Tuesday, December 16, 2008

I Love New Yor-or-ork





My love affair with New York has been long, and like any long-term relationship, full of ups and downs. But right now, I feel like we're on our second honeymoon, The City and I. It all began when I was little, the first time my parents brought me to their company’s annual meeting in Manhattan. We stayed at the Marriott Marquis, right in Times Square. With all of New York City at our feet, nothing compared to the crazy spaceship-like all glass superspeed elevators, like something out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. But I also remember Rockefeller Center, the Christmas tree and decorations, ice skating. I remember FAO Schwartz, ribbon candy from Fannie Mae, an exotic pizza place called Sbarro's.

The affair continued in my teen years when I set off with two friends for a day trip to New York. We took Septa to Trenton and NJ Transit into the big city. We went to the top of the Empire State Building, to Macy’s, to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. We posed in front of the bull on Wall Street, a hand on each of the bull's butt cheeks.

And then I was ready to commit, to take the relationship to the next level--I moved it. Three years I spent living in the Bronx, exploring all five boroughs, and when college was over and I moved to California, I left feeling I had unfinished business, sure I would be back. We were on a break, but not breaking up I told myself.

But after a year on the West Coast, I had changed. I told New York it was me, not it. I settled in Philly, tried to keep up an affair with NYC, going to visit what seemed like every month for years. But like any long distance relationship, the distance took its toll. Time between visits grew larger and larger. I felt I didn't even know New York anymore.

Then this summer, I felt a taste of that old infatuation again. After a long weekend in August, attending the U.S. Open, staying in my friend's gorgeous West Village apartment (the same friend who planted his hand on the bull's butt cheek fifteen years ago) I wanted more. Suddenly New York had the old draw, the hypnotic appeal that lured me there in the first place. I just wanted to be in it.

A brief visit in November was just a tease. Only time to drive by Louis Vuitton, Tiffany's, Bergdorf's--places I've never visited, but in my new rosy view of the city added to its appeal. More, I needed more! So we returned last weekend. Visited some of my favorite places--the New York Botanical Gardens, where we saw the miniature New York, made of botanical materials for the Train Show (pictured above). We ate on Arthur Ave, at Ann and Tony's, one of my favorite Italian restaurants, and walked Fordham's campus, providing me some visceral memories of what it was like to be 18, 19, 20, 21 in New York City.

And then we ventured to an unknown part of New York, somewhere I'd always wanted to go--Coney Island.

What's happening in Coney Island on a Sunday morning in December? Not much. A handful of people walking on the beach and boardwalk. An icy wind blowing from the sea, stinging my skin through my pants. Sea shells mixed with broken glass and cigarette butts on the sand. Horseshoe crabs. Growling Rottweilers guarding amusement parks behind barbed wire. Boarded up windows. A sign that says "Shoot the Freak Paint Ball - Live Human Targets." A tree decorated with plastic bags. Customers in the original Nathan's Hot Dogs at 9:30 am.

I was surprised that it was a beach. I didn't know the Atlantic Ocean came right up to New York City like that. Do people lie on the beach there? Swim in the water? Surf? I don’t know. But I left with even greater love for New York. Because where else can you find Coney Island? What other city has so many places, so dear to me, and also an endless variety of new places to see and explore?

Me and New York. We're totally back together.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Talking 'Bout the Big D

No, I don't mean divorce. Or Dallas. Discouragement is the one. I've been in a funk of discouragement over the book for the past 10 odd days. But progress is being made. First of all, I had a good work session today, the first really satisfying one since the discouragement set in. Second, I'm feeling hope and optimism work their way back into my heart. And third, I've been much calmer than usual about this round of discouragement. Less panicky. Less resistant. I've been through this several times at least with the book, and so I guess I'm learning to ride it out. I know I lived through the last few times, and afterwards I still wanted to write in general, and more specifically the novel, so maybe I'm developing some faith. Learning to accept all parts of the process, the smooth riding parts and the bumpy ones. Not that it's comfortable. It's not. But I have some tools now. I have some things that I know work, that I know help. Here's my list:

1. Artist dates--I do more than usual, and I do better ones than usual. Last week I had a French party complete with a French film, an almond croissant, and a glass of the beaujeaulais nouveau.

2. Walking. Walking really helps. Literally putting one foot in front of the other. Gets me out of my head, into my body, provides a change of scenery, food for my senses, and somehow just helps things to settle out, my thoughts to untangle, my heart to quiet.

3. Talking to Claire, my novelist friend. She provides encouragement, insight and empathy. What a gift.

4. Being extra nice to myself. This means sleeping in. This means little treats like M&Ms, this means humoring whims, any little thing that may lift my spirits.

5. Reading Julia Cameron. I'm not currently working with The Artist Way or any of Julia's books, but I'll look in the index, under say, discouragement. Her words are often just the medicine I need.

6. Seeing friends, especially ones who make me laugh, which come to think of it, is all my friends.

7. Going to my job. Yes, this helped enormously over the last week. Because I couldn't feel productive in my writing, it really helped to feel productive in another area of my life.

8. Basking in the light of my Christmas tree.

9. Moving things around the house.

10. Cooking.

What are your strategies for dealing with discouragement, or just a good old fashioned funk? I'd love to know.

Maybe coming out of discouragement is like getting over a migraine. At first, I just feel the absence of pain, then each day I get a bit less foggy until I feel back to normal. I may not be quite at normal yet, but I'm getting there.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Giving Thanks

Obvious topic, I know, but a good one.

Here is my stream of consciousness list of things for which I am grateful:

1. My in-laws, who sure know how to party down at weddings.
2. My upcoming trip to Disney World
3. Christmas
4. Advent
5. Thanksgiving
6. My Grandmom Wade
7. My Grandmom Owsik
8. Stuffing
9. Gravy
10. Cranberry sauce
11. Champagne
12. Earth, Wind, and Fire
13. Manhattan
14. The Bronx
15. Mike's Pizza
16. Writer friends
17. My novel
18. Pat Rogers, S.J.
19. Any rockin' dance floor
20. My 1997 Cadillac Catera
21. River Side East hot dog stand in Elmwood Park, NJ.
22. My four nephews and two nieces
23. My buddy Julian and his awesome dance moves
24. New friends
25. Old friends
26. My new tv
27. My repurposed armoire, now holding our new tv
28. My warm and cozy house
29. My little collages that decorate my house
30. My cozy bed
31. Feathers to wear in my hair
32. Black sequin clutch purses
33. A 15 year old dress that still looks good and still fits
34. Weddings
35. Choirs
36. Trumpets
37. Funky dresses on Manhattan girls
38. Brothers and sisters in law
39. Chihauhaus
40. Maggie the puppy
41. Cousins that feel like siblings
42. Brothers
43. Parents
44. Narberth
45. Beaujeaulais nouveau (sp?)
46. The Metropolitan Museum of Art
47. The New Yorker
48. Fordham University
49. Suzy Lutjen O'Connor
50. Mermaids

What are you grateful for?

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Comparing Myself With Myself

Today my writer friend Claire asked me how the book was going. "It's going really well," I said. "I had a great writing session today, I feel very excited about the scene I'm editing." I was full of enthusiasm. Then I said, "Well, but it never feels like enough."

Which is true. No matter how much I work on the book in a given day, it doesn't feel like enough. As I kept talking I realized that all this time, I've been comparing myself with other writers, like Cormac McCarthy, who goes to an office, and works an 8 hour day on his novels (at least according to his nephew, who told me this.) Talking to Claire today I realized that I have been beating myself up all year because I don't follow the McCarthy schedule. (And I hated the only book of his I've read!)

