other roles,” I’ll say. “Every woman in this show has a dark brown bob, and they are all tall and thin. How can I tell them apart?” I’m in trouble if they change clothes or, heaven forbid, dye and cut their hair.
    Eventually I get to recognizing most people and actors I’ve seen a lot. Most of us have a defining characteristic or two—mole on the left cheek, a scar above the eyebrow, etc.—something that isn’t as easily altered as hair color and style or wardrobe. Occasionally there’s someone who proves particularly difficult.
    “Who is this actress?” I’ll say.
    “Emily Blunt.”
    “What’s she been in? Oh, don’t tell me. Young Victoria. Right?”
  I remember this, not because I recognize her but because we’ve had this conversation so many times before.
    An early clue presented itself when my husband and I were first married. I showed him a photograph of my beloved grandmother taken in her twenties. “Guess who that is?” I said.
    “It’s your grandmother. It looks just like her.”
   He’d only known my grandmother in her seventies and eighties, when she was riddled by disease and humped over from osteoporosis and too many steroids. I saw no resemblance between her crippled body and the lovely young woman in the photo.
    I’ve learned to trust his judgment, most of the time. He’ll see an actor appearing in an old film as a child or teenager, someone we’ve only seen before as a middle-aged man.
    “Do you recognize him?” he’ll ask me.
    Of course, I do not. Even after he tells me, I can scarcely believe it. But I’ve learned to expect the name in the end credits. He’s almost always right. He must be near the other end of the spectrum.
    In The Ticket, I modelled Tray’s grandmother, at least in part, after mine. Many readers tell me she’s their favorite character.