Merry Christmas!

This is Nalu, my little princess. She's not afraid to strike a pose.

I try to count my blessings every day. Gratitude helps to ward off jealousy, worry, and all kinds of other nasties. This Christmas, I have so much to be thankful for, it's almost ridiculous. I have a job I like, that leaves me time for writing--that alone feels like nothing short of a miracle. I have a novel, completed, of which I am extremely proud. I have great hope for finding a publisher for the novel, in spite of a recent rejection. I have thicker skin than I used to, no longer finding rejections devastating as I once did. I have a Florida vacation starting on Friday, with my in-laws who I adore. I have parents who will properly spoil my princess while we're away.

Finally, the blessing that is almost too good to believe, I have a baby growing in my belly.

What are some of your blessings? Tell me or just tell yourself. They're there if you look for them.

Nalu and I wish you all a holiday season full of blessings, gratitude, and joy!

Literary Betrayal

Perhaps it's my fault. I wasn't loving the book to begin with, so maybe I should have put it down. But I had read more than half of it, and the pace started to pick up with a good conflict, and I wanted to see how it would end. So on Sunday, tired after an evening of entertaining at my house, I curled up on the couch to finish the last hundred pages of My Name is Memory.

To my dismay, a few hours later, in spite of an amazing come-from-behind Eagles victory, I felt angry--betrayed by Ann Brashares. Why? Because she didn't resolve the main conflict of the book. Not only that, she used the last chapter to blatantly set up a sequel. Which is bullshit. I understand leaving room for a sequel, even making it obvious, but to ask someone to invest the time to read 300 pages, with no resolution--that's just rude.

Sometimes, as a reader, I get worried as a book nears the end and the conflict is still not resolved. Like, how is she going to do this in 30 pages, 20 pages, whatever. But almost always, the writer pulls it off to my satisfaction. If I wanted unresolved conflict, I would just observe real life. When I'm reading a book, I don't need a happy ending, but I need an ending.

Do you have any unsatisfying endings to report? Spare me future pain, readers.

Sew What?

Over the summer I met a woman who raved with shining eyes about how sewing had changed her life. She said it was therapeutic, satisfying, creative. Sounded good to me. Plus, I’ve always nurtured a hope that I had a dormant seamstress gene, given the talented seamstresses in my ancestry. I filed it as something to think about. A few weeks later, out of nowhere, my sister-in-law asked me if I’d like to take a sewing class with her. Destiny, right?

I signed up for the class, and finally claimed the sewing machine I’d inherited from my great-aunt fifteen years ago. Though I loved picking out the fabrics, the more money I spent on equipment, the more I remembered other hobbies I had begun with great excitement, only to quit shortly thereafter. I’ll try just about anything, but not much sticks. Still, I’d signed up for the class, so I got what I needed to complete the two projects—one tote bag, one purse.

In the first class we learned exotic things like filling a bobbin, threading the needle, and basting. After only twenty minutes, we were actually sewing. After one and a half classes, I finished the tote bag! I couldn’t believe it. No, it wasn’t perfect, but I love it. Like that woman I’d met this summer, I had something tangible to show for my efforts. Maybe I was a seamstress waiting to be born. I began imagining the fabulous, unique clothes I’d make for myself, all for a pittance.

Unfortunately, it’s been downhill from there. The second project, a purse, involves a pretty complicated pattern. This means lots of cutting, pinning, and sewing. Those things I can handle. More difficult is summoning the effort and concentration to follow the meticulous directions and pay close attention to detail. I am capable of these things, but they are not my natural gifts, and from 7-9 pm, when the class takes place, it feels nigh impossible.

I called my mom to complain this week and she couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “So, your inner engineer didn’t come out?”

“You knew I’d need an inner engineer?” We both know very well this is something I don’t have. Why do moms have to always be right? And why don’t I run more by her?

“You know, honey, there are very simple, three step patterns,” she said. “That might be something to try.”

Maybe it’s the case of too much, too soon. Maybe I would have been better off completing a few more simple projects before diving into something so ambitious. I guess we’ll never know. I haven’t given up on sewing. I still like the idea of taking a piece of fabric and making something simple. Like a tablecloth perhaps. How hard could that be? And I think I can at least hem my pants now. That’s something.

The experience also reminded me of something Julia Cameron writes about—the grace to be a beginner. It’s good to try something totally new, not just because it’s humbling, but because when you’re a total beginner, anything is progress. And if you don’t try new things, who knows what you could be missing? What if I had never tried surfing? I shudder at the thought. Sewing may not be my next great passion, but at least I tried.

For my next new thing I'm considering snowboarding. Somebody told me it's therapeutic, satisfying, and creative.

It's the Grief, Stupid.

I’ve been feeling, off. With respect to the book. It’s so close to finished, that for all intents and purposes, it’s finished. I just can’t bring myself to say goodbye. I realized, sitting in the coffee shop just now, listening to one of my Laura and Miguel playlists, that I’m grieving the loss of my novel.

