I have moved my writing office from the carriage house to the dining room, where I can keep a close eye on Marge, our nearly 13-year-old mutt and love of our loves. We returned home from seeing IT'S COMPLICATED (which, btw, isn't) on Saturday evening, and fed our dogs as usual. I noticed Marge acting uncomfortably after dinner, unable to rest or relax. She then started trying to vomit, but couldn't. She kept looking at us, and then her stomach, and Gary, thankfully, immediately, called our vet, who told us to rush her to the ER. Prognosis after X-rays? Turned stomach. Potentially life-threatening. Surgery, a must. Chances of survival? 50-50.

Just that day, Marge had played with her sis (as we call Mable, our two-year-old Labradoodle/Beagle mix), and gone on a walk. She had barked at deer in the woods; she had played tug-of-war with me on her stretchy, PetSmart duck toy she'd gotten for Christmas.

And, now, here she was, a needle going into her paw, me whispering into the softest ear I've ever known, "Hold on. You're my best friend."

Gary and I didn't sleep that night. As midnight turned to three a.m., and still no update, I thought the worst. She was old; she's had so many issues of late.

It has been a brutal past year or so. My mom passed away of cancer in June, and now the other girl in my life was fighting for her life. Why would God take my two best friends so soon? How could he test me so harshly and frequently?

I write memoirs, where I spill the most intimate details of my life. But, on a daily basis, my laptop -- along with Gary -- are really two of the few who I feel comfortable sharing such information. I have lost so many, that I have become guarded. I worry that as soon as I become close to someone, I will lose him or her again.

My mom and Marge were two of the few I could talk to without fear, knowing I would receive unconditional love. Take that away, and what are we left with?

I cried all night, as I waited to hear from the vet, so hard that the bed shook, my stomach ached, and Gary repeated, "Come back to me. Come back to me."

And, slowly, I did. A piece of me -- a very selfish part -- wondered if it might be for the best if Marge simply passed. She does not have much time left. She is old. She will get sicker. Could I care for another person I loved so much, try to nurse them back to health, believe, hope, hug, kiss, cater to and cajole, knowing, truly, the eventual outcome?

I thought, at 4 in the morning, of the ultimate irony of the projects in which I am deeply involved right now: A memoir on my mother and Erma Bombeck, two of the greatest influences in my life, women who taught me the power of believing in yourself and the fact that laughter can buoy you through life's tragedies; and the anthology I am editing, a collection of essays from some of America's favorite humorists about their dogs (I'M NOT THE BIGGEST BITCH IN THIS RELATIONSHIP!). The goal? To raise awareness and funds for strays/shelters/The Humane Society by making people laugh.

I thought of Marge fighting for her life, of how life can change so dramatically in the blink of an eye, of how we all must fight, every day, to survive.

That's when Gary leaned over to me, also unable to sleep, gauging my restlessness, and said, "Just think. Marge is getting the tummy tuck you never will."

And I started to laugh.

I shut my eyes and prayed for my mom to fly her ass to the ER. Stat! I told her I needed one of my best friends for just a little while longer. No matter how much caring I had to give. No matter how much time she had left. As long as Marge had the chance to be healthy again, I wanted her, those ears, those eyes. My feet were cold, dammit.

I learned from my mom -- a nurse and woman of great faith -- that is the nature of unconditional love.

You take the good with the bad. Death is simply a part of life. Only by risking your heart, your soul, can you find true love, true joy, true happiness.

And, then, as if on cue, Gary's cell rang. Marge had made it through surgery.

And, here she is, snoozing in front of me, sore, woozy, but resting.

When Marge catches me staring, her eyes widen, brighten, and her tail gives off a pathetic but telling thump, thump, thump.

She is home.

I remember what author, icon, and animal lover Rita Mae Brown told me when I sat next to her at an author's event in Charleston this fall. "Dogs don't know how much time they have left; they live in the moment. And what a blessing that is. Humans spend so much time fearing death, fearing the end, that we lose sight of the now, this very moment. If we could only be like dogs, even for a day."

I am trying to take her advice. No matter how much time Marge has, or I have, or any of us have, I plan to hit "Publish Post" on my blog, and then lay down beside her, to live in this moment, and whisper into her ear, "You're my best friend."

And I know, because it always happens, she will kiss me gently on the face, and I will sigh, and suddenly be centered, and somehow have, once again, the strength to take each day as it comes, to try and laugh, at least once a day, no matter how much my heart may be breaking.

