"Life would not be worth living without salsa."

I first met a woman named Judith Heinz when she called me one day, desperate for help with a crashed hard drive. It contained the only copy of a book she was writing called, “Diary of a Whacked-Out Bitch.” I did what I could for her but while I was working on it she found an older version somewhere and went on from there.

Judy started her own publishing company in order to publish her book and was quite pleased to tell me that she had arranged for “Diary of a Whacked-Out Bitch,” published in 1992 by Windbag Books, to be carried in local B. Dalton Bookseller outlets. This was long before the days of print-on-demand, the world wide web, and most of the related technologies writers and publishers use today. I was impressed and given my own literary aspirations, envious that she was pursuing her dream so fervently.

We saw each other socially a few times, lunch or coffee get-togethers, but we never really dated. Judy was very attractive but bohemian with a capital B and I was an uptight office worker trapping myself in a career I didn’t really want. I think both of us knew that it wouldn’t have worked out with very well.

When her book was published, Judy either brought or mailed me a copy. Inside was a handwritten note dated December 7th, 1992 telling me that she hoped I liked the book and that I should call her for a drink some time. Also included was her phone number.

I never called it. In fact, I don’t think I ever spoke to Judy again.

I couldn't read her book, either, though I tried. I remember starting it and enjoying her sense of humor and her light yet poignant writing style. But when I got to the part where she wrote about her suicide attempt I had to put it down. I hadn’t known Judy all that well but I knew her well enough to see her pain reflected in the words she had written. And I knew myself well enough to know it was too much for me to read.

Her book is still on my shelf and I pulled it down the other day, thinking about giving it another try after thirteen or so years of distance. On a whim I looked her up on Amazon to see if she’d even gone on to write more books. Someone posted a review that wasn’t really a review, just a mean-spirited, jackass comment about the author blowing her head off with a revolver.
Using Google I tried to find out more about Judy, her book, or her publishing company. I couldn’t find anything new so I don’t know if she’s around somewhere or not.

Apparently some of us aren’t wired for happiness in life. I wouldn’t call myself a happy person, not how I’d like to think I should be. I have an incredible wife and a wonderful family but for some reason I’m always looking forward to where I want to go, to where I want to see us all end up. It’s better than living in the past, I suppose, but it also comes at the expense of not appreciating where we are today. The worst part is that sometimes a bit of it seems to rub off on those around me. I don’t believe there’s anything really wrong with me, it’s just the way I am and I work on it the best I can. I thought Judy may have been the same way.

Her pain was clear in her book but so was her joy, her love of her birds, and her sense that life really could be a wonderful thing if she could just figure out how to make it so. You can still buy copies of “Bitch” from Amazon's Marketplace and I would hope that people out there do so and think good thoughts of Judy. It may be the best way left to get to know a person worth knowing. Perhaps another message can be found, too, one that overshadows whatever tragedies may have befallen her life.

I never knew Judy Heinz well. In truth I barely knew her at all and we could probably pass each other on the street today without recognizing each other. But how I wish that could happen, at least once. I really do.