My dirty little secret is that on days I don't have to go to my job, I spend somewhere around two hours working on the book. Some days I have two two-hour sessions, some days, when I'm really feeling it, I'll work four straight. But on an average day, about two hours is what I spend writing and revising, with maybe some research or administrative stuff in addition. And, I guess I can count time I spend thinking about the book while walking and time for Artist Dates to refuel my imagination, so maybe add a few more hours a week for that. And if I'm being very generous with myself, I would count time I spend meditating, food shopping, preparing meals, and generally taking care of myself so that I can write. And then if you add in the time I spend reading, and writing this blog, I guess I get a lot closer to a full-time work schedule.

Even still the (inner) critic says, "Well, maybe the book would be done already if you spent eight hours a day on it." When the critic speaks I look for the fear. In this case, I'm afraid that I'm wasting time. That I'm not finishing fast enough. But when I look at these fears rationally, I see that I'm not wasting much time, just a normal amount, and that fast enough is a relative term. I didn't finish fast enough to prevent me having to go back to work, but that's okay. And if I'm still not done in a few months, when this job is over, I'll get another job. ("In this economy?" asks the critic. He's such a downer.)

What I need to do is let go of the outcome. Let go of my worry about what will happen to the book when it's done, and just keep taking my next small step. The book is incubating in my mind and heart and soul, and it responds much better to small and gentle goals than to me screaming at it to hurry up already.

So maybe it's okay to only write for two hours a day, at least for now. Maybe slow motion really will get me there faster. I need to stop comparing myself to other writers and do what works for me. If I compare myself now to myself of a few years ago, now I write almost every day for at least an hour. That's a hell of a lot more writing than I used to do. So I'm making progress. I need to remember that there are many different paths to the same place. And I think if I can muster up a little more faith and a little more confidence, I'll be more productive, even if it is only for two hours a day.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Encouragement from Dead Authors

“Well, I tell you these things to show you that working is not grinding but a wonderful thing to do; that creative power is in all of you if you give it just a little time; if you believe in it a little bit and watch it come quietly into you; if you do not keep it out by always hurrying and feeling guilty in those times when you should be lazy and happy. Or if you do not keep the creative power away by telling yourself that worst of lies—that you haven’t any.”

The above quote is from a book called If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland. I came across it in my attic last week, and found myself standing in that dusty sunlit room, absorbed into its pages for so long that Carl wondered what had happened to me and came looking. My parents bought this book for me when they came to visit me in San Diego in 1999. We went walking at the beautiful park called Embarcadero, down on the water, but still close to downtown. There’s a small book store there, the kind with floor to ceiling shelves, stacks of books haphazardly arrayed and a coffee bar squeezed into the middle of the chaos. I’m sure we spent a happy hour in there, (my mom and I could easily pass days in bookstores in complete contentment) and we left with several purchases, including If You Want to Write.

I had determined in 1999, while living in San Diego, that I wanted to be a writer. But then, in the upheaval of moving back to Philadelphia, getting my first real job, my first real apartment, and generally trying to grow up, writing got lost. I kept a journal, off and on, I wrote poems here or there. I even took a writing class where I worked on some short stories. But then I found myself in law school, my creative writer in some sort of coma.

Thankfully, the bar exam was just the horrible impetus I needed to start my novel. I stole sweet hours from my studying to conjure up characters, to name them, to begin to write their story. And then I got a job, and let the novel rot in my computer, untouched for two years.

Since I’ve started working on the novel again, I’ve often felt bad about the lost time. If I had started seriously writing in 1999, how much further would I be now? I know regret is pointless, and beating myself up is unhealthy, but it has been hard to shake a feeling of loss over all that time I could have been writing. This week, I found some comfort in another book, a biography of Jane Austen where I learned that she had a seven year period when she didn’t write at all, after she wrote her first three novels, before any of them had been published. As I tried to figure out my own fallow period, I wondered about Jane’s. Why didn’t she write for all that time? We don’t know, maybe Jane didn’t know, but knowing that she had a long dry spell with writing makes me feel better about mine.

I am grateful to Jane Austen for her beautiful work, for inspiration, for her courage, persistence and faith. And I am grateful for having found Brenda Ueland’s little book, not just for the wisdom and encouragement contained within its covers, but also for the memory of that sunny afternoon in San Diego, absorbing love from my parents, a long way from home and a short way from adulthood.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

In My Tribe



I've been thinking over the past few weeks of the tribes to which I belong. For example, I was born an Owsik. See evidence of this in the above pictures. There is no mistaking the Owsik profile, shown on my brothers and dad in the first picture, and myself in the second. There was a time when I hated my nose, but now, I love it. I love that it marks me as part of my tribe.

Another of my tribes, the lawyers, I tried to escape, but they have pulled me back in, at least somewhat. I've accepted a job at my law school, which feels very different than working at a law firm, but is still is within the tribe. How has this tribe marked me? Well, I read almost everything before I sign it. I am overly cautious and skeptical, some may say paranoid. And yes, very very competitive, which to be fair, was part of me before I joined the tribe.

The tribe I am happiest to belong to this week is the Philadelphia Phillies Fan tribe. The marks of the Phillies tribe? We spell everything with a "ph" instead of "f," making us "phans." We boo as passionately as we cheer, yes, even our own team when they deserve it, and we are pessimistic to the point of despair.

But when we were up 3 games to 1 in the World Series last week, and we were playing Game 5 at home, with our ace pitcher on the mound, even we, who had been disappointed so many times before--we are the team with 10,000 losses--we began to believe. The city was covered in Phillies red that day. The air smelled cleaner, people everywhere smiled at each other, said things like, “We are gonna do it tonight!” The optimism was palpable.

And then the rains came.

They played 5 1/2 innings in the pouring rain, only to have the game suspended once it was tied. And there it was. The familiar sense of doom. Once again our team would collapse, disappoint. We had been foolish to hope for anything else. For two days we held our breath. I didn't discuss the game with any of the other super phans, too scared that we had jinxed it with our uncharacteristic optimism.

And then, in a strange, very short finish, they won. In Game 5, part 2, at home.

I may still be in shock. I watched the champagne spraying, the smiles, the near-riots on Broad Street, all the while not sure what this unfamiliar feeling was—it was the feeling of winning.

On Friday I went to celebrate with my tribe, which included the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen at any event in Philly. And sure, some were imposters, just college students looking for a reason to get drunk in daylight, and I did at times fear a death by trampling, but it was worth it. I had to thank the team that, at least for right now, has made Philly feel like winners again. It's been a long time.

Is it too much to ask that my Democratic tribe take back the White House tonight? I think not. Winning is something I could get used to.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Leaning Into Change

Some changes by their nature are sudden and drastic, but where possible, I think leaning into change makes sense. I went back to work last week. There was no leaning into that change. I knew it was coming, I courted it in fact, but it was still a shock to the system. Going from working for myself, making my own schedule, working as much as I wanted on my writing, to working for someone else, on their agenda, away from my house and my writing, well, it was a lot of change to try to absorb in a week.

So in retrospect it probably was not a great week to try to attempt any other drastic changes, like trying to turn my standard American diet into a 75% raw foods diet in hope of curing a recurring health problem. I tried to take small steps, but before I knew it I had spent all afternoon yesterday reading, researching, list-making, and visiting health food stores. By early evening I felt completely overwhelmed, even before someone rear-ended my car.