Hey, Chicago writers, emerging writers and wanna-be writers!

Due to your requests, I have added and will be teaching a two-day, intensive writing seminar Friday, January 22, and Saturday, January 23.

Cost is $155.00 per person, and classes will run from 6-9:30 p.m. on Friday and from 9 a.m.-12:30 p.m. on Saturday (followed by a par-tee!).

My seminar focuses on "finding your voice, finding your way, and finding your agent," and it's truly an amazing adventure to be a part of ... writing groups have formed from my previous classes, agents have been piqued by prospective works, and long-lasting friendships have been formed. Most importantly, you will write and you will learn about real-world publishing and how to make it in this world.

We need 10 to make this a go!

The Book Cellar is a fabulous indy bookstore located in the heart of Lincoln Square (4736-38 N. Lincoln Avenue; 773-293-2665). What's especially cool is that they pair books and wine (Could there be a more fabulous idea?). So, we'll drink and learn. Wouldn't that have made sophomore year so much more doable?

RSVP for this one is directly through my man, Gary ... gary@waderouse.com

For more about the event, go to the following link:

http://www.bookcellarinc.com/calendar/index.php

Sorry for the short notice, but hope this works out! I love teaching these classes; I always promised myself -- after being dissed by so many writers in the past -- that I would try to give back as much as possible whenever I was asked. That's why I try and make the sessions so intensive and affordable.

xx,
Wade

So, I get an e-mail from Dyana, my fabulous publicist at Random House a couple of weeks ago, saying that the Post & Courier, Charleston, SC's daily newspaper (and one of the oldest dailies in the nation, with a 207-year history), is looking for a male humorist to join the panel for its mammoth Fall Book & Author Luncheon on November 5. I write back, of course, saying, in essence, "Though highly subjective, I am often considered both a male and a humorist. So, yes, I'm interested."

I wind up getting interviewed by the head of the Luncheon, a charming Southern woman named Robie (of course) and then invited to be on the panel! Turns out the Post & Courier Fall Book & Author Luncheon, which doubles as a fundraiser for LowCountry Literacy, is the largest and most prominent book and author event in the Southeast, drawing some 750 avid readers (and over 80 books) to a signing, author talk and formal, sit-down Southern luncheon.

Could it get any sweeter?

Yes!

The panel I'm a part this year includes icons Dorothea Benton Frank and Rita Mae Brown (one of the first "adult" authors I read and loved in my early 20s), along with novelists Jill McCorkle and JA Jance.

Still, I feel a bit of pressure both as a man and a humorist and a "northerner" to make them love me. So, I've been working hard on my 15-minute speech and picking out the right outfit ... if I could get away with wearing a Derby hat, I so would! (And still might)

Recent author alumni of the event have included Frank McCourt, Mickey Spillane, John Jakes, John Berendt, Elizabeth Gilbert, Sue Monk Kidd, Jacquelyn Mitchard, David Baldacci ...

I'll post pix after the event ... I've never been to Charleston and am so looking forward to the event and some Southern hospitality.

Next week is a blur: Chicago Public Library on Tuesday, and then to Northern Michigan to conduct a writers seminar at the great indy bookseller, Saturn, in Gaylord, as soon as I return from Charleston.

But, first: I must get in the Halloween spirit by listening to PARTY IN THE USA over and over ... I need to channel Miley. I'll be going out (in public) as Hannah Montana. And, damn if I don't look a little like the tween icon (with a lot of make-up, of course, and tucking to hide my great pumpkin, Charlie Brown)

xx,
Wade

It's not even fall, and I'm already seeing dizzying colors. Wish I could blame it on the leaves, but it's my schedule.

I hope you will be able to come see me at one of my many appearances around the Midwest this fall ... I start as a featured speaker at the Wisconsin Book Festival and end at the Chicago Public Library. I'm so looking forward to getting out, speaking, signing books and meeting more of you! Go to my Appearances page to see all my upcoming events.

And I'm thrilled to announce that -- due to demand and the success of my first writing seminar -- I will be conducting two more workshops: One October 12-14 (Mon-Weds), each night from 6-9 p.m., again at the fabulous Saugatuck Center for the Arts, and the other Friday November 6 (from 6-9:30pm) and Saturday November 7 ( from 11am until 4pm) at the incredible Saturn Booksellers in Gaylord, Michigan.

