dear strangers

2012-01-29T17:03:00.000-07:00

i have no training in this field. no experience with being so desperately in love with such a wretched adolescent creature.

do not remember your own self, dark and passionate and angry. it will only make the job harder. it will only make you love her a little bit more for her grand pronouncements and vitriolic moods. though you must catch her in her lies, you would like to turn away. catch a movie, grab a sandwich, drive through the car wash with the radio blasting. but you live beside the fear, the memory, of how it could all go bad. really bad. on your watch.

i want too much from the job. i want her to like me. i want her to be good. but sometimes she hates me. and sometimes she's rotten.

you still have to feed her and love her and let her spill the messy contents of her heart all over you. and you have to pretend that it doesn't faze you. that you're not bothered by the gore. and when it's quiet, when the coast is clear, you can make a mad dash for mexico. . .

image found here

2012-01-10T14:27:00.000-07:00

we are such beasts. really. just a good rub down and a clean bowl of water. a convivial smile and a leisurely walk. nice bright patches of sunlight in which to nap and plenty of time to poop. rewards for good work and a dinner on time. who are we kidding? happy new year.

2011-12-27T19:24:00.000-07:00

we all know how lucky we are, right? even when the atm receipt shows negative $17 and the house is rank with the post christmas blues. even when there hasn't been a word written in days and the heater breaks down and the dog's teeth are covered in putrid plaque. even when the moon is a sliver of beauty that hardly gets noticed and the best time is right now, but you're thinking about later. because luck is spiteful and doesn't like to go unnoticed. luck will change itself just for sport--just to watch you wish for what you already had.

2011-12-16T20:26:00.001-07:00

the emergency room housekeeping staff jokes about what's in the squirt bottles that adorn their carts. this is the humor that the job requires. you want a squirt of this? which one is my best squirt? i'll show you. . everyone has their assigned tasks. there is a chain of command. take the temperature. draw the blood. suture the skin. swab the vomit off the floor. push the wheelchair. sign here. put that in. take that out. you will be fine. you will never be fine. none of it matters if you are not there. if you are arguing with an adolescent about the necessity of brushing their teeth; if you are pushing yourself closer to the warmth of the man in your bed; if you are scrubbing burned cheese off the dinner plates. but still--the lights glow all night. the cold seeps under the electronic doors. lives are saved and ruined. you'd never know. until it's your life. until it's all that matters.

image found here

2011-12-06T13:36:00.000-07:00

all around me there are old women and men sitting in their chairs, thinking about how easy it used to be to tie shoelaces, drive a car, brew a coffee, protest the rent increase, crack a joke, or comfort a lover. now everything is hard. even eating without choking. remember to chew, honey. this from a girl who even at twenty-two doesn't know how to line her lips without looking like a whore. or maybe they all want to look like whores these days. whores from another planet with landing strips between their legs and computer screens in their back pockets. another thing that's become nearly impossible: understanding what it is people want.

image found here

2011-11-30T13:32:00.000-07:00

pickling red onions has become one of my favorite things to do. partly because i know that i'll get to eat them later--on a salad with goat cheese and walnuts and what could be better than that!?!?--but also because making them is one of those rare tasks that is incredibly simple but feels really sophisticated in a domestic kind of way. somehow having a jar of homemade pickled anything in the fridge feels incredibly satisfying. and now that i've written all of that down, i realize how this is exactly the kind of thing one should not declare in public. not unless you want everyone under the age of twenty-five to start snickering. i can see my 12 year-old's eyes rolling. kill me now, she'd be thinking. if that ever becomes one of my favorite things to do, i will know it's time to go. yep. that's me. not really caring about the shame i should be feeling. that's me going to put on the kettle and unscrew the vinegar. didn't i say something about a precipice?

image found here

2011-11-21T21:15:00.000-07:00

i am on the edge. teetering on that precipice of mid-life. it is exhilarating and horrible, both. cookies and milk taste even better than they did when i was young. working hard at crafting a fictional life, falling in love with people who have already died, becoming young enough to remember young. i see t's hands on his guitar and i wonder if there is a girl out there, the girl who will love his hands first, the way i loved the mister's first. i was looking for metaphors, even then.