At least I had the sense to recognize I needed a break. I came home and did some yoga, and then spent today resting and regrouping. And thankfully, while I was out walking today it occurred to me that this was a change I could lean into. Maybe I can’t get to 75% raw foods this week, but I can pretty easily increase the amount of fresh fruits and veggies I eat. Throw in some more nuts and seeds. Work slowly toward the goal.

Which brings me to my writing goals. My fear with going to work for someone else is that I will lose focus or momentum with the book. To combat that, I set a goal of working for two hours on the book in the morning before I left for my job, and I did that this week. But though I am proud of my dedication and discipline, I am suspicious that here too I am pushing too hard. I picked up one of Julia Cameron's books (yet another fairy godmother) this morning and read her thoughts about setting reasonable goals for our work. She says to figure out what amount of work I can accomplish daily without drama.

This was a needed and gentle reminder that as I make room for this new job in my life, I may need a period of time for adjusting to my new schedule, my new set of responsibilities and expectations. So maybe this week instead of working for two hours in the morning on my writing, I’ll try one hour, and see how that feels.

We want change, we need change, but maybe there is only so much change we can handle at any one time. Hopefully, as I get accustomed to my new job, I will find time and energy to make sure the book continues to move forward, steadily, at a pace I can sustain.

Friday, October 17, 2008

Fairy Godparents

Yesterday, I was feeling a little overwhelmed, a little down, a little tarnished as I waited in line at the Corner Bakery for my coffee fix, briefcase in hand, preparing for another day of working on the book. As I walked to the counter to place my order, I turned around and saw two ladies that I know—Suzy and Sylvia. And I mean ladies. These women are beautiful, older than me, but not old, oh no. They are thin, stylish, coiffed, handsome. And though I’m sure they’re not always together, in my mind, they’re a pair. They ushered me over to a table to have some coffee and conversation with them and after just 30 minutes, I was a new person. Shiny and enthusiastic, optimistic, excited about my book, my life, and the future, anxious to get to the computer to work, which I did, happily and productively for the next several hours.

Later, when I was telling Carl about my day, I said they were like fairy godmothers, appearing out of the blue, and giving me just what I needed—some warmth, some encouragement, some wisdom, some laughter.

Which got me to thinking about the many fairy godparents I’ve had over the years. There’s Louie, who not only helped me find my first job as a lawyer, but gave me countless sincere and effective pep talks, boosting my spirits to counter the horrors of a long and disheartening job search.

There was Carol, my faithful friend, secretary, and confidant. Who listened, and empathized, but also pushed me to address issues that needed addressing, from my lack of organization to my health problems. It was Carol who started the ball rolling that helped me to regain my health which then allowed me to look at my life, see what was missing, and start following my dream of writing.

And of course, my archetypal fairy godmother, Margarita, my host-mom in Mexico. I could fill a book with what Margarita meant and means to me, and indeed, a character based on her appears in my novel, but for now, suffice it to say that she gave me unconditional love and support from the get-go. She gave me a home when I was in a foreign land. She gave me a family when I was a world away from mine, feeling like a lost orphan. She made me soups and teas when I was seriously ill, willing me back to health. She tried to teach me to cook, as hopeless a prospect as that seemed at the time. And maybe best of all, she showed me that my fumbling Spanish didn’t matter, that I could connect with people, in a real and powerful way without elegant language.

I believe that each of these people were brought into my life just when I needed them, and I am grateful for my ever generous Higher Power for seeing what I needed and providing it. Remembering the gifts of these relationships bolsters my faith that I will continue to receive what I need, that with each challenge comes the support needed to survive it, and even to flourish.

Who are your fairy godparents?

Saturday, October 11, 2008

An Attitude of Gratitude

Is attitude (pronounced add-ee-tood here in Philly) everything? For a summer girl such as myself, fall has always been difficult. I hate saying goodbye to the beach, the warmth, flip-flops, days that last until 8 pm, barbeques, fresh berries and tomatoes. But this year, rather than focusing on the loss of summer, I'm trying to see the gifts of autumn. Like my rust colored 3/4 sleeve jacket and my brown suede boots. Or the shock of a crimson-topped tree, or a flash of tangerine in the distance, just enough to bring me out of my head and back into the moment.

In search of autumn treasures I went yesterday to Longwood Gardens, one of my favorite places in the world. Boy do they know how to celebrate fall. Artfully arranged squashes of all shapes and sizes--butternuts with necks like swans, squat green and white speckled acorns, pumpkins almost big enough for Cinderella's carriage. A wall of mums of the truest yellow. Marigolds of toasted sunshine. Ornamental spiky peppers of red, yellow, orange and green. Nature's gifts were so dramatic and gorgeous and abundant it was almost too much.

This particular fall has brought with it the need for me to make some money. This was hard to accept at first. I had hoped I would finish the novel and sell it and never have to work for anyone else ever again, but that is not how it has worked out. Here too I am looking for gifts. I am grateful that the book is progressing so well and so steadily, and that I often have faith that it will be finished whenever it's meant to be finished. These are two incredible gifts.

As for the job itself, I welcome the opportunity to make some money, to have more structure, more socialization, a change of scenery, and the chance to use parts of myself that have gone unused at home writing. I think the right job will provide some balance that I need in my life, and actually help me finish the book, and not hinder it.

One more small example of searching for gifts: the gift of waiting in line. Rather than feeling angry and frustrated and impatient (as I usually do) I've been trying to feel gratitude for a few moments to just be--a few moments when I don't have to do or say anything.

Looking for the gifts changes my attitude, which in turn allows me not only to accept my life, but to enjoy it much more, and to move through it as a happier and calmer person, which may be the greatest gift of all.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

The Sporting Life



Here it is, the long promised surf video, shot and edited by the talented Carl. I have improved further since we shot this footage, but I love how this video captures me just on the cusp of standing up. My first shaky steps. I also like how it shows me wiping out, getting tossed off the board, and almost colliding with both cool, experienced surfers and young children. That's what surfing was like for me right up until August of this year, when finally I figured out how to stand up and stay up on the board.

"Whatever you think you can do or believe you can do, begin it. Action has magic, grace, and power in it." Goethe

This is one of my favorite quotes. Not just because I think it's true, but because it's so optimistic, so encouraging. I had always wanted to surf, and in spite of being out of shape, and not a great swimmer, and quasi-afraid of the ocean, I dared to try. And I succeeded! This ranks up there with some of my proudest accomplishments, along with learning how to speak Spanish, passing the bar exam, and writing a novel.

Rediscovering and reclaiming my inner athlete has been one of the best gifts of the past year. I unearthed her, first for surfing, because it was an itch I had to scratch, and then for swimming to help the surfing, and then for tennis, to help research the novel. Along the way I remembered that sports were a huge part of my life until I was fifteen, when I decided I was an intellectual and not an athlete. I'm glad that I've finally realized I can be both. Why choose?

Finally, I can't let the week pass without shouting out my Fighting Phils! October baseball two years running in Philadelphia--I'm not sure this is my city anymore. My awesome parents took me to game two of the playoffs last night, where we handed Milwaukee a second defeat with an incredible grand slam from Shane Victorino. I've never been part of an event where such passion was displayed--by the crowd. The cumulation of 28 years of hope for the Phils was fully present last night as we screamed, shouted, taunted, cheered, and yes, booed. One thing I love about sports is watching people dig deep into their talent and determination to perform under great pressure. I love watching people rise to an occasion. Our Phillies did that last night, and I got to share in the love with my parents and 46,000 other rabid fans. What a joy, what a blessing.