I love helping emerging writers ... so come spend a few nights with me doing what we love to do best (OK, second best).

Cost is $150.00 for the seminars. To register at the SCA, please call 269 857-2399 or e-mail: info@sc4a.org

For more on my class at the SCA, go to:

http://www.sc4a.org/classes_adults.php#rouse

To register at Saturn, please call 989-732-8899, or go to:

http://saturn.indiebound.com/event/writing-seminar-wade-rouse

(There's a link to e-mail on the page, too)

Following is more on my seminar ...

WRITING CLASS WITH WADE ROUSE

“Finding Your Voice”
Whether writing your first novel, mystery, or memoir, “voice” is the key to your success. Before you write a word, find out not only what you want to say but how you want to say it. Voice – not topic – is what sets every writer apart and serves as his greatest chance of success. Creative exercises to help each writer find his or her own unique voice.

“Finding Your Way”
Now that you’ve found your voice, you need to find your way to the end. In addition to loads of courage, talent and time, you need structure. What makes a compelling plot? How do you create compelling characters? How do you write a memoir? How do successful writers channel that narrative flow? Tips and creative exercises to finish that first book.

“Finding Your Agent”
Now, you have a book. But it doesn’t have a home. Publishing sources report that 99.9 percent of all queries to literary agents are rejected. And you thought writing was the hard part? So what makes the perfect pitch? The perfect query letter? How do you beat the odds, and become part of that elite group? Learn how to craft the perfect query, approach agents, and secure a reputable literary agent who can sell your book to a major publisher. Also learn what it’s like after your book is published: What to expect when working with a major editor and publisher, how to market yourself, blog and deliver your own publicity.

So, I go to this Food Festival, the Taste of Saugatuck, over the weekend, where I not only run headfirst into a buttload of kabobs but also Bump-Its.

Our riverfront and boardwalk was just sick with women who looked like a kitten fight was going on in the back of their hair.

Now, I'm addicted to those late-night medical shows, where they show people who have wings instead of arms, or a mole so big it's drinking a mojito, smoking a cigar and winking at you ... Well, this was worse. I mean, I'd seen the Bump-It commercials on TV, but I'd never really paid attention to what the product made you look like up close. Here, in broad daylight, it looked one out of every five partygoers had suffered a severe head injury. Worse? They kinda thought they were rockin' the house. From the side, they looked like they were about to give birth through their noggins, like some sort of whacked-out, overly made-up Zeuses (in tunic tops).

So, I FB about all this on Monday, and the response is overwhelming. My literary agent (the whirlwind that is Wendy Sherman) notices this and e-mails me, noting all the activity. "You should do a Bump-It video!" she says.

Lesson: You never want to give an exhausted gay couple (one with a broken toe) that's just been on tour all summer and whose family has just departed a bad idea. They will jump all over it like lions on elk, simply to blow off steam.

I head out that afternoon to a meeting for a writers seminar I'm conducting this fall, and when I return I'm greeted by Gary -- in full drag, our dogs going ape-shit -- posing with the BUNDT IT on top of his head which, as he said as I emerged from the SUV, "This kicks the Bump-It's ass all over the place."

A homemade video (not porn, sorry to say ... I mean, a toe ensconced in tape and an orthopedic shoe is so not hot) ensued that very night. And the results? Well, see for yourselves. Just meander over to my home page, click on the YouTube link at the bottom and then on the Bundt-It video.

We'll see you on HSN, Joan Rivers!

So, Gary says to me this morning, as Marge and Mable were spooning us in a loving, and not creepy whatsoever, way: "You are officially done with your book tour. How's it feel?"

I feel ... tired. And blessed. And emotional.

This has been a bittersweet summer, highlighted by the success of my memoir, underlined by the death of my mom.

I remember talking to her over the phone when she was in the hospital, as AT LEAST IN THE CITY was being talked about on The Today Show (I had seen it an hour earlier ET). "My son on the Today Show!" she had said. I will never forget that moment.

In June I traveled to Grand Rapids, Ann Arbor, Lansing, Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Louis. This month, I headed to northern Michigan, and did events in Petoskey, Gaylord, Traverse City, Holland and Saugatuck.

I have done radio and TV. Gotten great reviews and bad. And been greeted by mega-crowds at nearly every bookstore where I've done an event. Gary has been by my side the whole time, supporting me, helping me, entertaining the crowds. He is not only half my life, he is half my act. I am blessed.

