The best time for planning a book is while you’re doing the dishes. ~Agatha Christie

Book ideas run through my mind when I least want to think about them and without warning, I often find myself planning to write a book when it is least convenient, like when I’m on a bus or at a party or watching a movie or in the middle of a meeting or in the middle of a class. You get the idea. My mind has no schedule. It works when it wants and that’s almost all the time. If my mind had its way, I wouldn’t get any sleep at all. Incidentally, that’s also another time book ideas come to mind. Groping in the dark to reach for a pad and pen just to jot down an idea then scribbling away with my eyes barely open only gets me a lot of illegible scratches, the equivalent of incoherent talk from a drunk. Most of the time, when I have a story that needs to be written, it’s pretty much finished in my head before I write it down. Other times, I have the bare-bones idea of my story and I just write until I run out of things to write or I have to do a bit of research to add on or fatten up my content. The only writing I really plan out from beginning to end is academic writing or research or teaching references. Those need planning, writing, revising. Creative writing, on the other hand, is something I do manically because, admitedly, I am a very manic writer. I have never edited my poetry. I have reserved my short stories for future editing, because I know they haven’t all turned out the way I wanted them to. The ones that did, however, were written in one sitting. If I can’t finish writing a story in one sitting, I find I need to do more revisions. Some of my writer friends plan what they write before they actually write. I have one who uses stick-it notes and index cards and fills up a wall with them so that by the time she writes her book, all the has to do is fill in the details. For something like that, you need dry hands. How in the name of the writing muses does Agatha Christie plan her books while doing dishes? I would hate having to shake and wipe my hands dry over and over again each time I had to write down something. The only way I could make that work would be to have a voice recorder that I could speak into, so maybe that is how she plans. I can’t dictate my story to a voice recorder because I’m very visual and want to see the words; besides, listening to myself speaking just makes me feel really weird. Almost like I’m disembodied. I wonder how many dishes Agatha Christie broke.

Being a manic writer, I often write poetry when I was experiencing strong emotions. In particular, I can pour out my heart in poetry, especially when I am sad or miserable. The other end of the spectrum would be elation or joy and sometimes, the littlest things make me so happy that I can’t help but write about them. The hardest time for me to write is when I am grieving. Not just an ordinary passing, but a grieving so deep that it tears at the roots of my soul. A grieving so painful that it chokes me to even think of anything else. It’s only when I finally get over the deepest of that despair that I am able to write anything as personal as a poem. Everything else is mechanical.

I know the first time I grieved so much that I could not write was when my brother next to me died. He was two months shy of 21. Worse yet, he died three months before my wedding, my first marriage. I don’t know if that had any effect on me, but I know everything was a blur and I barely even remember anything that happened at that wedding. Most lately, I could not even write a piece for the Weekly last Friday the 13th, when,upon waking up and glancing at what sort of email I had to deal with that day, I learned the woman who had been my history teacher in senior high, my vice principal then principal when I was teaching in high school, my dean when I started teaching college, my coordinator for a team book project, my friend, personal adviser, confessor, surrogate mother, mentor, job-provider, client, and so much more had died. I was paralyzed with grief, literally. I could not think of anything else, could not eat. When I published a post about my despondency on FB, a friend suggested watching TV–and I did, for all of Friday and Saturday I binged on TV shows and did not eat and still, of course, did not feel better. Words rushed through my head and more than once, I was drawn to write but each time I pulled up my laptop, waves of grief washed the words away. It took me the whole weekend to just get over it–and I slept all day Sunday, waking up in the early evening, and had my first meal in two days. Thank goodness for books and TV and friends who pull you out of it. I know I don’t have exclusive rights to grieving for her, after all, she had 3 children of her own, and, being what she was, she had touched so many lives before me and after me. I would like to believe she was greatly loved by everyone whose lives she had touched because that was just the kind of woman she was–selfless, nurturing, caring, encouraging. She went out of her way to help people and she was strong, understanding, supportive, and very intuitive. I know many times she would guess what was on my mind or in my heart and I needed to explain very little for her to comprehend. While I would like to believe I was special, I know she could just make everyone feel special, as if they were her children, as if they were the only ones who mattered to her at the moment.

I have finally come to a point when I can grieve without it drowning me because from this moment on, I will be celebrating everything she was, not just to me but to the hundreds of other girls who have turned women and will live on with a bit of her soul in our hearts. I don’t make promises I can’t keep, but I will promise that I will step up my game because she knew I could always do more; I will revive the determination and drive that I used to have; I will rebuild my confidence in myself because she always believed in me and I will not let her down.

This is for you, Dr. Mary Ann Mallilin Covarrubias. I know you’re cheering somewhere up in the ether as I write this.

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Mom was better known to people as Nena Amador, or Tita Nena, but to me, she was ‘Mom’ from the onset.

Some say that when you marry, you marry a family and not just a person. In my case, I think I was happier being “married” to the family than just one person. Who wouldn’t with a mom like Nena Amador? She welcomed me right away with open arms and treated me like a daughter from the start. It was easy to want to be part of her family, and she made it easy for me.

She loved unconditionally. She was generous to a fault. Sure, she had her faults, but compared to her largesse, they were petty and material things that were easily overlooked. She enjoyed life and found humor in many things. She talked. Did she love to talk! I don’t think it just had to do with age, either. I loved listening to her stories of growing up, of her father, of family. It added greatly to my sense of belonging. It was something I wasn’t used to, since we hardly talked to each other when I was growing up, but it was nice to know where people stood and what people thought.

We did things together just like a mother and daughter would. We spent time in the kitchen, cooked, chatted. We shopped together, went to doctor’s appointments together, watched plays together. She trusted me to cook meals and asked for my ideas and opinions on many things. She was eager to have grandchildren and I was happy to share my kids with her. When Justin was born, there was no way you could keep her away from him, and I gladly made every effort to have them spend time together.

When times became tough for her, I naturally took her into my home, just as she had taken me into hers. It was the least I could do and I didn’t have to think twice about it. If I could have afforded it, I would have brought her all the way to Canada with me.

I have missed her every day since she moved out of my house through circumstances I could not control. I missed her much more when I moved halfway around the world. And now, I will miss her even more.

My one comfort is that she will always be a part of me and that she can be closer to me than ever because she is no longer hampered by her physical being, by pain or suffering, by illness or lack. She can be anywhere and everywhere, and I know she is looking out for me from the great beyond.

I love you, Mom. I will never forget you.