Go Phils!

Friday, September 26, 2008

The Next Small Step

12 Step circles have a million helpful phrases, but the one I've been using for the past week is "Just do the next right thing." This is a simple concept, but for me, who often makes things harder for myself than they have to be, I find it hard to believe that something so simple could work.

But this week, faced with an overwhelming amount of work to do on the book, and not knowing where to start, I gave it a try. After calming down, working through my consuming panic about NEVER finishing through long walks and reassuring words from Carl, writer friends and others, I came back once again to just doing the next right thing.

I chose one of the many problems I identified while reading the manuscript, just one, and then tried to think of the smallest possible thing I could do to address it. The smallest step forward. The problem was the role of a particular character in the book--if he is necessary, and if so, why, and how my protagonist feels about him. It's a big issue that needs to be decided for the book to move forward. My smallest step was to look at one scene where he appears and see if it rang true, if it made sense. Once I decided it did, my next small step was to brainstorm how that scene would affect his relationship with the protagonist. And that small step led me to realize what their relationship was like in the first half of the book and how I could portray that. And that small step helped solve a problem that I thought was completely unrelated.

All of which gave me a lot of hope that by just progressing one small step at at time, any remaining issues with the book will be resolved. And isn't that the only way to proceed anyway?

I have also rediscovered/remembered that it greatly helps if I come up with a few possible small steps for my next work session, and write them down before I stop working for the day. That somehow eases my mind, and allows me to jump in more easily the next day.

I have applied this idea in other areas of my life, from my job search, to structuring my day, to selling my car, and it really seems to work. So if you're like me, and occasionally feel overwhelmed and don't know where to start, try taking the next small step, or doing the next right thing. Let me know how it works out.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Overwhelming Myself

I hate to brag, but overwhelming myself may be the thing I do better than anyone. I can overload on reading, on tv, on food, coffee, email--you get the idea. Even in this I am an overachiever.

This week I overwhelmed myself with my own book. I was trying to read it is smallish chunks, so I could absorb and digest what I was reading. But on Wednesday, with the pile of papers growing smaller, I couldn't resist plowing through to the end. And then I just felt paralyzed. Like what the fuck do I do now?

I wandered around like a zombie that afternoon. A saleswoman in Ten Thousand Villages said five cheerful things to me and received only grunts in response. I went to Penzey's Spices and sniffed my way through the store--tried to tell the difference between Turkish and Mexican oregano, tested to see if hot pepper flakes would burn my nose (answer no) and spent a good five minutes inhaling the comforting scent of vanilla extract. I don't think anything else smells as good. My fog started to lift when I went to see my Artist Way group, where I talked about my creative struggles to sympathetic ears, and got the excellent suggestion of taking the next day off to let what I had read wash over me and sink in a bit.

On that advice, I was extra nice to myself yesterday. I bought an almond croissant from the patisserie, and decided that it's impossible to be anything but happy while eating such a thing. I had lunch with my grandmom, and then ventured over to the Tyler Arboretum to see their tree house exhibit, comprised of seventeen or so tree houses. My favorite one consisted of hammocks strung all over with an invitation to lie in different ones to see various perspectives of the same group of trees. Rocking gently side to side I understood why Mexicans use hammocks to lull their children to sleep.

And then today, with great trepidation, I ventured back into the book, with what I thought was a small and gentle goal of simply reading the notes I took as I went through the novel. After reading the first half of notes, and making more notes on them, I knew I should stop. I had enough to chew on, to think over. But I kept going and am once again overloaded.

Why is it so hard to stop? To not only know when we've had enough, but actually walk away? I'm not sure. I think it feels like if I know what's there, I'll be able to control it somehow. The everlasting struggle for control. Or maybe it's the impulse to finish. If I read more, do more, then I'll finish faster. Which probably is the opposite of the truth. If I go slowly, at a sustainable pace, I work more quickly. If I overwhelm myself, it takes time to recover, regain some perspective and then get back to work. So for today, I'm done with the book. Writing about it helped, and my next step is a long walk. If you see me wandering with a glazed-over look, now you know why.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Return of the Blog

Ah, readers, a whole month has passed--longer--since I've posted. A few people (not even my parents) told me that they have missed my blog, which made me happy, not that I've been delinquent, but that people noticed.

What to say about August? Once I get my act together I will post a video that will explain August better than my words could. So you'll have to wait on that.

What I will say is that I took two whole weeks away from the novel, which I had not done since I began working on it in earnest last April. At first it felt good. I needed a break from it. But after a week I began to really miss it. And to feel somewhat at sea. Like the one constant for the past year has been the novel, and without it I didn't quite know what to do with myself.

I cleaned out closets, I busied myself trying to sell my car (which is a great little Corolla if anyone is interested), I started looking for a day job in earnest, I caught up on food shopping, cooking, correspondence, and generally just tried to get my life in order. So now that that's accomplished, I'm trying to get back into good habits. Like working on the novel in the morning, and writing a blog posting once a week.

My writing project this week has been to print out and read the entire novel start to finish. I have of course read all of it in sections, but never all the way through. And although I've found some alarming errors, holes in plot and problems yet to be resolved, it feels like a miracle to read a book that I wrote. Little old me.

Here's hoping that someday, in the not too distant future, you, and many other people, will be reading that book too.

Look for weekly posts again, now that I'm getting back on schedule (usually Friday afternoons.)

It feels good to be back!

Friday, August 1, 2008

Yoga for the Mind

Although months can pass without me writing a poem, inevitably an image or feeling will be too much in some way, forcing me out of logical prose and into poetry.

Last week, haunted by a situation I badly mishandled, I worked on a poem I had begun about it years ago. I used to think that poems sprang to life fully formed, but now I know that a first draft is just a seed that must be tended, nourished, pruned. So I spent time editing the poem, finding solace playing with the sounds, textures, and rhythms of the words. Not only was I able to comfort myself by creating something beautiful, but also I found the poetry work primed my writing mind, allowed me to open up, relax, get warm and receptive.

I often say that writing has saved my life, and I believe that. Writing gives me a place to put stuff I can’t put anywhere else. Today, when I feel overwhelmed by sadness, anger, or grief, I use it in my writing. This might not take the feelings away, but the act of creating works some kind of transforming magic. Maybe it’s like how trash becomes compost that nourishes crops that feed us. Bad feelings, mixed with creativity become food for the soul. I don’t know how it works, I just know it does. But don’t take my word for it--find your creative outlets and use them!

Anchored

Trudging
up the hill
I saw you
ahead—
hopping
step to step
light-footed, loose.

I stopped,
trapped between
dread of your stone wall,
and my far-fetched
hope for a breach.

Upward
you skipped,
never
looking back.

The morning mist
swallowed you whole—
your name
lodged in my throat,
regret
an iron veil.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Routine and Change

It's good to be home. I've been away for most of the past month, and am actually leaving again tonight for a few days. I think this is how the summer will be. And though I am grateful to spend so much time at the shore, the disruption of my routine has made it hard to work over the past month. I've been working on the book, but not as hard and not as productively as I do when I'm at home, in my routine.