But now it's time for a little routine. I love a good routine ... same foods (Kashi and a latte, please), exercise, and, most importantly, writing.

My fourth memoir, WHY IS SANTA TAKING DADDY'S LIPITOR?, a holiday memoir, is in the can, and awaiting a pub date from my publisher. And now I will begin working on my fifth, tentatively titled: "ME, MY MOM & ERMA: How I Learned to Live with Passion and Laugh through Tragedy from Two Great Women." It's about my mom and Erma Bombeck, and how their humor and zest for life buoyed me through every critical juncture of mine. I am also working on a TV pilot based on AT LEAST IN THE CITY.

"How's it feel?" Gary asked me again this morning, as our mutts sighed and nuzzled a bit closer.

"Like a dream," I said, before adding, "And like it's time to get back to work."

My apologies for the blogging delay ... from some of the responses, you'd have thought I was the one who forced Paula Abdul to leave Idol. Settle, everyone! Free lithium for all next time, OK?

But I've been prepping for my writing seminar next week (testing out my ruler, my chalk and walking around in my smart-sexy teacher heels) ...

... guest-blogging for The Debutante Ball (www.thedebutanteball.com ... I'm a Deb for a day on Saturday, August 15!) as well as for www.abunchofwordz.wordpress.com) ...

while readying myself for the next leg of my book to northern Michigan (Hello, resort towns of Petoskey, Gaylord and Traverse City!) ...

and also nervously pacing/waiting to hear my editor and publisher's reaction to my next memoir, tentatively titled, WHY IS SANTA TAKING DADDY'S LIPITOR?: And Other Heartwarming Holiday Tales." (Yes, it's a holiday memoir ... one to which I think we can all relate -- filled with loads of love and dysfunction -- but this book has a twist: It's a FULL YEAR of holidays, including Easter, Arbor Day, Mother's Day, 4th of July, anniversary, even Barbie's big b-day.) I adore this book, and think it has a chance to resonate with loads of readers. I mean, what defines family more than its holidays? What defines America more than its holidays? And each family celebrates every holiday in such a unique way ... and, boy, did we.

Speaking of family, it was recently my mom's birthday. As you know, she passed away in late June, and she would have been 71 on August 1.

Each day brings a new set of difficulties and triumphs, laughter and tears, and boatloads of heartache. I miss her desperately, and some days I just want to go back to sleep so I can dream of her, see us again floating in the creek, our butts hanging through innertubes. To help me celebrate her life, Gary has planted a memorial garden in her honor, which I can see right outside our kitchen window. He's filled it with some of her favorite plants and colors (PURPLE! LOTS OF PURPLE!), as well as a cross, a photo of her from our old cabin watering her beloved butterfly bushes (which attracted hundreds), and a stone etched with the word that truly defined my mom: "Grace." I have watered that garden -- with hose and tears -- many times already. It's a wonderful place to sit and think about my mom, my life, my writing, my path in life.

After my mom's funeral, I brought many things back with me, which I am slowly going through when I have the strength (the photos, right now, are a bit too tough). However, I discovered -- in this old Get Smart-esque briefcase -- my old coin collection. And it's filled with treasure: Coins from the 1800s, buffalo nickels, ancient silver dollars, bicentennial souvenirs. I forgot how much time I spent collecting coins -- looking for them, polishing them, putting them in protective coverings, researching their value -- with my grandfather. It was my mom's idea, this coin collecting, as a way to bond me to her father. And it worked. We spent countless hours with our eyes over a magnifying glass, studying coins, talking, getting to know one another. I remember bringing my "finds" to my grampa, and he would beam. Slowly, however, I grew tired -- as any kid does -- of this hobby, and I moved on ... to Pez. (You heard me ... I was a chubby freak as a kid. I used to mainline that nasty-ass candy, but I loved my little footless friends. And I write about them in WHY IS SANTA TAKING DADDY'S LIPITOR?)

Gary and I spent a few hours the other day looking at the coins, which, of course, led us to looking up their current value online. Some have increased greatly, some are about the same, and some are worth a tidy sum of cash. But I already know I will never sell them. They will stay in that case forever, in my writing office, just like my Pez, and remind me -- as the memorial garden does -- of my mom.

Because no money can ever replace the memories of her, or how she secretly bonded me with her father, or the fact that she was, like the stone in our memorial garden says, the epitome of "grace".