2011-11-09T15:01:00.000-07:00

do you listen to the sound the disposal makes as it whirs? is there a small shriek every time a leaf turns loose of its hold on the branch and falls to the street? are you clean on the inside, or filthy? the sky was cloudy and gray when i saw two people shooting drugs in their car. it was just one time. you could be a star. bring your friend. no, not her. the hot one. we reek of trouble. do you want to call your mom?

2011-11-01T12:42:00.000-06:00

recently, there were some black moods. angry, hateful, disgusting. the funny thing about moods, is that they're catching. more contagious than the flu, i think. so i won't say who started it, but suffice it to say that, at one point or another, we had each become afflicted. this got me thinking about the antidotes to a black mood. we should each have a bag of them, and use them just like medicine. my bag includes:

make cookies
a walk
music
lock myself up & work
an outing to the bookstore
an episode of the office, 30 rock, or curb your enthusiasm
lock myself up & read
a hot chai
new pajamas
scrabble, pente, or cards
car talk

you? i tried to get everyone to make their own bag because when you need it most, you often forget what in the world you could do to make it better.

how to bridge the gap

2011-10-25T14:28:00.000-06:00

Ira Glass on Storytelling from David Shiyang Liu on Vimeo.

2011-10-23T19:02:00.000-06:00

are you bitter? do you find yourself rolling your eyes at people who smile too much? why does it matter that your jeans will never fit the way you want them to? why does that sometimes make you feel like you've missed something really important? why do you struggle so much with middles? everything happens in the middle. beginnings and endings are for pussies. you are not a pussy. or are you? are you capable of making a meal everyone will adore? would the food taste better if your jeans fit like they should? if you are the protagonist, what is it that you want? what are you seeking? your daughter wants to be an adult; she wants to stand in front of her own stove and push the food around, wondering if any of it is what it should be.

2011-10-19T10:16:00.000-06:00

the house is empty. the dishes echo when i put them away. i walked the dog and saw two dead honeybees in the gutter. the trees have begun their beautiful goodbye. wild animals are on the loose in ohio. their cages broken, their keeper dead. lions & tigers & bears. keep the children home from school. lock the doors. make cookies and keep your eyes to the windows.

2011-10-11T22:07:00.000-06:00

another batch of house guests T minus 48.

sometimes i fantasize about my own life. my own regular, dull, hermit-like life.

but at least the excuse for a dismal writing week is better than, gee, i wonder what kinds of curtain are for sale on etsy, or hmmm, is veganism possible for me, or wow, colum mccann really knows what the hell he's up to.

2011-10-05T12:12:00.000-06:00

i've been thinking a lot about how time changes us. not just physically, though that's always floatin' around. but when i think about who i was when i met the mister or had my babies, it's safe to say that i was pretty different. and that's the beauty of those experiences: they've forever left their mark on me.

i remember a conversation i had with a 7th grade boyfriend. we were talking on the phone one night (remember those days) and i was sprawled across my iron bed with my feet on the wall. we talked for hours about what kind of car we'd each drive when we were adults and married. huh? yeah. look at me in the minivan, now! i remember how i thought those things--the toys, the clothes, the pets--would determine the kind of life you had. it was just a matter of choosing the right car, etc., and then everything would fall into place. obviously, the ugly blue station wagon that my mom drove was an irreversible step into dorkdom. it was because of that station wagon that she didn't "get" me. that i wasn't allowed to go to friends houses if their parents weren't home (little did she know. . .). that she didn't think loud music was fun or have any plans on new year's eve.

so, last night i became a traitor to my own 11 year-old-self: e is not allowed to go to friends houses if there is not an adult at home.

how long will this rule last? she wants to know. in high school, too?

oh, yeah.