But this week at home has been the most productive week I've had in a very long time. When I mentioned this to a friend of mine she said that maybe I needed to shake up my routine for it to regain its power. It hadn't occurred to me that my super-productive week could be a result of the disruption of my routine, but maybe she's right. Maybe like moving 81 things in my house, physically taking myself to different places, seeing different faces, and creating new structures brought fresh energy to my old routine, reinvigorating it. I like the idea that surfing, playing tennis, hanging out with my husband, with old friends and family actually helped my work.

I certainly have renewed enthusiasm this week. Maybe routine and change are yin and yang of each other. I need routine and structure, but after a few months of the same thing, I had lost some enthusiasm for the book. Now, having moved around so much, struggled to get into a routine and get to work, the passion is back. I couldn't wait to get back to my humdrum routine, to my comfortable and inspiring office, to my house and my friends and my kitchen.

One of the best changes of the past month has been my progress in surfing. I'm actually standing on the board and staying up there! Amazing. My ability to learn how to surf after the age of 30 makes me think I can do anything. Like, I don't know, finish a novel?

Friday, July 4, 2008

Showing Up

I feel proud of myself this week for showing up for my life. To me, showing up means living in the moment, seizing opportunities as they arise, using my talents, remembering my values and priorities and making choices based on them. How to show up differs day to day and moment to moment.

This week, showing up meant capitalizing on a few precious days to work at home before we leave town for another two weeks. It meant pulling out and piecing together the thoughts my subconscious had worked out about the book while I was taking a break last week. It meant looking at the overall structure of the novel, and using my new understanding of my protagonist to make sure her behavior is consistent with her personality. It meant using my enthusiasm for editing while it lasts.

It also meant physically showing up in Ocean City to see my grandmom. It meant ignoring my internal critic screaming that I’d never finish the book (he’s such a drama queen), having pizza with my clan, riding the ferris wheel, stealing a few minutes alone with Grandmom, passing an hour sitting on the porch.

On Wednesday, showing up meant ditching my work for a few hours to surf while the surfing was good. It meant staying in the ocean, in spite of getting smacked in the face with a wall of seawater by the first wave I tried to catch. It meant paddling out again and again in spite of my bruised pride (and body) that wanted to give up. It meant staying aware and open so I could learn the lessons that came, see my growing comfort on the board, feel my growing understanding of the ocean.

The amazing thing about showing up is how much more joy I feel, and how much less worry. Concentrating on whatever I’m doing or feeling in the moment blocks out obsessing about past or future. None of us knows how many more days we have but we do know that we will never have this day, today, again. So shouldn’t we all try to show up for whatever days we have?

Thank you to everyone who read the review of my blog on Philadelphia Stories and posted comments, and the many kind emails and postings you’ve been sending me recently. Your support is a huge reason why I’m able to show up!

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Careful What You Wish For...

You just may get it. My last entry about shaking things up has me feeling a bit chagrined, as I now long for my lost routine. On Saturday one of my dearest friends got married (congratulations Kara and Mark!) As maid of honor, I spent lots of my time and energy last week preparing for and participating in the festivities, which were gorgeous, filled with love, joy, dancing, and even Irish singing.

My routine continued to be subjugated by a trip to the shore on Sunday, to celebrate the end of the school year for Carl. I intended to work while we were there, but alas, I left all of my book materials at home in Narberth. Rather than cut short our time or drive home, I decided to take a few days off from writing and editing, but was able to do some research. And now, having just got home from the shore, I'm preparing to leave again tomorrow for another short trip, this time to Williamsburg.

All good things, these diversions. The question is, how strict can or should I be with myself? Structure helps me, so on Friday I made a schedule for the summer, assigning days off and working days and setting daily work goals. Then, having left my computer at home, was unable to meet my work goal for the first three work days on the schedule, which has my inner critic up in arms. Critic: how are you ever going to finish the book if you spend your days surfing, lying on the beach, and reading? Me: I'm taking care of myself, I'm resting, I'm researching. Critic: Whatever.

What to do? Forcing myself to write doesn't work well. I know this. And although I mourn the lost writing days, I believe I needed a break, and it was good for me, and will therefore benefit my work. So maybe I need to stay a little flexible with the structure and goals. If I can set aside my morning hours for writing, wherever I am, I should be able to meet my daily goals. And if I take advantage of days when the work is going well(ie exceed my goals), I'll be able to make up for a day here or there when I've decided to play hooky at the beach.

As long as I'm doing things that are nurturing, like surfing, or reading good writing, or exploring a seashell museum, or celebrating a rite of passage with a dear friend, I think taking a break is just fine. Necessary even. But I am looking forward to getting back to my routine for a few days next week, before leaving for yet another trip to Lake Ontario.

On another note, my blog had its first review! Check it out at the website for Philadelphia Stories! Yay press coverage!

Monday, June 16, 2008

Shaking Things Up

Last week, as my 32nd birthday approached I was feeling a little down. My annual tradition of gathering friends for a night of dancing was supplanted this year by a visit to the Barnes Museum and brunch at Blush, both lovingly arranged by my husband. And although I looked forward to these activities, as the day approached, I couldn't help but feel sad remembering the days in our early twenties, when staying up until 4 am and dancing into the wee hours was a regular activity, not just reserved for special occasions. I realized the last time I had tried to go dancing was November, and only two other people wanted to go. Something had shifted without me quite noticing. What was it?

Well, for one thing, although I love to dance, I no longer love staying up past midnight. Sad but true. Now my drinking is limited to a glass or two of good wine. My friends and I are older, most of us married, some with kids, many living in the 'burbs, where a night in the city is more than just a walk or a cab ride away. I guess many things have shifted.

Faced with this reality, I needed an alternate, something I could do to scratch my dancing itch. And so, I worked up my courage, and went to the hip-hop dance class at the Koresh Dance Studio that I'd been longing to try for years. Fear of looking or feeling stupid had kept me from going to the class, but last week, my need to do something new involving dancing won out. So on Friday I found myself in a questionable outfit, in the dance studio on Chestnut St., dancing hip-hop, or my version of it, having the most fun I'd had in a long time. As I walked out of the studio I realized that I was now one of those dancers I had envied for so long, and all it took was a little planning, some courage, and a crisis about my birthday.

Also this week I began a program in which I move nine things in my home each day for nine days, to get stagnant energy moving again. I love this idea because it is so manageable, and yet, after three days, has created some lovely changes in my home, including the long long-overdue unpacking of my wedding china. (Maybe it will all be unpacked by our fifth wedding anniversary!)

Trying new things and rearranging old things has brought some great changes in the past few days. In my 33rd year I plan to continue to shake things up, because as scary and uncomfortable as change is for me, so much good comes from it--new friends, new activities, new sources of joy and pleasure.

Now I'm off to unpack more china and practice my dance moves, but not at the same time of course.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Reunited and It Feels So Good

The romance is back -- for me and my novel. After some rough times, we’re honeymooning again. I’ve been working away, happily lost in the world I’m creating, hardly noticing my fingers as they type. I leave the computer with reluctance, long to return to it when I’m away.

This is not always the case. Some days, I’ll do anything to avoid the computer. Suddenly I have to clean the blinds, hang a shower curtain, prepare a three course dinner. If I drag myself to the computer, I may produce something, but it’s a painful process, and usually not very fruitful.

Now if I could just figure out what makes the difference between a happy writing day and a forced one. For the past week I’ve been experimenting with quitting while I’m ahead. I committed to a manageable goal, 1,000 words written or edited a day, and once I have met that goal, have let myself quit for the day. My inner critic protested of course. “But you only wrote 1,000 words! What about editing? What about research? What about finishing by September 1? The book will never get done at this pace.” I told her to shut up and wait for the results.

