Dear Me

Dear Me
One of these days . . . I will finish one of my novels.

Maria Concepcion Panlilio

Dear Me,

         Remember how years ago, I thought how wonderful life would be if I had ample time to write without the encumbrances of a corporate career? What made writing even more difficult to accomplish was a marriage to Ross--a loving but jealous and possessive husband who was demanding of my time. It broke my heart, and I cried for days when I divorced him.

         I had an unfinished novel waiting to be resurrected from being buried alive; instead, I started a new novel about Ross and me – a love story that did not end with living happily ever after.

         I immersed myself in the story, translating the raw emotions of a heartbreaking divorce into the novel.

         Life was good. Till one day, I realized that the divorce might have been a subliminal direction for freedom to write. I was consumed by guilt and could no longer write. Ross was not a horrible man. His jealousies and possessiveness were annoying, but he never yelled at me, nor physically hurt me. The proverbial warning, Be careful what you wish for, because you might get it, kept reverberating in my head.

         So there I was . . . with the luxury of time to write, and I did everything but write.

         Being single and independent again to go out and party with my friends presented an avenue for meeting single men. It didn't take long for Neal to enter my life romantically and provide further distraction to my literary aspirations. He was tall and slim, with a boyish face, blue eyes, abundant black hair, and scientific intelligence. Neal was an athlete who pushed himself to the extremes--a successful medical entrepreneur by day, and a daredevil at night and weekends. He introduced me to hunting, parasailing, skydiving and bungee jumping--sports that I never thought I would ever experience. Ross was everything Neal wasn't; I felt alive and fearless. After three months he proposed, and without hesitation, I said, “Yes!”

         But there was no wedding. Neal failed to disclose significant information about his personal life. He was having an affair with his office manager, who was also his friend's wife, and a mother of four. His denial sounded convincing, but the woman was far more believable. Compromising pictures she had secretly taken from their many secret trysts together were more than enough for me. As Neal watched in horror, I dropped the engagement ring into the garbage disposal and flipped the switch on.

         Another man, another love, another heartbreak; another love story that missed the “happily-ever-after” ending.

         "Please, God, no more men!" I prayed. "No more distractions! I shall write, write and write till the next Great American Novel is completed."

         Several chapters were written in inspired tears and heavy heart. I poured all the love, the passion, the betrayal, the anger, into every paragraph. "This is good," I praised myself. "This should sell." A few more chapters and the novel should be done. I was ecstatic. I was obsessed.

* * *

         Across the thoroughfare of my heart, I painted in big letters: Road Closed. But distraction knocked the sign down and forced its entry. Jonathan swept me off my feet with his rugged looks, expressive green eyes, and muscular physique. His musical virtuosity with the guitar accompanied his crooning as he serenaded me with plaintive love songs. We were so madly in love with each other that we couldn't stay apart even for an hour. So we both quit the enviable corporate jobs we'd held for many years and moved out of town. I rented out my house and I joined Jonathan in Seattle—where it rained constantly. Oblivious of the suicide weather as they called it, we sang and danced in the rain and snow as we climbed mountains. Every moment was bliss. We were in paradise -- just the two of us. Nothing could keep me away from him -- not even my dream of finishing my novels.

         Then reality struck, and to my dismay the fairy tale ended with the appearance of Jonathan’s teenage son. I had not envisioned the possibility of his kid leaving his remarried mom and moving in with us. A son between Jonathan and me? Wow, that wasn’t the lifestyle I desired in my thirties. Suddenly, Mr. Romance was transformed to Mr. Dad – an ordinary man in my eyes -- stripped off his princely stature. I could have lived with that, till the son stole the diamond and emerald ring Jonathan gave me for my birthday. I packed my bags. Jonathan begged me to stay, insinuating that if I truly loved him, I would accept the baggage that came with the package. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was selfish, but my crystal ball showed many years of troubled times with the kid. My tears merged with Jonathan’s as we kissed each other for the last time.

          Another man, another love, another achy breaky heart; a fairy tale without the “happily-ever-after” ride in the sunset.

* * *

         Oh, dear me . . . Indeed, I once had a thriving career and a husband; still I wanted more. I chased the literary rainbow in my limited spare time. I thought the job and the marriage were interfering with the realization of the dream, so I gave them up. I found plenty of precious time to finish my first novel, only to discover my susceptibility and weakness to romantic disruptions. Three new men, three breakups, three new novels, and now there were four unfinished novels . . . and no man in my life. My karma?

         Disappointed and frustrated, I packed my bags to fulfill a much more attainable dream: France, Italy, England, Holland, Austria, Switzerland, Germany, and wherever my funds could take me. I rented a small villa in beautiful Sorrento, a small Italian city that overlooked the bay of Naples. The road to the cottage threaded around the high cliffs above the Mediterranean. It was a fully-furnished Italian abode, with a spacious bedroom and glass patio doors leading to a portico that provided a fabulous view of Mt. Vesuvius and the island of Capri. The large living room was tastefully furnished and decorated, with HDTV and WiFi. And this one was extra: a gourmet kitchen with a refrigerator filled with a variety of Swiss cheeses, Italian sausages and pastrami, as well as French wines, and other delectable offerings for my consumption. It was home away from home. What a great deal for one thousand Euros a month. According to the realtor management, the owner was primarily looking for a responsible individual who would take care of the house as though it was her own.

         Ah, yes. There was nothing better in winter to warm the body and soul than being wrapped in thick blankets on the deck, sipping the popular limoncello, a local potent drink made from lemon rinds, alcohol, water and sugar. It was heaven. I contracted it for two months, but I had a feeling that I would be extending the lease to two or more months.

         An authentic medieval style Thanksgiving Day dinner in a castle on the Rhine River; a seven-day Christmas in Rome and Vatican with the Pope, a four-day New Year’s celebration in Paris, a few days here and there all over Europe, and next thing I knew, two months had passed. I was in Munich, at the Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial, engrossed at the appalling sight of the crematory where the Nazis cooked the Jews, when I realized I had not notified the realtor of my desire to extend the lease. I tried to call the realtor but could not get a hold of him. I was not worried; after all, there had not been any notification that the house would be occupied by another renter after the end of my lease. Positive that they would be pleasantly surprised when I returned with the news, I didn’t bother to call again, especially since my cellular had lost all power.

         Oh, dear me . . . I was the one who was surprised when I found the note from the realtor informing me that I should have vacated the villa two days ago. I was devastated, and castigated myself for my procrastination. I would never be able to find such a perfect place for me. Well, might as well. I’d been spending so much money as if the world was ending early, I should be going back to the States. There was enough material for me to write plenty of travel articles for publication – enough to save for my next trip to Europe, maybe even Egypt and Israel. I should also focus on finishing at least one of the novels.

         Feeling the resurgence of inspiration to write again, I began to pack my bags, hoping the owner would be generous enough not to charge me for the extra two days in his house. I plugged my cell and dialed the realtor, but before he could answer, there was a knock on the door. Pretty sure it was the realtor. I was hoping I could make a quick getaway before he showed up; well, too late.

         It wasn’t the realtor. A bigger-than-life persona of Michaelangelo’s David loomed before me as I opened the door. Well, he just seemed that way at first glance with the sun behind him. He was actually a six-foot-five German in his forties, with thinning pony-tailed blondish hair, handsome face, nice body, and a mesmerizing accent—a blend of German, Italian, French and English, which he spoke fluently.

         "Hello," he greeted with a huge smile and a firm handshake. "You don't have to leave," he added.

         Hello Novel number five!

         Oh, dear me.