I’m not actually losing the novel I know, but this phase, where it was just me and the characters, is coming to an end. At least I hope it is. The phase where I struggled with it on my own, figuring out what would come next, how it would end, how it would begin—all that is over. Which is a good thing. But as my mom says, even good changes are change.

I find myself missing the characters. Missing the good old days. Were they that good? Perhaps I should review old blog posts. Of course, there is a new novel, new characters waiting. But it’s hard to let go of Laura and Miguel. I’ve really fallen in love with them over the past three years. It seems like I’ve spent more time in their world than my own. It’s a place I like to be.

Do you ever want to just capture a moment in time? Stay in one happy place? I have to remind myself that in moving forward, I’m allowing for other good moments. For new experiences. And that although I’m moving on, Laura and Miguel’s story will stay frozen in time. At least this part of their story.

I’m thinking of creating some sort of ritual to memorialize the end of this phase. Yes, that’s the kind of person I am. I had a suit burning after I left the law firm. (It was a very old suit, and disturbingly flammable.) A book burning doesn’t seem appropriate. Any suggestions?

Proof

In case any of you doubted my honesty, check out the following:

Donnie on the TV set of Blue Bloods.



Donnie mere moments before he spoke to me on the phone.




Are you trembling like I am?

Donnie Wahlberg

At 4:28 this afternoon, as I sat at my temporary job, I received this text from Carl, who is currently in New York: “Filming show for cbs with donnie walhberg but i haven’t seen him yet.”

The thirteen-year-old girl who lives within me sprang to life, frantically typing, “Oh my god. If u see him, u have to take a picture or get me an autograph. Pretty pretty please.”

I outed myself to my co-worker, Laura, because I had to tell someone immediately, and quickly gave her the background on how I loved New Kids on the Block when I was in junior high (yeah, okay, and freshman year) and how I was literally, actually convinced that I would marry Donnie Wahlberg. Obsession doesn’t begin to cover it. (More like delusion, but hey, I was thirteen.)

It was my life mission to meet Donnie Wahlberg. My favorite cousin, my best friend and I arrived early to every concert—and we went to many—determined to meet the loves of our young lives—Jordan, Joey, and Donnie. The closest we got was meeting the as-yet-unfamous Mark Wahlberg, who did not impress us.

My obsession wore off as high school wore on, and I thought it was over. Until last summer, when Favorite Cousin asked if I wanted to go to the reunion tour. I said yes, thinking it would be funny, ironic.

Little did I know that as soon as the lights went down, we’d begin screaming like 12-year-olds, and not stop. I really felt like that tween again, singing my heart out to “I’ll Be Loving You Forever,” screaming “I love you, Donnie!” squealing and giggling like I never had in my adult life. Cousin and I spent the whole next day IMing about how amazing it was and how someday we had to meet them. Also, downloading The Block, their new album, and repeating to each other how great it was.

4:45 p.m. New text from Carl. “I don’t see him anywhere. Not in this scene.”

Response. “Keep your eyes peeled. Meeting him is on my bucket list.”

Minutes go by. I’m dying. What could be happening? Is Donnie there? Will Carl talk to him? Oh my God.

4:55 p.m. “I’m giving up. too hot out here and kinda really boring.”

Response. :(

I left work, and went home, thrilled that Carl had been somewhere in Donnie’s vicinity. What a fun thing to break up a work week.

6:15 p.m. Carl calls saying Donnie had appeared on set and was filming a scene. He held the phone up for me so I could hear.

“IS THAT DONNIE?” I could barely contain my excitement, at merely hearing his voice in the distance.

“No, that was the director.”

“But you can see him?”

“Yeah. He’s twenty yards away.”

“Oh my God. Carl, you have to get an autograph. Please. You don’t know how much that would mean to me. Please. A photo. Something.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”

I called Cousin who squealed, “He’s standing on a TV set and can actually see Donnie? Donnie?”

The other line rang and I panicked, hanging up on Cousin accidentally, and finding, not Donnie as some part of me hoped, but Carl, saying the scene had ended, Donnie had disappeared, and he was leaving the set. I was disappointed, but still riding a high. If Carl had stood ten feet from Donnie, it was almost like I had too. So much closer than I’d ever been before. Amazing.

I called Cousin back and we squealed some more and speculated about how we might act if we ever did meet our favorite New Kid. I said, “It’s better that I wasn’t there because I would have acted like a screaming idiot, or become completely tongue-tied. It’s for the best.”

I told Carl how though I could try to find where they were filming this weekend, I feared that once word got out there would be hundreds of screaming groupies like me. He sounded skeptical.

8:58 p.m. Carl called to say he had returned to the set, because he was bored and restless and it was only a block from where he was staying. He saw a trailer marked “Danny” and a crowd gathered outside it--heavy, bleached-out, thirtysomething women. Donnie wasn’t in sight, but he had to be close.

“Do you want me to stay?” Carl asked. Because, obviously, he’s the best husband ever.

I said no. I would have been thrilled for him to meet Donnie, but it was a long day, and who knew when he would come out. I thanked him for trying, and said it was fine if he wanted to leave.

