34. Dedicated with Love (Part Two)
When I began publishing the last three novellas in the PT series, the dedications became a bit reflective.
Resolve
Mom,
On February 1, 2018, you and I started the Pulling Threads journey. I called on the phone and told you I was writing a story; you expressed your joy and asked to hear a bit. These were the first words of our PT time together: Kitt Mahoney is doing the two best things in the world—her world anyway.
Since then, I’ve been doing the two best things in the world—my world anyway.
Writing stories and sharing them with my mother.
Revenge
Mom,
On October 9, 2020, Bullet Bungalow was published. This was my dedication.
To my mother, Ruth Shirley Bodreau.
Thank you for not saying — to my face — everything you surely must be thinking.
I love you mieces to pieces — whatever the hell that means.
I know what it means, Mom.
Rebound
Mom,
On July 1, 2021, Rebound will be published.
It marks the end of the series — Not the end of the story.
I promise.
I always intended on finishing the Pulling Threads novella series with a big-ass blockbuster book. I had the entire story of Alva written in my head, but when the time came, I just could not put it to paper. The central story — the thread that ran through every book — the mystery of who The Body was and what his plan was had to be told. But I just couldn’t do it because I knew what I had in store for my characters, and I just couldn’t bear saying goodbye to my friends.
Over the course of three years, I cried with them, and laughed with them — I helped carry the burden of their suffering and became giddy during joyful times. I loved each and every one of them — even those I detested.
As my unproductive time dragged on, I questioned if it was normal that a writer just couldn’t finish a story or a series? I silently wondered if I was experiencing some sort of traumatic writer’s block? I had no idea what was going on, but I sure as hell was suffering from something.
I slapped a band-aid on the festering emotional wound by writing the dedication for Rebound — the last novella of the series. The dedication ended up being an ambiguous one that gave me an out, should I never be able to write Alva.
My mother knew I was struggling because I complained ad nauseum about Alva. She offered words of encouragement, and tried to help me figure out what the real issue was. She’d been party to some hand-wringing over storyline difficulties in the past, but I’d always pushed through — so this total block and whining crap was a whole new experience for Mom.
One day, I was yakking away about the shame of it all. “I have some really good shit to write — some really big stuff happens, but it’s all stuck in my head, in one jumbled mess, and I can’t find the thread to pull to get off and running.”
The little old lady who wouldn’t drop an F-bomb if her life depended on it got ALL UP IN MY FACE.
“Okay, that’s it. Write it or don’t write it, but I’m telling you right now, Sheryll Anne, you’d better effing tell me what happens. You better tell me what the hell The Body’s plan is, and who pays the ultimate price. I’ve read these damned books a hundred times each, so you’d better tell ME!”
My mother, and Donna, and Marjorie, and Helena, have pressured me over the years for hints about what was around the corner, and I have never cracked. But on that day, the one when my Mommy yelled at me, I CRACKED and told her in minute detail what was going to happen — and I even told her the big-ass ending. She said four words and hung up.
“Write that fucking book!”
While all of the Alva back-and-forth was going on, I’d started a new series — because, why not? By the end of summer 2021, I’d written Ashore on Stony Beach and Adrift on Stony Beach and had begun writing Awake on Stony Beach.
On several occasions, I lamented to Andria and Nancy that I still couldn’t get focused on Alva, and decided to push into Awake and then try to circle back. I was two-thirds of the way through the final Stony Beach story when I got an urgent sense — a really deep dread — that if I didn’t write Alva, right then, it would never get written.
I put Awake aside and reread large sections of the last three Pulling Threads books. I needed to get back into the heads of my characters and reconnect with the storylines and the pacing of that series.
I decided how the final book would begin — with one of my central characters alone in a room. I got in there with her, crawled inside her head and focused on everything she saw, every move she made, every longing she had — and without question, the opening chapter of Alva is the best work I ever did.
For the next month or so, I pushed Alva along and finished Awake. I would get up at 3 AM and work 15 hours straight. I was a mad woman on a mission — finishing two totally different stories from two totally different series. There wasn’t a day during that time when Tim came down for coffee and found me anything other than a hysterical mess.
And then one day I was ALL SMILES. “I finished!” I proclaimed.
“Which one?”
“Both!”
“Are you shittin’ me?”
“Nope. They’re done.” I broke with the emotion of it all, pushed back in my recliner, missed our morning coffee, took a power nap, woke refreshed and began the work of ‘first edit’ on my manuscripts.
And. Then. The. Shit. Hit. The. Fan.