2011-09-27T20:29:00.001-06:00

i was sitting on a park bench, reading the extraordinary THIS SIDE OF BRIGHTNESS by Colum McCann. it was an idyllic afternoon. the children were running and biking, respectively, around the very large park and i was left with my book. the eastern sky was threatening to storm, but it was still warm and breezy in the park. an older male jogger was circling the park, making his route in the gutter, several feet behind me. as he passed the first time i couldn't believe what i heard: a loud and--dare i say--agressive, fart. it startled me. i turned and look at him as he kept on jogging. surely he didn't know what he'd done. i mean, couldn't he hear how loud and iconic it was? he wasn't wearing headphones. as he circled again, another one. then another. when the children finished their ramblings, i collected our things and as we were leaving i told them about the jogger. perfect humor for my children. and then, as if on cue, the farting jogger circles us again. sure enough, he let one rip. we couldn't help ourselves. we laughed at his public display of flatulence. maybe that's what he was after.

image found here

2011-09-26T21:08:00.000-06:00

"it takes courage to grow up and become who you really are." - e.e. cummings

also, to explain to your grandmother what a boner is. i'm just sayin'. i live in the presence of a courageous girl.

image found here

dead meat

2011-09-24T16:40:00.001-06:00

we took the train to santa fe yesterday. there was a free, heartwarming concert by kyma dawson. this song was my favorite. then, new mexican dinner and a return trip on the train. in the dark. we were all tired. but there was a high-energy rebel, a kid named james who is fed up with it all: obama, wall street, child labor, coach bags, tuition hikes. he was articulate and passionate and entertaining. we all fell a little bit in love with him.

then, there was an extraordinarily large sound all around and beneath us. like a bag of rocks on the track. boulders. the train seemed to lift off the tracks. i put both my feet on the floor and held my breath. then the engineer announced that it was a cow. we'd hit a cow. and the smell seeping in through the metal and glass of the railrunner was like something burning or melting or spoiling.

james said: some people eat hamburger. e said: i think i may be vegetarian. i said: i hope the cow didn't see it coming. then we were all quiet.

photo by sharon montrose. found here.

nature's love lesson #9

2011-09-21T12:06:00.000-06:00

or welcome to autumn

9. as soon as the sun backs off a bit, as soon as it's not shoving its hotness at you from dawn til dusk, not making you wince with its absolute constancy, then--and only then--does its heat on your bare back and hidden shoulders become excellent.

43

2011-09-20T13:55:00.000-06:00

the mister has his bday today. there was a time i thought i'd never have anything in common with a forty-three year old man. little did i know. . .

my mister is a perfect specimen of humor, kindness, passion, wisdom & forgiveness. to my fourteen-year old self who would read this and think, seriously, ewww: you can't even begin to imagine the goodness coming your way. thanks, mister. happy birthday.

2011-09-19T15:41:00.000-06:00

". . .there is nothing you can buy, achieve, own, or rent that can fill up that hunger inside for a sense of fulfillment and wonder. But the good news is that creative expression, whether that means writing, dancing, bird-watching, or cooking, can give a person almost everything that he or she has been searching for: enlivenment, peace, meaning, and the incalculable wealth of time spent quietly in beauty. "-Anne Lamott

I wonder, as I read these words, if this idea is taught in schools? Is it even considered when designing curriculum? A nine year old girl that I met this weekend told me she wants to be a dentist when she grows up. Cool, I thought. I've never heard that from a child. So I asked her why that interested her. She said she'd heard they make a lot of money. Sigh. Surely some dentists are inspired and fulfilled by their work, but doubtful that they got into it for the salary.