Carl started to walk away and just then, the trailer door opened. “There he is! He’s hugging all those women. Okay, I have to call you back.”

Maybe a minute passed, maybe time stopped. Next thing I knew, Carl was on the line and I heard a voice in the background with a very distinctive Boston accent saying, “I gotta get going.”

Donnie Wahlberg.

Carl said, “Hey Donnie, can you say hi to my wife?”

Pause. My heart hammering in my ears, my voice lost somewhere, the moment an eternity and then Donnie Wahlberg’s voice. Coming through my phone. Into my ear. He said, “Hi, wife.”

I waited a second, thinking he would just hand the phone back to Carl, which by the way, would have been more than enough. But sensing he was waiting for me to—surprisingly—speak, I squeaked out something like, “Hi Donnie, my name’s Julie and I’m a huge fan.”

“Well, your husband seems like a real nice guy. But I wish I was meeting you instead of him.”

“ME TOO!”

The crowd reacted and Donnie hastened to explain to them. “Nah, nah, he seems nice, but she’s a fan.” (Donnie Walhberg, talking about my husband. There just are not enough italics for this situation.)

Is he still there? Has he handed the phone back? I don’t think so. Okay, Julie, pull it together. Say something. Anything semi-intelligent will do.

“I am a fan, Donnie! And I love The Block! I listen to it all the time.”

“Aw,” he said, seemingly touched, “thanks.”

Quasi-awkward pause where I wonder if he’s going to just go. But no. The man has manners. It’s clear now that he won’t just hand the phone over without saying goodbye. Even better than that, he said:

“I gotta go, but how about next time, I meet you instead of your husband?”

“Okay.”

When Carl got back on the phone, I was breathless, jumping up and down, sputtering out words like “amazing” and “one of the highlights of my life.”

“So I don’t have to stalk him anymore? ‘cause I felt a little creepy trying to take his picture with my cell phone.”

I took a breath. “No. Mission accomplished. A plus.”

Of course I immediately called Cousin, who made the whole thing better by squealing and screaming with me and repeatedly just saying, “Donnie. I mean, Donnie.” When I recounted the conversation for her, she said, “He was flirting with you!” I must agree. His tone was decidedly flirtatious. She said, “He said he wants to meet you!” He did in fact say this.

Now. I’m a grown-up. Not to mention a lawyer. I know that Donnie meets fans every day and must talk to hundreds of wives on the phone. But the fact that I had an actual conversation with Donnie Wahlberg, my childhood love, is amazing. He’s a real person, and now he knows that I’m a person too. Named Julie, with a nice husband, who likes The Block. It may not seem like much, but the thirteen-year-old who still lives within me can now die happy. Until the next NKOTB concert.

Renoir Overload

I am an art lover, though no expert. In recent years, emboldened by creating my own art, finding the audacity to refer to my writing as art, and believe that it is, I've come to have bolder opinions about art. Like, for example, though I have no academic or artistic training in the visual arts, I can have an opinion. That was a radical concept to me. Because like writing, I think any piece of art means something different to everyone who views it. We bring ourselves to art and to writing.

So I'm just going to say it--I do not like Renoir. Considered one of the great master painters of the past few hundred years? Undoubtedly. To Julie Owsik Ackerman--don't like it. Renoir himself helped me realize this. I walked through the entire Late Renoir exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and though I really liked a few pieces--one of a young woman playing with a small boy, a tendril of hair covering one of her eyes, both enthralled with their game--had a sweetness, a natural quality, and love that shone through. That touched me. In others I admired the way a dress was painted. But in general, by the end of the exhibit, I was underwhelmed.

At the end is a painting by Matisse. Next to it is a story of how Matisse had shown Renoir that particular work, along with some other of his paintings and Renoir had said he didn't like them. He said that he would tell Matisse he wasn't a painter, except he admired the way he used black. But he didn't like Matisse's work.

That was my a-ha moment. Few would say that Matisse wasn't a great artist, but Renoir couldn't relate to his work. That's how I feel about Renoir. I'm not saying it's without merit, but it doesn't do much for me. I don't feel much, I don't respond much at all except to say, "Not another fat lady in soft light." Just doesn't do it for me. Why do I love Matisse's work and not Renoir? I like his bright colors. I like his juxtaposition of intricate patterns with simple human forms. I just like it. Something inside me perks up, takes notice, wants more when I see a Matisse painting. I want to stand in front of it, from different angles, spend time, notice how I react and why. Other artists I feel this way about--Van Gogh, Rothko, Degas, Rousseau, Kahlo, Dali, Rivera. Other masters I cannot relate to: Picasso. (and while I'm confessing things, Hemingway.)

Why do we respond to some art and not other? It's subjective. I love bright colors, so a muted pallate is not something that leaps out at me. These are all good reminders for me about my writing. Some people will relate to it and others won't. Just because some people don't like it doesn't mean it doesn't have value, it just means they're more Renoir than Matisse.

