I Pity the Fool

Before the holidays I was stuck in self-pity, feeling grumpy, suffocated, trapped. I had a case of “If only we lived in Spain, everything would be better.” And though wallowing in self-pity has a certain satisfaction, maybe because of the illusion that I am a passive victim, and therefore can’t do anything about my misery, after about a week I got tired of my own whining. As I often do, I looked to Julia Cameron for comfort, found an essay on self-pity in one of her books. She said that eventually we will get sick of self-pity and ask “What can I do about it?” I slept on that thought Saturday night, woke up on Sunday, did yoga, then meditated. With a rarely calm mind and body I called to mind the many things in my life that work right now. Here’s a partial list:

1) My creative life. Not only am I writing the book and the blog, I’m exploring other art forms and nurturing my inner artist.

2) My job. Somehow, miraculously, I found the perfect job for me right now. I like what I do, I like the people I work with and the work environment, and maybe most of all, I love how my three day work schedule allows me to keep writing and gives me time and space to continue most of the things I loved about my no-job life.

3) My family. Almost all of my family is in the Philly area, and I get to see them a lot. I get to go to my cousin’s birthday parties. I get to see my Uncle Ed, Aunt Mary Lou and Grandmom around town. I get to have dinners with my parents, girls’ days with my niece, double-dates with my brother and his wife.

4) Ocean City, NJ. It’s hard to feel grateful for the shore this time of year, when I can’t go in the water, and hardly even get there, but our proximity to the beach and access to my parents’ beach house is one of the great blessings of my life.

5) My friends. Not only do I live within a few miles of some of my oldest and dearest friends, I’ve made some truly nurturing new friendships over the past year.

6) Narberth. My one-square-mile town has the world’s best almond croissant, boutiques that sell original art from local artists, a giant mosaic mural, a magical cheese shop, some down-home pubs, a fine restaurant, a few thrift and consignment stores, a talented florist, an old-school five and dime, and the best 4th of July celebration of any small town anywhere. And we gorgeous giant old trees. Loads of them.

7) Philly. I went out last week for an artist date, with fresh eyes, into University City. I wandered around Penn’s campus and discovered some amazing pieces of art and architecture. College Hall, made of travertine stone—an eerie and beautiful green, looking like a castle that belongs on wind-tossed moor in Wales rather than in West Philadelphia, ignited the imagination. A photo exhibit about Nigeria transported me back to Africa. A small Cuban café fed body and soul with a warm latte and an impromptu drum performance. Joy and laughter seeped into me at the University City Arts League, where I went with a group of children to the land “Where the Wild Things Are.” All of these things are in Philly and of Philly. Perhaps the best blessing of that day was the idea that my own city has untold wonders waiting to be discovered, if I can approach it with the fresh eyes of a visitor, at least occasionally.

It was good and necessary to remember what a full and rich life I have. But that wasn’t enough. Self-pity is a signal that something isn’t quite right. With my still-quiet mind, I realized that I need more fun and more exercise in my life, and then I felt immense relief. I don’t have to go to Spain for exercise or fun. So I investigated and joined a gym, where I went for a long overdue swim, feeling my soul expand the way it only does in the water. I’ve done some cardio workouts since, gaining not only those lovely endorphins, but also some insight into the book, better sleep, and more peace in general. So the more exercise is already paying off. Next step: more fun. What can I do for fun other than surf? Suggestions please!

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.