On Wednesday, Mr. Henderson and I celebrated our 15th anniversary (20th, if you count dating) by going to… a book signing! Can you tell who was in charge of planning?

We went to see the beautiful mindfreak who sometimes throws himself into a woodchipper for kicks. Oh yes!

Lucky I’m not a romantic because this anniversary not only included a three-hour line, but we brought the kids and their friend, as well. Wonder if there will be wrap-around lines at my book signings?

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So this week at LitPark, we talked about mistakes. I’ll share one of mine. There were many to choose from – and this story certainly isn’t the worst of them – but it’s the earliest mistake I can remember, and one that led me, for decades afterward, to view myself as the villain in my story.

When I was a kid, our cat Rosebud had a litter every spring. This, I believed, made our family very popular in the neighborhood because we were the givers of free kittens. But Rosie’s last litter (the one that convinced us to have her fixed) was born in a cardboard box that was tipped on its side, sitting on the porch. It rained for days, and the litter was washed into the woodpile.

I remembered there had been five kittens, but we only found four. My dad pulled them from the wood, saying things like, “Oh, little fella.” There was only one I could reach. It was so bony, I thought it would break if I pulled hard enough to dislodge it. Dad moved the log above it, and I took its fragile body in my hands, watching the tiny pulse of its heart and the fleas milling over its thin fur.

Dad set the kittens beside Rosie to see if they would nurse, but Rosie only growled and walked away. Sadly, this is not the worst part of the story. The worst part is always when I enter the scene and make some sort of decision. And here, the trouble came when I believed I could feed the kitten condensed milk if only I could pry open its mouth.

I won’t go into the gore or the reason I decided I needed to use a screwdriver. The short of it is that I had desperately wanted to save the kitten, who was likely not savable. But my way of saving the kitten created such a disastrous scene, what could I do in the end but bring the limp kitten back to its mother? Rosie carried it off and left it under a bush.

This was the beginning of a long lesson on the difference between what I wanted to believe about myself and what I actually was. Later that day, my dad packed the other three in the cardboard box. I found my kitten under the bush and held it because it was still warm and almost lovely. I tried to think of a name for it before Dad took it from me. I was still trying when he drove off with the whole box of them.

Sometimes friends heal your old wounds without realizing it. Brian did that when he drew this for me.

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Well, now. What did I learn in the park this week? I learned that people don’t like to reveal their mistakes. There were allusions to the whole gamut: poor decisions, impossible decisions, indecisions; people we ganged up on, forgot to thank, forgot to forgive; times we lost our courage, acted out of fear, said yes when we meant no, no when we meant yes; times we were selfish or not selfish enough. And yet so few of you shared details or actual stories. Maybe this is where many writers turn to fiction and work out hard truths, terrible choices, and deep regrets through fictional characters.

My favorite book of all time is Tim O’Brien’s THE THINGS THEY CARRIED. It’s my favorite because he goes where no one dares to go, to truths we bury so deep we don’t even admit them to ourselves. I am in awe of his boldness and the scope of his heart. I admire him all the more for shining light into the darkest corners to show something more vulnerable and intimate than people are usually willing to share. Whenever I read this book, I feel absolutely electrified and changed.

I say this because I think the places where we dodge the questions are where our best stories lie, if we’re willing to be fearless. So think on those stories you won’t say aloud. What did that mistake cost you? What do you risk by telling it? And then consider – maybe in the safety of fictional characters, foreign settings and third-person storytelling – going right at that truth.

Many of you said something that I agree with, which is, we are often better people for the mistakes we make – more humble, more tender – they lead us to where we are now and the company we like to keep. But you know those aren’t the mistakes I’m talking about. There are some mistakes you wouldn’t dare sum up by saying, “Well, I’m a better person for that one.” A few of you were brave enough to talk about the ones that haunt you, the ones not everyone survived, the ones that stole a piece of you you’ve never gotten back.

Be bold. Don’t flinch. Find ways to tell your story. Doesn’t have to be here, but tell it somewhere.

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Thanks to everyone who answered the Question of the Week: Simon Haynes, mikelkpoet, Lauren Baratz-Logsted, Robin Slick, Betsy, Nicole, Carolyn Burns Bass, Terry, lance reynald, Kaytie, Noria, Mark Bastable, Nathalie, Colin Matthew, Juliet, Jody Reale, Brian Hadd, Anneliese, Jordan E. Rosenfeld, Julie Ann Shapiro, Ric Marion, A.S. King, Ellen Meister, Richard, JD Smith, David Niall Wilson, and Daryl.

And thank you to Heather and Lance for an amazing interview – and for those who commented, those who bought her book, and those who really brought dialogue back to LitPark. I appreciate it.

I’m going to end on a Kerouac quote someone passed me this week:

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a common place thing, but burn burn burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” -Jack Kerouac

Oh. One last thing. I meant to post this little video clip of Nick showing of the new Noveltown Review last week, but I couldn’t get it to post. Thanks to Terry, here it is – better late than never:

See you Monday!