What It Takes To Be Betsy by Betsy Ashton

Most of you who know me or who have been following me know I'm independent and stubborn. That's a double understatement. So, three weeks ago on April 25th when I fell and broke my wrist, I knew I was going to need a lot of help. My dear husband stepped up to taking care of me along with all of his own tasks. He had no idea what being me entailed.

I broke the right radius, the bone that allows the wrist to turn. I had surgery one week later. 

Now, I'm profoundly right-handed, so I knew teaching my useless left hand to do anything would be a long and winding road. It was and is. 

Let's start with what I'm doing now: writing a blog entry. I'm typing with my left hand, backing up constantly to fix typos, and trying to keep my thoughts clear. Yes, my brain struggles to fend off the anesthesia muzzies. I figured out how to hunt and peck the letters. Then there was a contraption called THE MOUSE. I didn't reset the buttons, because it wouldn't have done a darned bit of good. I'm getting better at mousing. I'm so proud of me. I'm feeling cocky enough to trying to cut and paste, but not until I feel like being bought to my knees in frustration.

Cooking is out of the question. I have a freezer full of homemade soups and stews. We laid in a stack of Lean Cuisine and plenty of fresh veggies for salads and for roasting on the grill. Terry is good in the kitchen. Normally, I cook and he cleans up. Now, he's doing it all. I'm so lucky. Eating itself can be a challenge. As one of my friends said years ago about his toddler: "it's not pretty, but it's effective." Only twice since the break have I wished for a bib. At least, clothes and hands wash. Speaking of laundry, I've never been good at folding fitted sheets, but at least I have an excuse. Wonder how long I can milk this for sympathy.

Personal hygiene has been easier than I thought. A baggie over the mallet bandage first and the brace now, rubber bands to keep the water out, and an elbow to help with shampoo bottles work to keep me clean. Pedicures take care of toes and feet. Forget makeup. I'm out and about in native skin. And bless the people who developed battery-operated toothbrushes; they are my heroes.

To the people who have come to my aid--the nice young lady who helped me put groceries in the car, the barista who put lids on my coffee so I don't pour slop hot liquids all over, and the sweet young girl who carried two lattes to the car--I appreciate your kindness and am in your debt. 

To Joesephine at the Westlake Library, the "scene of the crime," who fetched ice, called Terry, and took me to get emergency treatment, you're my hero for springing into action and not getting sick when you saw how out of alignment the wrist was. I promise to share your kindness forward, right after you rename the building "The Betsy Ashton Library at Westlake."

Two weeks after surgery, I'm in a brace like the kind we wear for carpal tunnel and start physical therapy next week. Keep an eye on Facebook for updates. And if you see Terry looking harried, give him a smile and a hug. He's my super hero.

Look in the Mirror by Betsy Ashton

I was all over the place on this post. So many things are milling around in the blogosphere, on the airwaves and with the voices in my head that I had to write about identity. Your own identity is an intensely personal thing, because it is how you see yourself.

I can look at myself in the mirror each morning and see the size 6 woman I used to be. I used to have dark hair, no wrinkles and a serious tan every summer. I could see myself as Wonder Woman, that incredible image of a woman super-hero who fought crime and won. I could see myself as young and idealistic, who thought the Baby Boomer generation could change the world through our sheer numbers. And I would be lying to myself.

I used to be a six 6 back, oh say, thirty years ago. I had the flattest stomach in the world. I was lean and mean. And I was tanned. All over. No tan lines. But that is for a different post. Maybe.

I can fool myself into believing I'm that twenty-something, but the reality is different. Not worse, just different.

The voices in my head shape my books. I have to live in a character's head for a long time before I really get the identity of said character. How does she see herself when she looks into the mirror? Does she self-identify as good? As bad? As something the reader knows she clearly isn't?

I can no longer fool myself about not being twenty-something any longer. Neither can my characters fool me into thinking they are something they aren't. My idea of facing them in the mirror is to see their flaws, their strengths, their weaknesses. It's my task to select the traits, warts and stretch marks that make them into readable characters.

In my latest WIP, I guarantee my main character isn't all that likeable. She's definitely interesting. I let her get away with fooling herself at the beginning, but reckoning day is rapidly approaching. When we reach it, you'll feel seismic upheavals. Stand in a doorway and brace yourself. I don't think this character is going to like being "outed" for the person she is.

Have you every written about a character who was self-delusional? How did you solve the problem?

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Betsy Ashton is the author of Mad Max, Unintended Consequences, and Uncharted Territory, A Mad Max Mystery, which is now available in e-book at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.