Step by step, day by day: A tribute to Susan Crosby
My very dear friend, Susan Crosby, passed away in early January, and I wanted to share with you, her readers, how very much she meant to so many of us in her community. As I wondered where to even start, I thought of a lesson Susan taught me long ago, when I was faced with what appeared to be the insurmountable task of completely gutting and rewriting a 100,000-word novel per my editor’s instructions.
I was sitting at my desk, staring at my manuscript, completely overwhelmed, and telephoned her in a panic. She told me to start with the easiest task, finish that, check it off my list, then move on to the next. Save the hard ones for last. And then she added: “Baby steps.”
It was exactly what I needed to hear at the time.
She imparted other great lessons over the years, but I kept coming back to this one as I stared at my computer screen, trying to gather my thoughts about how much she meant to so many of us Lodians. Perhaps because I was perplexed on what to write, I started humming the refrain from the Rodgers and Hammerstein tune: “How do you solve a problem like Maria?”
For those not familiar with the song, the nuns in the abbey lament that, while their novitiate, Maria, has a big heart and makes them laugh, she is always late, somewhat flighty, and has a problem sitting still long enough to listen. The final lyric about trying to hold onto something as elusive as “a moonbeam” perfectly sums up the impossibility of fitting Maria into their neatly ordered lives. It also fits with the difficulties of compressing everything I know about Susan Crosby on one page.
I laughed at the absurdity of applying this song to her — and know without a doubt that she’d have laughed as well — because if anyone held Maria’s less-admirable traits, it was me. (Just ask my husband.)
If Susan resembled anyone in that musical, it would be Mother Superior, who directed Maria to
climb every mountain. And, like the good Mother, Susan was never late, steadfast in her support, and filled with great wisdom. Susan not only listened, but actually heard what was being said. She instinctively knew what the underlying issue was, reading between the lines, even if the actual words weren’t spoken. And, after all was said (or not said), she knew how best to respond. Her empathy is what made her friendship truly special.
Something else that Susan excelled in was identifying a problem, then looking for a solution. When she hit that golden marker of Senior Citizen status, she recognized that there were few resources addressing the issues that people her age and older might encounter in their day-to-day lives. She was fierce in her determination to right a wrong or fill a need, and this one deserved attention, hence her approaching the Lodi News-Sentinel with the idea of writing a column directed toward seniors.
As most of her loyal readers know, Susan wrote books, many of which were published worldwide. She and I met in the early 1990s over our shared desire to become novelists. She wrote romance, while I leaned toward the mystery genre. We were critique partners. She read every one of my books, and I, every one of hers. Though some of her novels held titles that she would not have chosen (the publisher titled them for marketing purposes), the stories themselves were wonderful, and echoed what she carried in her own heart. She believed (as do I) that her stories empowered women. Love is the great healer. Because she loved deeply, she believed that others deserved to love and be loved. She found great joy in hearing from readers about how much her stories meant to them, and she made many more friends along the way all because of her books.
The life of a writer, however, is solitary, sitting in front of a computer screen for long hours each day. After over 40 books, Susan decided to retire from the constant deadlines of writing two and sometimes three books a year. She wanted to spend time with her five grandchildren, participate more at her church, and take a little time for herself and visit friends.
While she was my best friend, she was not the type to have a single “best” friend. Long ago, she told me that friendships need to be cultivated then nurtured. In this, she was a master gardener, devoting time to old and new acquaintances, having a particular knack for making each person feel special.
I could write an entire novel about Susan, and it still wouldn’t be long enough to share all she meant to those who knew her, whether personally, through her writing, or this column. I do know she would not want you to mourn her. She was a believer in the celebration of life. Even so, for some, it may be difficult in the beginning to navigate this new world without her, especially in such tumultuous times. If Susan were here, she’d remind us that, even if we falter, what seems impossible often is not. Take it day by day, she’d say, then add, “Baby steps.”