After a week I’ve found that if I stop when I still have creative energy left, I am happier for the rest of the day, and anxious to return to work the next morning. I’m left wanting more.

So now I’m thinking that maybe I need to monitor my creative energy the way I do my physical energy. Over the past year I’ve learned how to eat to keep my blood sugar levels steady. I notice when it’s getting too low, and generally prevent that from happening. If I can learn to notice my creative energy levels, recharge preventatively, and quit before I’m dangerously depleted, I hope to have a steady supply available for the book and other ventures.

I guess I’ve done a good job this week, because I’m already planning a tryst with my book some time this weekend.

Shout out to my parents who celebrate their 38th wedding anniversary today! They are an inspiration in keeping the romance alive!

Friday, May 30, 2008

Creator v. Editor: The Smackdown

Today my novelist friend said writing a book was like raising a child, because just when you learn how to handle a 10 month old, you have to learn how to handle an 11 month old, and just when you figure out one aspect of novel writing, a new challenge appears.

This has certainly been true for me. In writing my first draft, I edited what I had written the day before, then wrote at least 1,000 new words. But since finishing the draft, I’ve struggled to create reasonable daily goals for editing, and without them find it hard to feel satisfied, know when to quit for the day or to measure my progress. Also vexing is learning how to both create new work and edit existing work, tasks that use different parts of your brain and require different kinds of focus and energy.

In thinking about creating and editing, I have discovered a few things. My creator likes to work in the morning, as close as possible to waking, while in her pjs, before I talk to anyone or think about my “real” life. The creator likes to believe that nothing matters but the world she is creating, and this is easiest before the world interrupts. Having realized this, I’ve been writing new work first thing in the morning, consistently and easily meeting my daily goal.

Still I struggle with my editor. In fact, I had begun to hate and resist the editing process. But this week I remembered that I love to edit other people’s writing. I love getting a piece of work and tearing into it—rewording, excising and rearranging until it’s as strong as it can be. So if I love to edit, how can I learn to love editing my own work?

First, I’m going to pretend that the editor and creator are actually two different people. I’ll schedule separate sessions in which I will either create or edit, but not both. When editing, I will play with words, rearrange, and delete, but when I see a gap, I will merely note it for the creator, who will come back to work the next morning and fill the hole when she is ready. (She’s an artist, you know, you can’t rush her.)

I hope that with separate and reasonable daily goals for my creator and editor, and more of a separation of tasks, I will make more progress, feel better as I go, and love both the creator and the editor, each of whom I need to get the job done.

Friday, May 23, 2008

Kind People Rule

This blog entry would have been called Mean People Suck if I had written it anytime in the previous two weeks, during which I encountered vicious and sneaky meanness masquerading as help. This nastiness created doubt—in myself and my work. Julia Cameron says that for an artist, entertaining the first doubt is like an alcoholic taking the first drink. If that’s true I went on a doubt bender.

Thankfully, today I finally feel free of this nasty web of negativity. But getting my optimism and good spirits back wasn’t easy. I had to acknowledge to myself that I was hurt. I had to be extra kind and gentle with myself. I had to (gasp!) ask for help, and then accept it. To reaffirm my faith in humanity, I’d like to share a few examples of the kindness that has helped me to heal.

1) My Artist Friends

They listened, sympathized and encouraged. Then they invited me to create a collage. Making any kind of visual art intimidates me, but with my friends there, all working quietly, I dove in, ripping out pictures, playing around with them, immersing myself in the moment. The result was a beautiful collage, full of life and color that literally brightened up my house, and by extension, my mood. God bless the artists!

2) Leslie, Owner of The Bead Garden

Encouraged by my collage experiment, I visited a bead store, to try to make something out of three small white shells I found on the beach. They already had perfect little holes, as if God had intended them to be worn. I’d never made a piece of jewelry, but the idea enchanted me.

The store itself was magical-a place where pretty shiny things get made. Beads of every size, shape, and color glimmered at me appetizingly. Sparkling glass beads from the Czech Republic covered an entire wall in garnet, tangerine, amber, dusty rose. Sea treasures gathered on another—smooth pebbles of coral, spiny shells. Turquoise, rose and purple marbles called to embrace my wrist, dangle from my ears.

Leslie looked at my shells, listened to my ideas, made suggestions. Together we picked out flower coral, chocolate-brown beads, and silver wire to complement the shells. I strung it, Leslie fixed on the clasps and voila—a necklace was born! I raced home to my writing, wearing my treasure and bursting with creative energy.

3) Kathy, Beautician and Friend

I stopped in to Eterna Bella to buy some moisturizer, and received a rousing pep talk (in Spanish!) about how yes it hurts when people are mean, but we have to learn from the experience and sigue adelante (keep moving forward.) Kathy knows my book is going to be a success, and gave me solid reasons to support her belief. I left with a huge boost of energy, morale, and gratitude.

With the help of these and many other kind people, I’m back on the wagon of optimism and faith, and I intend to stay there.

Friday, May 2, 2008

O Ye of Little Faith

That’s me. A Doubting Thomas. I’ve always related to the story where Thomas didn’t believe Jesus had risen until he saw him, until he put his fingers in the wounds. I myself am slow to belief, quick to demand proof. That may be a good quality for a law career, but how about for a life?

While waiting to see my holistic healer last week (I know, I know, I belong in California), I read an excerpt from The Call, a book written by Oriah. The book began with a poem with the following lines:

“Remember- there is one word you are here to say with your whole being.
When it finds you, give your life to it. Don't be tight-lipped and stingy.

Spend yourself completely on the saying.
Be one word in this great love poem we are writing together.”

Intrigued, I skimmed through the chapter where she elaborates on this idea. What I gleaned is that each of us has one overarching lesson to learn in life. And that once we learn it, or as we learn it, we can teach it to others. The word is the thing that encapsulates this message, the thing we would entreat people in the world to do. Oriah’s word was “rest.”

She said one way to find your word was to look at where you have really struggled in life; to see if there was one lesson that we really struggled to learn, some mistake that we repeated over and over.

As I’ve thought about this over the past week, I decided my word is “trust.” My lack of faith is what gets me in trouble: my shaky faith in any kind of higher power, my lack of faith in humanity, in myself, my talent, my intuition. Faith does not come easily to me.

But here’s my new realization: just because it doesn’t come easily doesn’t mean I can’t have it. It just means I have to work harder at it than other people. So that’s the good news. It’s still possible. And maybe (dare I even wish this?) maybe once I finally learn the lesson, my faith will be even stronger for having been tested so severely. A girl can dream, huh?

So over the past few days, as I’ve been panicking about throwing a party for 60 people in my small home, and getting ready for my first writer’s conference, when I find myself anxiety and doubt-ridden, heart racing, breath shallow, overwrought, I’ve begun gently saying to myself, “Trust.” Just the word. And miraculously, it works. I get a small reprieve from my fear. Even if it comes back 30 seconds later, for a short time, I enjoy the belief that I am good, safe, and loved. That I am enough. What a gift.

Trust.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Make Art! Make Art! Make Art!

So said Glen Hansard, the winner of Best Song for the movie Once, in his acceptance speech at the Oscars this year. I loved the film, loved the music, loved the story of how it was made for $160,000, found by a vacationing Sundance employee, and catapulted to huge success. Great inspiration for all us struggling-artist types.