More Summer Reading

One more great book I wanted to pass along:

The Descendants by Kaui Hart Hemmings. Very highly recommended reading

This book is one of those rare treats, like The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, where I thought--I haven't read this voice before. It's so fresh and vivid and real. How a 30ish woman so accurately nailed the voice of a 50ish father of teenage daughters, I don't know, but kudos to you, Kaui Hemmings.

Set in Hawaii, which was a big selling point for me, the book opens with Matthew King in a hospital room with his wife who is in a coma. Doesn't sound like a funny premise, but the book is hilarious. First line: "The sun is shining, mynah birds are chattering, palm trees are swaying, so what." Hemmings' writing reminded me that honesty can make anything funny. Watching this snarky, detached man try to parent a 17-year-old and 10-year-old daughter is funny. Watching him mess it up is funny. Watching his attempts to make amends is funny. And touching. And ultimately, sweet.

It's a powerful story, hard to put down, originally told. Oh, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. Apparently Alexander Payne (director of Sideways) just finished filming a movie based on this book. Pretty cool. And a little someone named George Clooney is the star. I wonder if Clooney could play a 20-year-old Mexican for the adaptation of my novel?

Summer Reading

What do I like in a book? I have to care about the protagonist, and prefer someone I like and can root for. Funny is good, though not necessary. A juicy problem helps, especially if I can relate to it. Bonus points for taking me to a time or place I’ve never been, or letting me return to a place I love. Good writing—do I need to say that? Oh, and I’m a sucker for a love story.

Here’s a short list of books I would recommend for summer reading.

If You Follow Me by Malena Watrous. Highly recommended reading

This book jumped off the shelf at Borders at me, with its intriguing title and its sea green cover, showing a Japanese drawing of a woman. The back copy begins with “Hoping to outpace her grief in the wake of her father’s suicide, Marina has come to the small, rural Japanese town of Shika to teach English for a year.” My novel is about a girl trying to outrun grief by going to Mexico, so I had to read this one.

Watrous transported me to rural Japan, a place I knew nothing about previously, and made me feel like I was there. She took me on Marina’s journey as she adjusted to a foreign culture, tried to face her grief, and figure out her romantic relationships—one with a woman, one with a man. It’s funny and tender and unlike most books I read.

The Secret Year by Jennifer Hubbard. Highly recommended reading

This is a young adult novel, but don’t let that put you off—it’s mature, well-written, and compelling. It also deals with grief. (Are we sensing a theme to my reading list yet?) The story begins right after sixteen-year-old Colt finds out that the girl he was secretly seeing for a year has died in a car accident. It explores class issues in contemporary America—Colt was from the wrong side of the tracks—also self-esteem, love, and sex. All from a male teenage perspective. I enjoyed living in Colt’s brain for awhile, and finding out why he had put up with Julia’s conditions of secrecy. I was compelled to know how Colt would handle this grief that he wouldn’t even talk about. How would move on, make peace with the past?

I was a bit surprised by the amount of sex in the book, and how casually the teenage characters seemed to treat it. I could buy that from the boy's perspective, but I found it a little hard to believe that none of the teenage girls in the book seemed to place much emotional import on sleeping with someone. Despite that minor quibble, I really enjoyed reading this book and definitely recommend it.

After You by Julie Buxbaum. Very highly recommended reading

I really enjoyed Buxbaum's first novel, The Opposite of Love, and liked After You even more. This book also focuses on grief, ostensibly over the death of the protagonist’s best friend, but also hidden grief over another loss. The story took me to contemporary London, and introduced me to a lovable, precocious eight-year-old girl. It explored themes of friendship, secrecy, loyalty, and loss, all with Ms. Buxbaum’s irrepressible sense-of-humor. I cried at least once reading this book, and also laughed out loud. Pretty good for the same book.

Nice Girls Do by Sarah Duncan. Recommended reading

I’d never heard of this author or this book, but I saw it by the checkout at the library. It looked like a light read with some sex and romance, which it was.

The protagonist, Anna Carmichael, is a mousy academic type in contemporary England. When we meet her, she is recently divorced, in a bit of a rut, with no love interests in sight. Two interesting men appear rather quickly, and Anna goes though a journey of self-discovery that involves high living, cocaine, sex and a historic garden. This book isn’t a life-changer, but it was highly readable, with a character I cared enough about to hate sometimes, and root for all the time. Plus, it took me to a world of historic English gardens, and taught me some things I’d known nothing about previously.

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver. Loved it loved it loved it!!!

Chances are, you know who Barbara Kingsolver is. I’ve been reading her books for years, though I must admit, I wasn’t a fan of The Poisonwood Bible, the one all the critics loved. The Lacuna, though, is one of the best books I’ve read in the past few years. Kingsolver has an enviable mastery of language and imagery. I annoyed whoever happened to be sitting near me by reading aloud particularly beautiful sentences—her writing is that good. Combine her talent with a Mexico City setting, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera as major characters, and a novelist protagonist, and you can’t be much more up my alley. I loved this book!!!!

