Shh. Don’t tell my Dell. This is probably the last blog post I’ll ever type on her beaten keyboard, where the e and the a and the o are almost completely worn away. She has been malfunctioning lately, going black, going bright blue with dire warnings, going going gone. She is the computer I started my alleged writing “career” on almost five years ago, when I didn’t know there was a word count feature or how to copy and paste or clear my cookies.

She’s seen a lot. In her quiet blocky, boxy way, she’s hogged the desk and put up with ignorance and incompetence with insouciance. She was with me as I cried with joy when I finaled in the Avon contest and felt like a real writer for the first time. She’s gloried in the granddaughters’ pictures and the rest of the family slide show. She didn’t judge either me or the agent when I got this rejection: “I would like to see the next project you work on though. This project doesn’t fit my needs, but I like you’re [sic] writing and your credentials are good.” She’s gathered dust and crumbs and never complained. She’s kept me in touch with old friends and helped me make new ones. She’s survived fatal errors and viruses and highjacking. She was the inspiration for Third-Rate Romance, when she went into a coma and I had to write something.

This week she’s getting a new sibling, who I hope will bring me as much luck, lunacy and laughter as she’s provided in this half-decade of half-baked writing. She holds all my secrets, most of which I pray I’ve backed up on my pendrive just in case she can’t be rebooted in her new location. I want to thank her from the bottom of my crusty, shriveled heart for dragging me valiantly into the twenty-first century. Love you, Dell I.

Have you had any computer disasters? Got a warm feeling for your toaster or another appliance? Spill, but not on the keyboard.

Fair warning: Not one word past the first and last paragraphs are mine. The following was e-mail sent to me by my friend Claudia, who has known me over three decades but loves me just the same. It made me cry. Happy Mother’s Day to all the quiet architects out there, and blessings upon you works-in-progress.

***

Invisible Mothers…It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I’m on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I’m thinking, ‘Can’t you see I’m on the phone?’ Obviously not; no one can see if I’m on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I’m invisible. The Invisible Mom.

Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this ? Can you tie this? Can you open this?

Some days I’m not a pair of hands; I’m not even a human being. I’m a clock to ask, ‘What time is it?’ I’m a satellite guide to answer, ‘What number is the Disney Channel?’ I’m a car to order, ‘Right around 5:30, please.’I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude – but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She’s going, she’s going, she’s gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic,when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, ‘I brought you this.’ It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn’t exactly sure why she’d given it to me until I read her inscription:’To Charlotte, with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.’

In the days ahead I would read – no, devour – the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: No one can say who built the great cathedrals -we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, ‘Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.’ And the workman replied,’Because God sees.’I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, ‘I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you’ve done, no sequin you’ve sewn on, no cupcake you’ve baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can’t see right now what it will become.’

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don’t want my son to tell the friend he’s bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, ‘My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.’ That would mean I’d built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add,’You’re gonna love it there.’

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we’re doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.

***

And after all that loveliness, come click over to give me your perspective on mothers in fiction on my Mother’s Day Romantic Inks post!

It occurs to me as I blog in three (!!!) different places, that some day I might run out of words. I think about the four full manuscripts I’ve completed, and the dozen or so novellas that have yet to find a happy published home. It’s probably my fault, since I haven’t been terribly aggressive or organized about querying or craft, or consistent in any one genre. Nor have I entered many contests. My luck with the first one I entered (first place!!!) has made me not want to jinx anything.

I recently broke down though and entered Mistress by Midnight in something. Mind you, the book is unfinished and has no plot to speak of, just a lot of angsty, thwarted desire and a generous dollop of indoor and outdoor sex. I want to get it finished by this year’s Golden Heart. My last foray into Golden Heartdom resulted in scores of a 9, an 8.8, an 8.5, a 6….and a 2. Someone did not like Third-Rate Romance, LOL. Which just goes to show how very subjective reading, writing and publishing is. But one judge liked TRR enough to give it a perfect score. That’s the judge I’ll concentrate on when I’m muddling through the mucky middle of MBM wondering what to type next.

But aiming for the Golden Heart presumes I’ll still be uncontracted by November. This summer will mark five years of haphazard writing for me. Those five years include four moves and three job changes. If it sounds like I’m making excuses, I’m not. I’m pretty stunned I’ve written as much as I have, even if you wouldn’t want to read most of it. *g*

Five years seems like a long time. I’ve avoided thinking about how long. But I want to someday see “Maggie Robinson sold the ___th of ______ completed manuscripts. She has been writing for _____years.”

And then? Why, I’ll have to write another book! What if I’ve used up all my words by then, or lost all my marbles? I’ve decided to cut back my MRMR posts to once a week. Maggie Robinson Means Romance on Mondays, with the possible exception of something earth-shattering to share, like fellow Vixen J.K. Coi’s debut My Immortal on May 15 (Check out the dynamite review she got here ). Every now and again there will be a contest. I’ll still post Sundays on Romantic Inks and every two weeks on Vauxhall Vixens. That’s plenty of Maggie, plenty of meaning, and I’ll have more time to focus on the romance part.

I filled out a questionnaire the other day so I could win a bundle of books. One of the questions was, “How many hours do you spend online every day?” I lied and said 1-2 hours. I feel like an alcoholic looking for my next bottle of blue ruin already, but I’ve GOT to limit my online obsession. It’s time to go on an Internet diet. Let’s see how long I last!

Now, if I could just lose twenty pounds, things would be perfect. What do you give up in order to find the time to write, or lose the extra weight? Garciniacambogiatopic.com has the Dr Oz weight loss guide, has anyone read that? Any suggestions as to how I can avoid clicking on to Internet Explorer 1,000 times a day? Do I need to join a 12-step addiction program or where to buy quest bars? Will you be sitting next to me in the church basement?

You remember Henny Penny. She was that chicken who kept running around warning the sky was falling, because an acorn hit her on the head. “The sky is falling” has come to indicate an alarmist who’s lost touch with reality, or a hysterical gloom-and-doomer.

Guilty as charged. Just call me Henny and hand me an umbrella. Lately lots of acorns seem to be raining down. One in four American teenage girls has a sexually transmitted disease. Thousands of children in Angola, Congo and the Congo Republic are being cast out of their families as witches and left to fend for themselves, or even killed. An American kid drops out of high school every 26 seconds. A survey of American teenagers by the education advocacy group Common Core found that fewer than half the respondents knew when the Civil War (that’s the War Between the States to my southern friends) took place. Twenty percent didn’t know whom we fought against in WWII, twenty-five percent couldn’t identify Hitler. The U.S. has five percent of the world’s population but almost twenty-five percent of its prisoners. Something like 47 million Americans have no health insurance. Gas is $3.50 a gallon. Linens ‘n Things is filing for bankruptcy. The latter doesn’t seem so serious, but there are widespread retail store bankruptcy/closures across the U.S. which is going to impact a lot of people. It’s damned hard to find good news.

I read to escape inconvenient reality, so of course I picked up Paris: The Secret History by Andrew Hussey. Fabulous book, but talk about thousands of years of blood running through the streets (and you thought it was limited to the French Revolution). Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. “We’ll always have Paris” might not be such a good thing, no matter what Bogey said to Bergman in Casablanca.

So, cheer me up—or wallow in the pit of despair with me. What’s your favorite funny book guaranteed to make be smile again? Share your good news or your worries about the future. We’re all in this together. Liberté, égalité, fraternité!