Closer to home and even more inspiring for me is First Person, a film directed by my friend Ben Herold, which premiered at the Philadelphia Film Festival last Sunday. I will disclose here my awe of Ben’s vision, courage, and cojones. But putting that aside, his film is a powerful, beautiful, stop-your-heart, challenging work of art (that incidentally won Ben the Philly Film Festival’s award for best new director.)

Just as amazing as the film is the story behind it. Ben was involved with a program that helped Philadelphia public school students make it to college and had an idea to follow a group of the students through their junior and senior years of high school, documenting their educational progress. I don’t know much about what is involved in making a film, but I know it takes a lot of money, time, people and expertise, none of which Ben had when he came up with this idea. But he began it, feeling his way and figuring it out as he went. And with lots of help, perseverance and good old-fashioned chutzpah, he created an incredible piece of art.

First Person is not just about the six kids featured, or Philadelphia, but the challenges that face our children, our education system, our neighborhoods, cities and societies. The film raised many questions for me. Like what is the difference between these kids and myself? I grew up within miles of these children, and my life couldn’t seem more different. Why is that? And what can we do to make sure that we don’t lose the potential, the talent, the gifts that our children have to offer? When bright, ambitious kids end up failing out of school, working at McDonald’s, or God forbid, in jail, we all lose. What can we do to change this? How do we support our teenagers to keep them from falling through the cracks, from giving in to the temptations that surround them to devastating effect?

Big questions, I know. One could feel overwhelmed by such questions. And I think the answers are different for everyone. Some of us can give money (right through the First Person website - check it out!) Some of us can give time, talent, love. Some of us can and should make art.

Art? you ask? Yes. Because as shown by both Once and First Person, art challenges, provokes, makes us feel and think, shows us new perspectives, introduces us to people, ideas and circumstances we might not otherwise see.

Thank you, Ben for making your art and sharing it with the rest of us. None of us knows the good that we do, the ripple effects our actions have. None of the creators or fans of First Person know how it already has or will continue to affect people. But I believe it has already greatly impacted many lives. And that is a beautiful and inspiring thing to witness.

Friday, April 4, 2008

Feathering My Nest


Nesting is not an instinct of mine. A friend of mine bought a house a few months ago, and already it looks beautifully homey—pictures on walls, bright pillow arrangements, knick-knacks artfully displayed.

In comparison, I moved into my house three years ago, and my walls remain mostly barren, the home lacking much indication of who we are. Now, in my defense, having bought our home from my Great-Aunt Minnie, who God bless her, hadn’t done much to it since the 1970s, it took three years to transform the kitchen from a superfund site (see photo!), repair plumbing, replace ceilings, remove wallpaper, paint the entire interior and put down new carpet. So when in February we finally completed our initial work plan by having the floors refinished, maybe I just needed a break.

But recently, my lack of a comfortable work space began to bother me. And perhaps my vacation, where we stayed in other people’s homes for 12 nights straight, elevated my need to have a little corner of the world all to myself. So this week, I finally finished fixing the wall in my office. Then I set out to create an artist’s altar for myself, one of my assignments from The Artist’s Way. The idea is to have a place that belongs solely to me, a place filled with things that inspire me and lift my spirits.

So after a week of work, I now sit at my brand new desk, looking out my front windows at the dogwood tree that is just beginning to think about blooming. To my left are two curvy glass vases that fit into each other like puzzle pieces, one a deep pink and one carnation. To my right is a magenta candle, lit, in a black ceramic dish. On the windowsill are two fuchsia frames—one for a photograph of hot pink tulips and one for a card I received when I left my job that says “Sometimes you just have to close your eyes and go where your heart takes you.” In either corner sits a new lamp, one short with a long, narrow pink shade, the other a floor lamp with a multi-colored shade covered in circles, stars and flowers.

And sitting here, well, it feels like home. My very own writer’s home.

What I have learned is that we get back what we give out. So having put energy into my work space, through physical work, thought, time, and money, my work space is now giving energy back to me, through inspiration, comfort, motivation and joy. Pretty good trade.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

3 Cities and a Funeral


We’ve been gone for 11 days, flying first to Oakland, California, then Portland, Oregon, then back to Philly, then hopping in the car to drive to Syracuse. I’m thrilled to be a)back in our quiet house in Narberth, b)writing again, c)not having to drive or fly anywhere for the foreseeable future. Before moving forward, allow me to recap our trip.

Part 1 – Sophia

I love the Bay Area, and have logged a lot of time there over the years. Every time we visit I fantasize about moving there. About waking up every morning to the sun shining on the Bay, surrounded by calla lilies and birds of paradise. California has always been magical to me, first in my imagination, and then in reality. It was where I met my husband, and is closer to my ideal in temperament, temperature, and philosophy than the East Coast has ever been. Is it my spiritual home? The fact I would even think or write that sentence may answer that question.

But the highlight of this trip was my niece Sophia. She is 11 months old, and we have that instant chemistry that is so rare in human relationships. For whatever reason, we instantly understood each other. Love at first sight. Her little face made me smile every time I saw it. Above is a picture so you can understand what I mean. I didn’t know someone could be goofy at 11 months, but she is. What a ham. She’ll do anything for a laugh. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why we understand each other...

Part 2 – Suzy and Barry

Suzy and Barry are my dear friends from college. Suzy was my roommate, and Barry was her boyfriend, (now husband). Suzy and I also had that rare, love at first sight experience. We used to speculate if we hadn’t randomly been assigned as roommates freshmen year if we would have found each other and been friends. The answer, of course, is yes.

Suz and Bar saw me through one of the roughest times of my life. I hope everyone is so lucky to have friends who can just be there, at your ugliest, neediest, saddest, most pathetic moments, without pity or forced cheer. What an amazing gift. Thankfully, that period of darkness is long behind me, but these amazing friends are still in my life.

In a weird cosmic twist, at the same time I was leaving my law career and embarking on this writing journey, Suz and Bar were making some drastic changes of their own, leaving New York after thirteen years, changing careers, and moving to Portland, Oregon. It was great to see them in their new environment, to see the changes and to know that whatever changes life has in store, we can always reconnect, using humor as our home base. And food, of course. Who knew they had such amazing barbeque in Portland, Oregon? Suzy and Barry deny that played a role in choosing Portland, but come on, guys, I know better.

Part 3 – Gramps

My husband’s grandfather died while we were on vacation. What to say about Gramps? He was father to 12 children, grandfather to 41, great-grandfather to 26. Yes, those numbers are correct. I am honored to be one of the spouses who married into his tribe. He attended daily mass at his beloved parish church, Most Holy Rosary, and I’m told he especially loved the stained-glass windows. During the funeral mass, the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the window with words from the Hail Mary, and I knew that Gramps was still with us.

My favorite thing about Gramps was his wit. He left behind hundreds of jokes, one-liners and stories. My favorite recent example was from just last week, lying on his deathbed, apparently unconscious. He woke up, looked at his daughter and asked if any mail had come. She asked if he was waiting for something. He said, “Yeah, I want my check from George Bush.”

God bless you, Gramps. Thank God you passed your humor on to your children and grandchildren, and apparently, the lovely Sophia. His legacy of laughter, love, and family will live on and on.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

A Return to Love

I just re-read a collection of love poems I wrote about my husband during the first flush of our relationship. Poems are the easiest way for me to capture intense emotion—having to be linear and logical inhibits the deepest things I feel. The poems capture the fear and uncertainty of new love, but also the awe, the wonder, the radiance.