I told the wonderful women I work with about my diagnosis before I told my family. All three of them put me and my work front and center and did the lion’s share of first, second and third edits and all of the proofreading sessions. Guru Jessica worked around the clock with social media postings for my books and handling the announcements about my illness — all while she was redesigning her own business and preparing for a major launch. (This young professional is beyond talented and full of grit and stamina — and she loves me, which is just delightful).
Andria. Nancy. Jessica.
The Warden. The Goddess. The Guru.
Their teamwork definitely made my dream work.
In two months’ time those three women got three Sheryll O’Brien books published and promoted — and because they did, I had the privilege to write this dedication.
Alva
Mom,
All good things come to an end.
What will never end is my love for you.
Sheryll
That’s the last Pulling Threads dedication. Now the ones for the Twisted Threads series. A little background first. My mother loves reading books with lots and lots and lots of pages. She was practically giddy when she received the most recent Outlander and learned it has over 900 of them.
My novellas run 200-250 pages. They are part of a series, but each is written with a specific story within the overall story, so each could be read as a standalone novel. The only complaint Mom ever had about my books was that they weren’t long enough. I shook things up when I wrote the Twisted Threads series — I went long and I went dark.
An ad I placed in an online magazine for Her Scream and Stay Safe has this warning: Read At Your Own Risk. One relative said she read the book in one sitting because she was too afraid to leave her locked bedroom to go pee.
And as for my mother — suddenly, my books were too long and too tense. “I had to take the damned book to the bathroom,” she nearly hissed.
“Because you were scared?”
“Yes, but also because I had to pee and I couldn’t put it down.”
Hand to God this happened — and since I might be meeting Him soon and am very reluctant to bullshit about Him, you can take this as fact — Donna said the same thing as Mom when I called her.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a pee and reading Her Scream.”
“Thanks for sharing.”
“Your fault – I can’t put the thing down. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“Peeing or reading?”
“Reading.”
What is it with women reading in bathrooms?
My Mom just laughed at an inside joke.
Her Scream
Mom,
Here’s your big-ass book.
Enjoy!
Stay Safe
Mom,
It was such fun hearing your thoughts on this villain —
‘God, Sheryll, he’s so creepy, disgusting, just awful.’
Not sure I told you that Tim has taken to sleeping with one eye open.
Smart man.
I dialed back on the nail-biting-tension in my next series. The Stony Beach books have lots of threads to pull and are jam-packed with suspense and intrigue — and they have lots of love, lies, and lust — my trademark in storytelling.
The last two dedications of that series were done after my diagnosis. There was so much to say, but I just couldn’t put into words how I was feeling, or anything that would soothe my mother’s very hurt heart.
Adrift on Stony Beach
Mom,
I am a writer, and yet, words fail me.
I love you,
Sheryll
Awake on Stony Beach
Mom,
Be faithful,
Sheryll
And. Then. This. Happened.
I wrote my final book and final dedication.
It was to Hadley.
Be
My Dearest Hadley,
Between the covers of this book you will find loving advice from MammyGrams. I hope my words will help you grow to Be whomever you are meant to Be. Take the book on your journey through life. When times get tough, as they surely will, your Be book might help remind you that people are good by nature, that there is joy right around the corner, and that every moment is worth living, sharing, and cherishing.
So, to my wonderful, spirited, intelligent, sweet girl; embrace all of the special things that make you who you are. Then … Be anything, Be everything, and most of all, Be happy.
I love you, Hadley, now and always,
MammyGrams
So there you have it — the end of my book writing days. I started living my dream late in life and it is ending way too soon for my liking, but when I first set out on my writing journey my goal was to write a book — I wrote 23. I wanted to see my name on the spine of a book, and I did.
Along the way, I learned a valuable life lesson or two.
When I reached far beyond what I knew I could do, I learned I was destined to do a whole lot more. And I discovered that being successful is a personal thing — it’s something you get to define and claim for yourself.
At age 61, I put my fears aside and did what I wanted and needed to do — for me. I became part of the periphery of my ‘normal’ life and lived the life of a writer, waking before the sun so I’d get a few quiet hours in before Mr. Wonderful came for coffee, and setting goals that seemed unattainable. I never concerned myself with making money — I only hoped that people would read my stories and find enjoyment.
And now.
I am writing the most personal and important thing I will ever write. Preparing for the loss of my life is really painful, and it is scary, and it is lonely. But through this blog, I have found strength and support from people who I know and people I will never meet.
I have learned that I want and need to live every minute of every day. Being lashed to my recliner 24/7 since December 1st would be miserable if not for the many people who have reached out in support and have offered encouragement.
It seems fitting that I dedicate this work.
Beyond saying thank you to friends, old and new alike,
I’d like to dedicate this blog to all who are reading along —
you are all helping me carry my load.