Open by Andre Agassi. Highly recommended reading

I include this so you know I do read non-fiction occasionally, and because I loved this book too. I am an ardent tennis fan and a lifelong Agassi fan, so I was predisposed to like this book. The story is compelling, but what surprised me most was that it is beautifully written and searingly honest. This book also made me cry. It’s a damn good story about a little orphan who finds love and redemption. It’s funny, inspiring and fascinating to see what life is like behind the curtain of fame, success and money. Though Andre and I may not have much in common on the surface, we both suffer from perfectionism, and I really enjoyed following his journey as he identified about his demons and eventually learned to get out of his own way.

Happy reading! And please pass along any book recommendations you have. I'm always looking for a great read.

Infidelity

I'm cheating on my book. With a new story. If the first novel is true love forever, then the second novel is infatuation. I have all this energy for it, because of its…well, novelty. The wide open space for new characters, problems, and themes may intimidate me eventually. But right now, I still have the safety and comfort of the story that I know. That makes it easier to begin a new one. It's like finding a new lover before you break up with your boyfriend. I don't recommend that strategy for human relationships, but for writing, it seems to be working.

I used to worry that I would never finish the first book, wouldn't be able to let it go. I didn’t want to spend years rewriting the same thing, moving commas, a slave to my perfectionism. And although I did not meet my goal of finishing by my birthday, the end is in sight. I am making what I believe to be the last round of corrections before I submit it to agents. That, in and of itself, amazes me.

Equally reassuring though, is how naturally it seems to be wrapping up. Just as many people told me, “You'll know when it's done,” I do seem to actually know. Part of how I know is that I've stopped daydreaming about the characters from my first book. New characters have invaded my head. It feels like the new book is evicting the old one, saying, you had your time, it's our turn now. I like it. Daunting as a new book could seem, what I feel most right now is excitement. Que viva la infatuacion!

Writers' Conference - Friend or Foe?

My first writers’ conference caused (among other things) the sense that I had no business as a writer, that I would never finish my book, that I shouldn’t bother. So I was understandably squeamish about attending a second. But after the North Wildwood Beach Writers’ Conference this week, I’m a convert. Now I believe, even if you’ve had nightmare experiences like me, you should try again.

Why?

You meet a bunch of writers and talk about writing for a few days straight. You could meet a writer you admire, an agent or editor who can help you. You learn about the publishing business. You get inspired. If you're extraordinarily blessed, you may have a critique experience like the one I had.

For the Wildwood conference you could submit the first page of your book for a critique if you wanted. I had just recently written the first page of my book and was reluctant to submit something so fresh. But I listened to the little voice that told me to do it and tried to forget I had. I didn’t know until the critique session started that the reviewer was a contributing editor of Harper’s who has edited writers like, for example, David Foster Wallace. (If you don’t know who DFW is—find out. He’s a revelation.)

So this editor stood in front of the room and began reading people’s first pages. She said she would read six. I didn’t know if mine would be one of them. I fervently wished both that she would read mine and that she wouldn’t. I fidgeted and sweated through the first, second, third and fourth entries, which were not mine. Then she read the first sentence of my first page. I tried to not outwardly cringe or actually crawl under my chair. It was anonymous, so nobody, including her, knew it was mine and I didn’t want to give it away in case it was awful.

After reading, she said a number of things that she admired. The person who edited David Foster Wallace liked things about my first page. A lot. You better believe I wrote down every nice word she said. I may pin it to the inside of my bra and wear it around for a few months—that’s how much it meant to me.

Then came the hard part—the things that didn’t work. It’s hard to hear criticism of my writing, even if it’s constructive. Here’s a summary of what happens inside me—shame at being less than perfect, at being exposed as less than perfect, followed by defensiveness, then panic. The defensiveness I can keep in check. The perfectionism I can overcome. The panic is hardest. The smallest suggestion can make me feel like I’ll never finish the book.

Luckily by now I’ve been critiqued enough that I know what to expect. All these feelings are familiar if not welcome. So I thought, okay, yes, this happens when I get feedback. I went home, talked to Carl, watched the Phillies, reminded myself of the positive things she’d said, went to bed.

The next day at lunch I ended up at the table with the editor. I didn’t know if I should bring up the critique and wasn’t going to force it, but when another writer asked about my project, I confessed that mine was one of the pieces she had read the night before.

I told her how much her thoughts had helped me, which seemed to gratify her. Then I hesitated, seeing an opening. Somehow I managed to squeak out a question about the critique. What followed was David Foster Wallace’s editor telling me what she thought of my work, my ideas, how I could improve what I had, what was already great.

I am still stunned. Both that I had that opportunity and that I had the courage to take advantage of it. Best of all is after that conversation I felt more confident about what I’ve already written, and have a good idea of how to fix what doesn’t work.

So here’s the thing—go to writer’s conferences. Even if you get scarred and discouraged, though I hope you won’t, you learn from that. And maybe the editor of (insert literary hero’s name here) will end up giving you meaningful feedback. You never know.

Anniversary

Yesterday marked one year since my Grandmom died. I can cry just writing that sentence, but I won’t since I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Ocean City. Ocean City, where I have so many memories of Grandmom, like her last trip to my parents’ house, where she and I shared the room with the single beds, as we had in so many places over the years. By then, she was an octogenarian widow, and I was a married woman, but for that night, we were two single girls again.