sunday

2011-09-18T11:15:00.002-06:00

i woke up at 3am with shards of glass in my throat. after camping with t's 4th grade class for two nights, it was to be expected. when i woke again at 8am, i was thinking about my father. the bedroom was slightly cool as his was on the day he last spoke. little t, then only three, toddled in and said, "hi, papa." my father turned his head slightly, smiled a little as his eyes rested on t. "hey, t, how you doin'?" it was the last thing he ever said. when i woke up this morning i was thinking about the road my father's mind travelled after those words. because i know he was still travelling. still hearing conversations, still seeing scenes in his mind from his life. but it was all his. none of it shared. his own private road home. it makes me lonely, but also profoundly in awe of life and its unfolding. there will always be the thoughts that are our own. the things we'll never share. and this thought makes the things that do we share ever more precious. i can hear his voice, still. that final question a gift like no other. a strand of his concern that echoes over and over. how you doin'?

image found here

not that i mind. . .

2011-09-13T17:20:00.000-06:00

but somebody mistook my beloved, well-worn, bought at a gas station in carlsbad, california cowboy hat, for a sombrero. i'd just like to use this space to show the world the difference. top photo is a cowboy hat. bottom photo is a sombrero.

dipping my toe in the water

2011-09-09T09:42:00.000-06:00

the morning is cloudy and cool, unlike any morning for so long. maybe three months, even. it matches the writerly insides of me. quiet. dark. slightly gloomy. tolstoy was not an academic. didn't like school. but in between visits to the brothels and bars and gambling halls, he taught himself twelve languages. what a slacker.

t and i saw a woman speaking (?) super fast sign language in her car this morning. the woman in the passenger's was wearing dark glasses and appeared to be blind.

that's all.

*except the photo is by my brilliant friend sacha, found on her flickr page.

Teen Lit Day

2011-04-14T13:50:00.001-06:00

Drop a book off in a park, bus stop, cafe and imagine changing someone's life. (Or maybe, depending on your mood, just get a tattoo of a book that changed your own life.) But, really. If you've got the time, be a part of the DROP! Words matter. We are hungry for stories. Hungry to find our own stories. The ones we'll return to again and again. Go out and minister to the youth.

fellowship for writer parents

2011-04-13T17:47:00.002-06:00

Pen Parentis is an organization in New York that hosts readings by writers who are also--wait for it--PARENTS!! It is curated by my dear friend, Arlaina, and they are currently accepting submissions for a $1,000 fellowship. The fellowship will be awarded based on a short story, so put your pen to paper, 'rents! For details, follow the link.

http://myemail.constantcontact.com/2011-Pen-Parentis-Fellowship-PLEASE-POST-.html?soid=1102372300159&aid=02iyVFWVfP0

2011-04-11T19:55:00.000-06:00

During the past couple of weeks, I've been working on a couple of guest posts for a several blogs, including Lori's Reading Corner, and Booking Mama. In conjunction with the posts, these bloggers are giving away paperback copies of DEAR STRANGERS. If you like, visit their sites and register to win a free copy!

2011-04-04T11:18:00.001-06:00

I'm feeling kinda fed up with precious. It seems to be everywhere, cultivated as though it might save us from our certain deaths. I don't know if this makes sense to any of you and maybe it's my own sort of defense mechanism, but I don't want to see any more flower brooches or perfectly placed antique metal letters on mantels or sweet little handmade anything. I'm not in the mood for sunny dispositions or looking on the bright side or pictures of clouds. I don't want cupcakes decorated with spots and stripes or handmade invitations or pennants made from scraps of fabric. The adjectives super, sweet, and lovely shouldn't describe baked goods, crafts or people's personalities anymore. Badass, curt and blazingly honest seem much better.

If I were a teenager, today would be the day I'd get a tattoo.

I read a book this weekend that could, another day, be called sweet and lovely and the description would be right, but today I will call it courageous for its quietness and badass for its smarts: A GOOD HOUSE by Bonnie Burnard.

2011-03-27T20:40:00.001-06:00

E and I took the train to Santa Fe this weekend. Neither of us had ever ridden the route that the Mister takes everyday. It was a soulful journey. I watched the graffiti on the old warehouses by the downtown station shift into small, chainlinked yards, then, set farther back from the tracks were larger yards with trampolines and sandboxes. Even further along, the mesas and llamas and solitary pick-up trucks evoke a kind of nostalgia for a small-town way back when. Men in folding chairs sat along the tracks in places, passing their day by the train's schedule. I wondered if they daydreamed about us, just as I was daydreaming about them.

