Rock Climbing

The above photo is of me (tucked behind the word News) circa 1980's, climbing a cliff face in the Rocky Mountains. In the cold. And rain. Sleek and slippery rock. The folks up top offer words of support, as well as a rope belay to catch me if I fall. I don't have to die. But the climb? I'm on my own. 

No one pulls the climber to the top. Steady, clear-headed footsteps on tiny rock ledges and long reaches with arms that search for nooks and crannies big enough for fingertips propel her upward. The climber has to trust her quivering leg muscles, her choice of handholds. She's got to believe she can do it.

The above photo could be of me, circa the 20-teens, writing and working to publish a book. Writing a book about learning to love a troubled son to and through his death by suicide - or writing any book - is a slippery and sometimes dangerous climb. Finding a publisher? Even more so. I sent out my first query letter at the end of April. So far ... the sound of raindrops on the cliff face. But I trust my quivering legs and my choice of handholds. It may be a cold and tedious climb, but I plan on reaching the top.