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?
Sunday, November 30, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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