Yesterday, I posted about one of the many reasons that I love writing fiction: It’s nice to have total control over something. Today was one of those days when I’m reminded I have no control over much of anything.
When I lived in San Diego many years ago, I was part of a small women’s support group. We met every other week, rotating between our houses, sharing with the sort of intimacy that women are so fortunate to enjoy. Michele Moomaugh was one of those women. To me, she was inspirational. A decade older and ever so much wiser and more worldly than me, I saw her as something of a sage. We worked for the same agency in the late seventies, Social Advocates for Youth, but she went on to start her own business and became an extraordinary businesswoman. More than that, she was generous and loving and probably the least judgmental person I’ve ever known–the sort of person every support group needs to stay grounded.
The world lost her this past weekend in an automobile accident. I’m still reeling from the news, and it’s hard to write fiction when reality is so impossible to set aside.
I’ve kept the above picture on my desk since the early eighties. I treasure it as a reminder of a time when the support of four women made a huge and positive impact on my life. From left, they’re Pilar Humphries, Suzanne Schmidt, Michele, me, and Cher Johnson.
Tomorrow, I’ll go back to writing, but tonight my thoughts are with Michele’s husband and son.