I still miss her so much it physically hurts me. Not all the time. Not all day every day, but it can still hit me with a force that steals my breath, bends me over, clutching the kitchen counter, tears springing forth, bursting out. It’s worse at night. If a wave hits me at night, I can cry and feel like there’s no stopping it—nothing other than exhaustion or dehydration. Sometimes I’ll get into bed, still sniffling, and just hope to fall asleep, which eventually I do.

One of the worst days I’ve had in recent months was the day I changed my hair color. The day after Grandmom died I woke up with a visceral need to change my hair. I walked into a salon in my town and asked them to make me a blond. The change was so dramatic that my husband literally did not recognize me at first. I needed that change, I needed an outward sign that life would never be the same.

As her anniversary approached, I found myself needing to change it again. Needing that year of mourning to be over, an outward sign that the worst had passed. Another change. Another loss.

I didn’t want to be too dark, but I wanted darker. My hairdresser, who prefers brunettes, was only too happy to comply. But when she finished I almost burst into tears. Because Grandmom was really gone. And that time when it was so raw, so present, that’s gone too. Which is good. Life has to go on. But losing the intense grief, somehow that feels like a loss too. Because that was the thing that made me know she was real, she was here, she loved me. And without that, what will I have? Her things. My memories. Ocean City. Her recipes.

Now I am crying in the coffee shop. Embarrassing. But the reason I wanted to write about this is that I don’t think people talk about grief enough. People are ashamed to cry in public, to show sadness. I’m trying to change that about myself. I heard someone say the other day that she grieved her father’s death for decades. That helped me. Because there’s part of me that thinks I should be over it. That Grandmom was 92 years old, lived a full and happy life, died a year ago, that it shouldn’t still hurt.

And it is better. It doesn’t hurt as much or as frequently. But how could you ever stop missing someone you really loved? Someone who made you feel so good with just one look, one squeeze of the hand? Somehow, just being with Grandmom made me know that I was going to be okay, that whatever I was struggling with would work out, and that I would survive it. Her faith in me was so strong that she didn’t even have to say anything, though she often did. I miss laughing with her, I miss confiding in her, having her confide in me. I miss having coffee with her and her friends, feeling so special and cherished. How many people in life actually cherish you? If you’re lucky enough to have one, and you lose them, doesn’t it make sense to feel that loss?

So I just wanted to say, I’m still grieving. I think in some sense, I will always grieve this loss. But I know, I still know, how blessed I am to have a loss like this to grieve. Alice Walker said in a poem that “grief/emotionally speaking/is the same/as gold.” I think I’m beginning to understand what she means.

Why Do I Love the Twilight Saga?

It’s true—I’m a Twi-hard. I’m not stalking Robert Pattinson or anything, but I read all four books of the series, in about a month, and I’ve watched both movies more than once. Now I’m a 33-year-old woman, well-educated and well-read, yet I’m susceptible to a teenage vampire romance. As a writer, it behooves me to try to figure out why.

So for those of you who have yet to succumb to Twilight’s charm, it’s the story of 17-year-old Bella Swan, klutzy and plain, who falls in love with Edward Cullen, 104-year-old vampire in the body of a gorgeous 17-year-old boy. Rob Pattinson comes close to perfection, I admit, but the descriptions of Edward in the book paint a portrait of the most exquisite male specimen humanity has ever seen. And somehow, the amazing supernatural Edward Cullen falls in love with plain old ordinary Bella.

Throughout the first book, which I devoured, I held on to some skepticism about their “love.” It seemed too obsessive, too consuming, too teenager. No one falls in love so completely at 17 and stays that way forever. No one finds their soul mate that young. (Oh, except my parents.) But not nowadays, that doesn’t happen. (Oh, except for my friends James and Stephanie.) Fine, so maybe it happens.

But the talk about completing each other, needing each other, was a bit much for seventeen I thought. I enjoyed the fantasy, escaping into the world of supernatural beings who are so good that they fight their nature, live a moral life in spite of great temptation, and are fabulously wealthy, athletic, beautiful, and funny. Who wouldn’t want to spend time in that world?

But in the second book of the series, New Moon, when Edward breaks up with Bella and leaves, I began to believe that Edward really was her soul mate, that she may live without him, but it was no kind of life. Seeing Bella’s devastation, and feeling it, made me believe in the relationship between the characters. That’s when Stephanie Meyer (the author) got me.

Maybe because I’ve lived through horrible breakups. Maybe because I have a soul mate, and can’t imagine having a complete life without him. Maybe just because Meyer so effectively conveyed the horror of being devastated by love. Bella can live without Edward, she does, but it’s not the same. She will never be the same.

And this all appeals to me why? I like to believe that two people can love each other so completely. Even if it’s hard to believe that can happen when you’re seventeen and last your whole life, sometimes it does. Don’t we all want someone who loves us so much that they would sacrifice their happiness, even their life for us? Bella and Edward’s love is idealized, I’m not sure that humans really love each other like that, but it’s nice to watch and to imagine. Maybe it’s something to strive for—putting your partner’s happiness first, sacrificing for them, protecting them, standing by them, forgiving them when they make a horrible mistake.