I remember being in college on the east coast and taking the Amtrak from New York City to New London, CT with the Mister. It was our first trip alone together. I was nineteen. Only eight years older than E is now. We sat in the cushioned seats, snuggling, the Manhattan skyline receding behind us and I remember thinking I was so worldly, on a train with my lover. Then the Mister got a severe bout of motion sickness and my fantasy was broken a bit.

There are so many things I want to write about. Girls turning from girls into something else. The friends that make them giggle and roll their eyes and feel powerful. The friends whose lives they envy because everyone else's rules seem better than your own. Or maybe everyone else's rules seem absent. Maybe they seem like they're already riding trains with lovers and not having any motion sickness whatsoever. These girls, in their short shorts, with their braces on their teeth and miniscule waists are so sweet to me that I have a hard time remembering that I have a job to do. Sometimes my job is going to make them mad. Make them close their bedroom doors and exhaust all the curse worlds they know complaining about me. Sometimes I'm going to want to join them.

a closed drawer. . .

2011-03-08T11:07:00.000-07:00

. . .is a beautiful thing. So much possibility: danger, deviance, disappointment. If you could see my bedroom drawers right now, it would repel you. The clothes are falling out, thrown across the open drawers like desperate refugees. It's not pretty.

There should be goal here, stating something like, yes I will get that dresser tidied up and I will marvel at the beauty of the closed drawer. But I'm not going to lie. My intentions, at this point, are ambiguous.

in paperback!

2011-02-22T22:27:00.000-07:00

TODAY!!

2011-02-17T21:48:00.000-07:00

2011-02-16T21:20:00.002-07:00

lucky

2011-02-15T22:28:00.000-07:00

2011-02-14T21:27:00.000-07:00

2011-01-31T22:24:00.001-07:00

I'm not sure how to say this, but the whole word count thing is a sham. I'd never tried it before, so how could I have known? But, really? I could sit and type the word accomplishment 5,150 times and report to you that number and look like some kind of bad-ass. Not that I have. I've been brutally honest here (as evidenced by my excruciatingly low word count. Who would fake that?), but the point remains. The number is meaningless.

In this job, attendance is really the only thing that counts. You must show up, you must come with good intentions and you must stay until you cannot stay any longer. There. That's your job. Because some days, when there is absolutely no word count, there has been lots of work. But then I have to log in and 'fess up and I feel like a loser, when I should be feeling like a winner because--hey--I showed up. Or, some days, when I know the word count is decent, I also know that I hate them all and they're getting deleted as soon as possible. Then, I log in and feel like a poser. Does it seem like I'm moving the goalposts? Yeah, it does to me, too. But, whatever. I'm over the word count. That's all I'm saying.

Image found on mrlomo's flikr page.

2011-01-23T22:28:00.002-07:00

Word Count: A humbling 41.

2011-01-21T22:24:00.000-07:00

Word Count: 114

Mood: Today I was discouraged. Why can't writing just be writing? Why does there have to be so much forethought? I suppose on the best of days this forethought vanishes and there's just a clear path, without obstacles that look like gigantic piles of reasons why not. Not a good choice, not a good metaphor, not an interesting setting, not an authentic action, not happy enough, not sad enough, not big enough, not small enough, not early enough, not late enough. . .Today was not one of those days. Today felt like I was in one of those traffic rounds where you yield, wait, turn, yield, wait, turn.

2011-01-20T22:57:00.002-07:00

Word Count: 0,000,000

2011-01-19T22:38:00.000-07:00

Word Count: Hard to say because I will skipping between three different manuscripts. Going back in for edits, trying to find my way. Thinking a lot about story and how it's so very different from life. Like going from a solid straight to a liquid (I learned today that this is called sublimation. Perfect, huh?) It's kind of a perfect metaphor, I think. Take the big solid, heavy chunks of life and sublimate them into a gorgeous, drinkable solution. Chemistry for writers.