I read A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson a few months ago. One of my favorite concepts of the book was the idea that the early phase of love—the honeymoon phase, when all you see is your lover’s perfection, is not an illusion. Rather, that image of your loved one is actually the truth. That is who they really are, in all of their God-given perfection and wonder. The fear, the doubt, the ennui, the annoyance, that creeps into every relationship over time is the illusion, the world getting in the way of divine love and goodness.

Do I buy that? I don’t know, but I like it. I’d like to think that my husband is truly the man who inspired crushing love and devotion in me all those years ago. And that the person who leaves his coat on the couch, his piles of schoolwork all over the house like a dog marking his territory—that person is the illusion. My focus on the idiosyncrasies that make him sometimes hard to live with, or my perception that he fails to meet my expectations, that is the world obstructing my ability to see him as God does, perfect just the way he is.

I still have glimpses of that first, perfect person. Fairly frequently. Sure, it’s easiest when he’s sleeping (because then he can’t mess it up by doing or saying anything.) But also, sometimes I am overwhelmed by affection, just seeing him reading in bed at night. Or slumped on the couch watching tv. Or running in circles around the kitchen island with his nephews. He is still my shooting star.

Below is one of the poems for your consideration.

Santa Barbara Mountain

Crossing the retreat grounds
the nighttime air caressed me—
cool, fresh, clean.
My eyes turned amazed
toward the heavens,
to the moon as bright as the sun,
and stars twinkling against a velvet blanket
that wrapped me in beauty
as I lay on the grass to moonbathe.

I imagined us meeting there—
the breeze scattering my hair
against my face,
the crickets our only witnesses.
You look into my eyes
and silently offer me your heart.
It is that simple.

The spark of a shooting star
tore me from my reverie
just as your form emerged
from the shadows.
Did you see my vision?
I waited in tense anticipation,
a lifetime
before you flashed
through my vision again,
another star trailing
across the sky above you.

You both disappeared,
leaving me
awe-struck.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Support-Key Component of Bras and Life

I have been overwhelmed since my blog’s debut with postings, messages, and words of support, which got me to thinking about the myriad words of encouragement I’ve received since I decided to leave The Firm to pursue writing. Something about this change I’ve made inspires the best in people, and they freely share it with me. Maybe it’s like how I feel about my friend Ben, who followed his heart and made a documentary film—I want him to succeed, because his success helps me to believe that I can too. (And because he’s awesome—check out the website for his film, First Person, which will debut at the Philly Film Fest on April 6! http://firstpersondocumentary.org/) Or maybe like the Oscars. My Diablo rant notwithstanding, seeing so many dreams come true is inspiring. If for them, why not for me?

Whatever it is, the support is a huge booster for me, readers! Sending out an email about my blog was difficult for me, felt like that icky self-promoting I loathe. But then I thought that maybe instead of self-promoting, it was sharing my work. And that maybe, at least some of you would actually want to read my work. That in fact, many people have asked me how the writing was going, and actually wanted to know.

So I swallowed my fear and my pride, sent out an announcement about the blog, and lo and behold, was inundated with encouragement. Hooray! Thank you to everyone who posted comments, sent emails, or otherwise reacted. I know, intellectually, that I have many friends and supporters, but your words about the blog made me FEEL the love and support. For that, I am very grateful. So often I choose to suffer in silence, when if I just asked for help it would appear. Why do we do that?

My adventure of the past few days, regrettably, was struggling with some nasty flu/cold/virus type thing. I used to think that getting sick was my body’s way of slowing me down. But body, I must ask you, how much slower can I get? For months now I’ve been sleeping 8 hours a night, eating well, exercising pretty much daily and doing work that I love. Still, I fell to the Super Bug. A-ha! But another thought occurs. Being sick requires that I ask for help! Ok, Universe, I get it. I should ask for help when I need it, share my work when I need feedback, ask for encouragement when down. Lesson learned. Ya. So can you clear up this ickiness now, so I can get back to work?

Stay well, readers!

Thursday, February 28, 2008

I Hate Diablo Cody

For the two of you who haven’t heard of her, Diablo Cody wrote the movie Juno, and just won the Oscar for best original screenplay. And I don’t really hate her, but I am seething with jealousy. Not because of the million dollar shoes she supposedly wore to the Oscars (which apparently was just a publicity stunt by the shoemaker), but because she has the success I want. I know that’s petty and awful. But Julia Cameron says jealousy can help us figure out where we want to go by pinpointing what we envy, and planning a step we can take toward having that for ourselves.

So what do I envy about Diablo? Her success, her deal to work with Steven Spielberg, and her Oscar, certainly, but most of all, her ability to say her work is good enough, to let it go, and to promote herself. Juno may not have been perfect, was not the best screenplay ever written, but she finished it, and got it made into a movie, a movie that I must admit (begrudgingly) was really good, funny, and yes, well-written.

In other words, I am jealous that Diablo overcame her perfectionism. How can I do that? One step is this blog. If I can finish one little blog entry each week, let it go, and share it with others, then maybe someday I’ll be able to do the same with poems, articles, and the novel.

Paul Gardner said, “A painting is never finished. It simply stops in interesting places.” Julia Cameron, my fairy godmother, writes in The Artist’s Way, “Perfectionism is a refusal to let yourself move ahead.” And then, “Perfectionism is not a quest for the best. It is a pursuit of the worst in ourselves, the part that tells us that nothing we do will ever be good enough—that we should try again.” I just laughed out loud at myself as I struggled for five minutes over how to use ellipses in the above quote. Ah, perfectionism, my constant companion.

Just yesterday I thought about re-reading my novel from the beginning again, rather than continuing to move forward in writing and editing. Thank God I read Julia’s words about perfectionism, which convinced me to keep moving forward in faith. Because right now, I need to get through the second draft. I hope and believe that once I do, the beginning will sort itself out.

So thanks, Diablo. I might not be a stripper, an Oscar winner, or even a paid artist (yet), but I’m doing the best I can, learning and growing and getting better every day. Is a screenplay my next project? Maybe. Who wouldn’t want to wear million dollar shoes?

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Anything for Material

Seven months ago I left a prestigious, high-paying attorney job to write my first novel. This blog will document my journey in creating both a novel and a writer’s life. So far I've completed a draft of my book, and a handful of essays and poems. Along the way I’ve collected adventures, lessons, friends and teachers.

One great discovery: writing is an excuse to do things I otherwise wouldn’t do. Like take a surf class, work at a florist for a day, study Italian, make collages, take swimming lessons from an Albanian champion swimmer, swing on the swings by myself in the middle of the day, and befriend all kinds of unlikely characters, from the Colombian beauticians who wax my eyebrows, to Tony, the Sicilian chef who promised to teach me how to make pasta. In the service of getting material, it seems I’ll do just about anything. (Hence the title.)

And while I’m using material as an excuse to try new things, I’m learning all kind of lessons. Like how to be more open to the flow of life, when to push through barriers and when to stop, and the importance of accepting gifts, especially when they are unexpected. I have become more gentle with myself and am discovering what this self wants, what she loves, what she hates. I’m learning that the perfect really is the enemy of the good and finding the joy in doing, creating, participating in the process.

I look forward to the surprises, efforts, and failures that are sure to follow. Because if we're not making mistakes, we're not doing a good enough job of living. You hear that, Oprah? That's what I know for sure.