This month Susan is on the road.

Last month I sent off the synopsis and first three chapters of Kindergarten Mafia to two kind editors. As an unpublished writer of fiction I deeply appreciate an editor who listens to my pitch and asks to have a look at my work. In fact, there was a bucketload of goodwill and kindness that rained down upon me in October.

Thanks to all who sent encouraging emails about my debilitating HUMA coma (see the October 2009 blog for clarification). Although still tender I am much better now. In fact, I am better enough to travel. The middle of November I will head south on a three-week journey. My first stop will be at a self-help seminar in Scottsdale, Arizona. My dear friend Judi invited me along and I naturally turned her down. Help? I don’t need any stinking help. I phoned her the next morning and said yes.

Now, I have to tell you that Judi calls me her Single Sister. It’s a term that our particular group of friends has started to use. The group includes widows and divorcees and newly separated women. Single Sister is a reminder that we are responsible for creating support systems in our own image. In short, girls have to stick together.

At the end of October I was with Judi when she was injured and I was literally there to catch her when she fell. To be specific, I realized that she was losing consciousness and I was there to catch her. This may sound like a writer getting all fancy with a metaphor, but trust me, I’m not this good: she fell forward and I instinctively stepped forward to support her. There I was, seconds later, sitting on a chair with my friend planted face-first in my boobs.

It was the most action I’ve had for months.

An ambulance crew took her to hospital and a friend and I followed. The paramedics allowed us into the Patient’s Only area so we could help make arrangements and call Judi’s family. In the middle of this scene a young nurse showed up with the patient ID bracelet. With a fresh-out-of-training scowl she asked, “Are you family?”

Naturally I said, “I’m her Single Sister.”

The nurse repeated, “Single sister.” She put the ID bracelet on Judi’s wrist and I could tell she wanted to ask what that meant but, this being politically correct British Columbia and all, she was afraid to ask. We were allowed to stay.

Score one for the women who have been there, done that, survived it and lived to fight another day. (And Judi’s doing fine. Nothing broken, nothing sprained, humour intact.)

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The second stop on my journey will be a beach-front condo in Maui owned by a delightful couple in Los Angeles. From our first e-mail exchange I knew their place – and their story – was right for me. I knew I would need a place to rest up from all that self that was helped in Scottsdale. Plus, Maui struck me as the perfect place to read aloud the entire manuscript of Kindergarten Mafia.

As a former broadcaster I am used to reading my work out loud. It turns out this technique is highly recommended for writers of prose. Who knew? At the end of this month please send me your vibes of support (don’t forget I will be in an ecstatic state of self-help bliss so I’ll be sure to receive them) on the beach north of Kanipali where I will appear to be a crazy woman talking to herself.

While you’re at it, send those vibes along to the kind editor who requested the entire manuscript – and editors in general. (If you can’t send the vibes, raise a mai tai.)

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My final stop will be Monterey, California where I am scheduled to attend a children’s writing workshop.

When this fateful year began I set out my writing goals. One of them was to send my children’s stories out into the world – and would you look at that, a couple of them are all grown up and out the door. A publisher requested them. No word yet, but in late October two of my stories found their first live audiences.

I was invited to present writing workshops at a local Elementary School in Burnaby. Full disclosure: I was invited as a presenter thanks to my sister the elementary school teacher. Nepotism rocks.

I created a set of workshop options and rolled with the direction each class wanted to take. I’ve taught adults and raised children but teaching children who aren’t my own? Now there’s a challenge. There is nothing more sphincter-clenching than that moment when you realize twenty, thirty and at one point more than seventy little beings are counting on you to entertain them.

Their favourite story was Bustopher Jones: Teense, Weense, Smidge. Something magical happened when I read the story aloud. The opening line is: “Bustopher Jones was not happy, not a teense, not a weense, not a smidge.” The closing line is: “Bustopher didn’t feel a bit of unhappiness, not a teense, not a weense, not a smidge.” Around the middle of the story all the kids began to repeat the phrase every time it came around. I wanted to bawl like a baby.

Gingerheart reader, it was a writer moment more precious than diamonds.

Six class-loads later I packed up my briefcase and started to walk out the door. A sweet-faced boy looked up and asked, “Where are you going?” I stopped and smiled, slightly surprised by his lack of irony. His teacher pointed out that I was a volunteer and that I was allowed to come and go as I pleased. But I think the little guy honestly wanted to know. He had seen me go from classroom to classroom all day. He was curious. He was honest and he was just asking what was on his mind. Do you remember when you were that unselfconscious? Do you remember the last time you were curious and honest and simply spoke your mind?

In answer to his question, I can honestly say “I am not sure.” But I am curious as to what is next.