Reading: Old Filth by Jane Gardam. It's like a classier Ian McEwan. All proper British country house blokes with loads of devilish secrets lurking underneath. I love it.

2011-01-18T22:38:00.000-07:00

Word Count: edits + 63

2011-01-17T22:29:00.001-07:00

Sunday & Monday Word Count: 0

Mood: Honesty stinks.

2011-01-15T22:48:00.000-07:00

Word Count: 169

2011-01-14T22:21:00.001-07:00

Word Count: 0

Mood: It hurts to see it in black and white. Here's what took precedence: Loads of math, reading, writing & spelling work with T, sewing a thank you letter (?!?), Target, Parcheesi, nachos, email, filing, bills, and Pilates. Hmmm. Would you ever admit that list to your boss?

2011-01-13T22:00:00.001-07:00

Word Count: 62

Mood: I'm so glad you're a forgiving boss, who requires no dress code nor daily minimum. Give youself a raise.

2011-01-12T22:46:00.000-07:00

Word Count: 246

Mood: Some books should come with warning labels. The Unnamed should warn its readers: This book is so devastating that you may cry until your whole face is wet and you feel both ashamed and elated that such genuine tears were prompted by paper and ink. Joshua Ferris is not a writer to be messed with. His prose is so confident, his vision so remarkable, his empathy so deep, he may actually be able to write us the fuck out of trouble.

I may need cucumber slices on my eyes in the morning.

2011-01-11T22:19:00.000-07:00

Word Count: 103

Mood: Sometimes it seems like we're our own biggest obstacles. Get out of the way, Meg.

2011-01-10T22:45:00.001-07:00

Word Count: 238

Mood: During the carpool this morning, the world seemed so tender. Maybe because of the weekend's events in Arizona, I felt a kind of communal heavy sigh as I passed a young red-headed office worker juggling her coffee and her keys on the way to her car for the early commute, a middle-aged man waiting for the bus and smiling at a pigeon cooing near his feet, a group of brave golfers carrying their clubs across a frosted green. They all seemed to be struggling with the same kind of quiet disbelief of the pain we humans inflict on each other.

2011-01-09T22:05:00.003-07:00

Word Count: 0

Mood: I'm weepy and achy in my gut reading Joshua Ferris' The Unnamed. It's devastating in all the best ways. It captures life's sweetness and its cruelty with such poignancy that it will slay you. These kinds of books (Lark & Termite, Let the Great World Spin, The Story of Lucy Gault) are either huge sources of inspiration, or the best argument for retirement, depending on the day. Look at the number above and you'll see in which of those applies to me at the moment. Does that count as a sick day, Boss? Or, two?

2011-01-07T23:01:00.000-07:00

Word Count: 138

Mood: sunny (and there's no sarcasm in that, I swear).

PS Thanks, Boss, for the encouraging comment.

2011-01-06T22:08:00.000-07:00

Word Count: 15

Mood: #@%?!%Fifteen

2011-01-06T07:32:00.000-07:00

Word Count: 251

Mood: I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. . .

Blogger funked out on me last night so these numbers are for yesterday, January 5th. Sorry, Boss.

2011-01-04T22:41:00.000-07:00

Word Count: 169

Mood: Really?

But here's this from an interview with Dave Eggers, aka King of the World, in the Guardian:

"I procrastinate worse than anybody. Writing is so hard. I need eight hours to get maybe 20 minutes of work done. I had one of those yesterday: seven hours of self-loathing."

2011-01-03T22:23:00.001-07:00

Word Count: 218

Mood: a wee bit lost, but it's not all bad

I've been plodding my way through more of The Great House. It's an odd book. It doesn't feel novelistic at all. Which is strange because The History of Love was such a tight, fully realized novel. This book almost feels like a series of monologues. Like it should be on stage. I'm determined to finish it, though.

