CALIFORNIA, CENTRAL COAST: December, 2009 (Part 4)

William had learned to trust my travel plans. Look, if you're not going to marry an ideas guy, at least marry a go-along-with-the-ideas guy.

I pored over guides and checked out spots online. I put together a ten-day trip that would turn into a marriage of travel and vacation. We would be on the move, as I defined travel, but so would we be still and quiet in places worthy of contemplation and relaxation.

We spent two days over Christmas with William's brother, wife and three small children. It was gift-filled, food-filled, laughter-filled and screaming overloaded kids filled. On that high-pitched note we drove off to explore our state and our state.

We traveled along curvy highways with deep forests on either side of us and stopped in a National park to hike in a redwood forest. William's parents had given him a fancy digital camera for Christmas and as he clicked away at squirrels and trees I walked ahead into the deep silence and piney air of the timberland. We passed occasional fellow hikers but mostly we were alone.

What would the new decade bring? I wondered and walked the pine-needled ground. What was important? I looked over my shoulder at William and saw a man, content. The dismay of the New Orleans job had waned. Our summer had been spectacular together, in our house, with our pets and writing. Peace, purpose and creativity in balance.

The camera immediately transformed William into a man observing. This was new. In the past if I squealed when spotting an unusual cornice on a rooftop, William would roll his eyes. Now he was studying and appreciating.

You know, we better super-enjoy this time, I called to him.

Why?

Because you will work again. You'll be super-busy and we'll wish for days like this.

You think so?

I know so.

CALIFORNIA, CENTRAL COAST: December, 2009 (Part 3)

Every year since we first visited Hawaii in 2005, William and I had managed to fit in return trips to the islands. We tried out the Big Island, Maui, and Kauai again. Vacation had become a regular word in our lexicon...until 2009, when we had to change, a little. William couldn't find work for ten months and we had to cut back.

We hunkered down in our house. We ate in most nights. Restaurant meals were a treat. I didn't buy new clothes, which wasn't a big loss since I don't like shopping and I spend most of my time in blue jeans or pajamas anyway. We watched television, played Scrabble and I wrote.

William went to a few Dodger games and I went to the movies. Some days we worried that it would be always thus and how could we possibly maintain? The economic picture worldwide continued in a bleak fashion. At school, the Shakespeare Club children exhibited their own signs of stress by lashing out, or showing sadness and depression. At home, their parents and caretakers were juggling the possibilities of homes and jobs lost.

Steering these kids into a comedy lightened the emotional load somewhat but I worried about them as much as I considered the future for us at home.

Even then we realized we were among the lucky few with food on the table and a roof overhead. As autumn approached and winter set in we decided to find an alternative to Hawaii.

Let's explore our own state, I suggested.

Where?

I don't know...maybe up the coast. Have you ever been in a redwood forest or to Carmel or San Simeon, for example?

Maybe when I was a kid...I don't remember.

People come from Germany to see our coastline. Let's go.

CALIFORNIA, CENTRAL COAST: December, 2009 (Part 2)

And Susan laid out her idea that I should start a blog about the Shakespeare Club in order to build an audience. She said, I think we submitted the book to publishers too soon and in the wrong climate. This story is not a Bush-era book; it's more an Obama-era book.

I blinked and blinked again. We were into year two of not selling this story and yet she wasn't dumping me? I listened to Susan, full of optimism, chat about publishing reinventing itself and people continuing to read in even greater numbers and where my book would fit into the bigger scheme.

Outside the restaurant, crowds bustled up and down Ninth Avenue. The sun shone on this day in June. Taxis honked and look, a dancer off to class and maybe a singer off to rehearsal and soon I would be off to start a blog.

William helped me set it up. I chose Elizabethan wallpaper for the site and started to write. I selected accompanying pictures and William took case of editing and layout. We went to yoga classes together. For a couple with few surface interests in common, we leaned on each other like two sheets of plywood forming a roof.

I knew enough about the realities of a career in writing to know there isn't much money in having a book published. There could be, down the line, if it was a success and if you have an agent who has a passion for ancillary rights, but simply writing a book and having the luck to get it published ain't going to make you rich.

I never became an actor to get rich, and I succeeded. I was on a similar path with my writing career. I wrote because I had to, as I had acted, because there was little choice. The craving to communicate simply exists and the need is for audience.

From the first week that my blog was published I had audience. One, two, three and then a thousand hits. I'd been writing screenplays and television scripts for years with no audience and then writing books with no audience and now, out there in the universe, strangers were reading the stories of my willing little kids into the world of William Shakespeare.

That summer I also noticed something:

When I wrote, the prickly itchy heat on my neck stopped.

CALIFORNIA, CENTRAL COAST: December, 2009 (Part 1)

In May of 2009, the Shakespeare Club performed "Twelfth Night." William pitched in by making CDs of music and sound effects for the show, grabbing lunches, and, most importantly, taking me out for an obligatory margarita or three after a long day of performances.

I'm so proud of you, Mel, he said as we clinked our fancy glasses together.

In June I attended my fourth year of the writers' conference and my second annual lunch with my agent in New York City. As I walked through Manhattan on my way to the restaurant, I prepared myself for a breakup. One could hardly blame her for writing me off. I imagined she might say something like, I miscalled this one and because of the way publishing is these days, your book is simply not right for any shelf or any market, anywhere.

And I would be sanguine, professional and walk away gracefully. Hell, it's not like I hadn't had tons of practice with rejection in my acting career...except that...I was hoping my writing would make up for those busted acting dreams, that I would find an audience again and—

I opened the restaurant door to face my agent.

There she sat, elegant and calm, as usual. If she was about to wield an axe she certainly looked cool about it.

Let's talk about a plan, Susan started.

A plan? I gulped.

Where was she going with this? I was ready, my shield was shiny and my lines were rehearsed. A plan?