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.