Isn’t it nice to think that kind of love is possible?

How Writing Helps Me

Somebody recently asked me to describe what writing meant to me. That question feels a bit unmanageable, but I think I can describe some of the ways in which writing helps me. Here is a non-exhaustive list.

Morning Pages
Every morning for the past few years, when I wake up, before getting out of bed, I write Morning Pages, an exercise from The Artist’s Way. This means filling three pages of a notebook with stream of consciousness writing—in other words, a brain dump, writing without editing, preferably without really thinking—just letting your hand move across the page.

This practice helps me realize what’s lurking in my mind—things I don’t want to think about, things bothering me or nagging at me. It allows me to vent frustrations, give voice to negative feelings and fears, and by not repressing them, I lessen them, become aware of them and sometimes even find steps to take or solutions. Ideas for the novel sometimes surprise me in the Morning Pages, and the practice of writing without editing myself makes writing first drafts of anything much easier.

Fiction

In writing fiction, I can let my imagination roam, I can create. I love to let my fingers fly over the keys see what comes out. Through fiction I explore questions, I watch characters work through difficulties, and in the process, I gain inspiration and ideas I apply to challenges of my own. Plus, it's just great fun.

Nonfiction

Nonfiction is scarier than fiction for me because I have to hew to the facts, like it or not. And if I’m writing about myself, I have to be brave. But this also helps me. I often don’t know what I feel or think about something until I write about it. If I put words on a page, play with them, arrange and rearrange them, at the end of the process, I’ve figured something out, I’ve realized something, and I’ve created something, which is its own satisfaction.

Poems

I don’t write a lot of poems. For me, they are a last resort, when plain old prose cannot capture the moment or emotion I want to describe. Sometimes writing a poem is the only thing that makes me feel better, because even when a situation is awful, there is comfort in creating something beautiful from it.

In all its forms, writing helps me figure out what I feel and what I think. After writing something I’m a little savvier, a little more self-aware. But maybe my favorite way that writing helps me is the satisfaction I feel when someone tells me that my writing has helped them in some way.

Does writing help you?

If You Know How to Worry...

Last week I read this sentiment in a book: If you know how to worry, you know how to meditate.

That blew my mind.

I am a champion worrier. I’m not proud of this, I wish it weren’t true, but it is. I have an obsessive, creative mind, and left to its own devices, it will fixate on all kinds of awful scenarios that will probably never happen. This does not help me.

Recently I’ve been trying, rather than just stopping behavior I don’t like, to replace it with something else. So the sentence about meditating made a lot of sense to me. For the past week or so whenever bad thoughts come into my mind, whenever I start down the path of worry or negativity, I’ve tried to catch myself and think something else instead.

Meditating in this sense is not sitting in the lotus position in a dark room, but focusing your mind on something. I have lots of mantras, sayings, thoughts I’ve collected over the years so I try one of those. It could be “To thine own self be true,” “I am exactly where I am supposed to be,” “Ask and you shall receive,” “God has a plan of goodness for me.” It could be just repeating to myself what I’m doing in that moment---aka “I’m driving the car, I’m driving the car.” The thought that helps will depend on the situation and the person, but I think the concept could help everyone: when you’re worried, switch your thinking to something else. Use that crazy obsessive mind to help yourself!

Olympia

Watching the Winter Olympics, starring cold and ice, made me long for Olympia, Greece, the stop on my cruise that followed Crete. After docking at the lovely port town of Katakolon, and driving through the scenic Kalamata countryside (covered with olive trees, just as you would imagine) we arrived at Olympia, birthplace of the Olympics.

Even before I learned that Olympia was a sacred site to the ancient Greeks, I felt the holiness in the air—something about the mountain mist, the quiet, the light. The Olympics were part of a festival that honored Zeus, and included processions, ceremonies, sacrifices and prayers as well as athletic contests. Games were held at Olympia as early as 776 B.C. and continued for more than 1,000 years. For each Olympiad a sacred truce was enacted to allow the athletes, spectators and pilgrims to travel safely to the site. The contests included footraces, discus and javelin, wrestling, boxing and equestrian events.

On our tour we saw the gymnasium, where athletes trained in the nude. “Think about that the next time you’re at the gym,” said our guide, Demetrios. Then we admired the Philippeion, (pictured above) a building Alexander the Great had built in honor of his father, and according to Demetrios, one of the most beautiful buildings in ancient Greece.

Most impressive to me was the imposing Temple of Zeus which once housed the gigantic gold and ivory statue of Zeus that was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Though unfortunately the statue has disappeared without a trace, the size of the one pillar that remains standing (34 feet tall, 7 feet thick, weighing 9 tons!) allows you to imagine the grandeur of the original structure, worthy of the King of the Gods.


Temple of Zeus.


Temple of Zeus


After passing Hera’s altar, where the Olympic torch is lit for each modern Olympics, we paraded through the gateway to the stadium, where athletes competed as early as 2,500 years ago. The marble start and finish lines are still there, begging tourists to pose on them. Demetrios reluctantly allowed us to take photos, but only if we stood at the starting line, as the ancient Greeks would have.


Me behaving like a tourist.

As I watched the Olympics over the last two weeks, I thought of Olympia and the ideas from ancient Greece that live on: that sports can bring people together, can bring peace, at least temporarily; and that competition, which causes us to strive for greatness, pleases the gods.

Valentine's Day in Harlem

I don’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day. Maybe too many Februarys without a sweetheart scarred me; maybe I find overpriced red roses and prix fixe meals at crowded restaurants annoying. However, as a person in a ten-year relationship, I do appreciate an excuse for romance. So on February 13, Carl and I did some sweet things—saw a movie, relived memories from our early relationship, held hands. But on the 14th, we eschewed all things traditional and headed off to Harlem.

We met Carl’s brother Kenneth, who was visiting from California, at 125th Street and took the A train uptown to The Cloisters, a medieval art museum at the northern tip of Manhattan. From the subway stop we climbed up the winding paths of Fort Tryon park, the icy breeze invigorating as our hearts pounded, not in romantic thrill, but the effort of climbing up to the museum, though the quiet snow-covered park, the views of the Hudson, and arriving at a medieval monastery did have a certain charm.

Once inside my husband asked at the coat check if the museum had anything special happening for Valentine’s Day. The clerk looked even more surprised by this question than I must have, finally saying, “You being here, that’s what’s special.” As if that wasn’t sweet enough, fifteen minutes later, he tracked me down to tell me he had thought of some romantic items on view in the Treasury, including a wooden box depicting the German goddess of love spearing someone with an arrow. Standing in front of that box later, I squeezed Carl’s hand and kissed his cheek, seized by Valentine’s spirit.

We left Medieval Europe and traveled back to Harlem, searching out the outpost of Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, a Syracuse institution, where the brisket and ribs are worth the hour wait, especially when you can watch The Orange on TV. The red bows in the bartenders’ hair, little bottles of champagne on many tables and Valentinis splashing out of glasses were festive without being obnoxious, and the crowd of mostly large family parties was perfect for our own party of three.

Leaving Dinosaur, heavier and slower, though happier, we walked from 131st and 12th Ave, peeked into Grant’s Tomb, continued on to Columbia where some enterprising students had built an actual igloo on the quad. (We peeked into that too.) Onward we marched to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, the largest gothic-style cathedral in the world, longer than two football fields and tall enough to accommodate the Statue of Liberty (without her pedestal).

The size of the building is what impressed me most, though I also loved the rosette stained-glass window and the American Poet’s Corner, which included Edna St. Vincent Millay and this quotation of hers: “Take up the song; forget the epitaph.” Maybe not romantic, but inspiring to this poet.

From there we walked through Morningside Park, up 125th Street, the commercial artery of Harlem, past The Apollo, and all the street vendors with their hearts, teddy bears, and flowers, ending up where we had started.

Exploring New York, visiting museums, cathedrals, parks, wandering down streets known and unknown, feasting on barbeque, sharing it with two people I love—that’s pretty close to my ideal day. What more could I ask for in Valentine’s Day?

Labyrinth, Minotaur, Crete oh my!

I wanted to go on this cruise as soon as my aunt and uncle mentioned it to me. Greece, Malta, Tunisia, Spain, Portugal, I thought "Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes." It wasn't until I got the itinerary that I learned we were going to Crete, and when I saw that we could tour King Minos' palace, I had to look twice. King Minos, as in the guy who built the labyrinth to house the Minotaur? Wasn't that just a myth?

For those of you who don't remember, King Minos was the guy who thought he could trick Poseidon, the sea god, by sacrificing not the bull Poseidon had sent him, which was exceptionally beautiful, but a substitute bull.

Apparently King Minos hadn't heard any other myths, because the gods always find out when you try to trick them, and they have very creative forms of revenge. In this case, Poseidon made Minos' wife fall in love with the bull, resulting in her bearing its child, a half-man, half-bull--the Minotaur.

Minos had his architect Daedalus construct a labyrinth to house the Minotaur. Wackiness ensued, including children regularly sacrificed to the Minotaur, until Theseus showed up from Athens to kill it. When Minos locked Daedalus and his son in the labyrinth as a punishment for helping Theseus, the clever architect designed wings from wax and feathers so they could escape. What child can forget the story of Icarus, who disobeyed his father, flew too close to the sun, which melted the wax on his wings and sent him plummeting to his death?

The stories swirled through my brain as we drove to Knossos, the archaeological site. The ruins themselves were, especially after the Parthenon, not very impressive--no labyrinth. But walking around the site of Europe's oldest civilization, with settlements dating from 7,000 B.C., I felt inspired as a storyteller, because long after the palaces came crashing down, the stories remained.




Above are recreated frescoes on the palace walls at Knossos.

Below, according to my tour guide, is the oldest road in Europe.



Sailing away from Crete. Pretty, huh?