Sugar Fast: Coincidence or not? This morning at the ungodly hour of 6:30, though I was not happy to awaken, I was completely AWAKE once I put my feet on the floor. This is highly unusual for me. I usually trudge through the first 45 minutes of the morning as though walking through mud. Hmmm. But, chocolate is everywhere and there are several members of my own family who torture me with their cocoa breath.

2011-01-02T22:44:00.001-07:00

I know a thing about caution. As much as I love a good resolution, I am also a realist. So here's what I have to say about today: I spent a lot of time looking at cookie recipes. Time that might otherwise have been spent, say, writing. Why, you ask. Well, because in addition to assigning you all the new job title of BOSS, I also decided to give up sugar for the month of January. And who would have guessed--all I really want right now is just a little smidge of chocolate or a little crunch of a butter cookie. Suddenly, I regret all the cookies I never ate. Seriously, I didn't gorge myself enough! I never took advantage of actually eating sugar when there was no rule against it! Did I? Oh, crimeny. It's bad. The Mister says it will only be a little bit WORSE tomorrow. Really? WTF? If you're in the mood to drool, or if you are actually a sane Boss who can eat whatever the fuck you want because you don't bother with stupid resolutions and self-deprivations, then hop on over and make this recipe. It's one that I stared at long and hard. It's printed out beside me right now. My mouth is watering. How many days left in January?

Word count: Zero

Mood: Greedy

2011-01-01T22:16:00.000-07:00

Reading Steven Millhauser's story in the New Yorker, "Getting Closer," was such a beautiful meditation on life and writing. It resonated with me. Often, the anticipation of writing, the collecting of ideas and images, is so full of promise--just like standing at the edge of the water, on the cusp of the perfect day you've imagined for so long.

Word count: 249

Mood: cautious

making a change

2011-01-01T16:49:00.001-07:00

Happy New Year!!

I'm using the first day of this year to make some changes to the blog. No, it won't be prettier, wittier or wiser. In fact, it may be less of all those things, if you can imagine.

I'm going to use this place as though it's my supervisor--so if none of you are interested in being the boss of a very sensitive writer struggling with her third novel, this may not be your cup of tea. It could get ugly. My plan is to check in DAILY with a weather report of sorts: A ~~page~~ word count for the day, a general update of my writing mood, and maybe a little about what I'm reading and how it's influencing the work. Capiche?

let down

2010-12-23T16:54:00.000-07:00

Henri Cartier-Bresson--Romania 1975

My endless circle of giving has been interrupted. I was felled by a virulent stomach flu Monday and Tuesday. So instead of buying coffees and gas and groceries for strangers, I was being cared for by the best man I know. Inside my aching body I was so grateful for the kindness of my husband, who held my head and rubbed my back and emptied my vomit bucket (!) and came back from the store to tell me that he and E had bought soup for a guy at the grocery store. The next day they put money in the bell ringer's bucket and I've got some serious catching up to do. But for now, I'm glad to be back.

labels

2010-12-16T22:05:00.001-07:00

As a kid, I was a big time label girl. Nearly anything with the Guess label on it was delicious to me. Even puke-colored jeans, or ugly T-shirts that we found on the sale racks. Because we never bought anything that wasn't on the sale rack. Anything. When I saw something with that ridiculous triangle hanging amidst the sale rack, I was elated.

I've been wondering lately if this devotion to brand was something I acquired because my parents were SO immune to it. They could not ever see spending $50 for a pair of jeans that, to their eyes, were exactly the same as the $14.99 pairs. Or was I simply seduced by the marketing of wet looking girls with sand on their perfect thighs and their bosoms busting out of femmed-up cowboy shirts?

I was in Hollister today, looking around for my E who has never had anything from the store, but is still wildly attracted by the aura surrounding it. Who can blame her? I stood there in the island hut, with its white shutters and plank floors, looking at all the super-soft T-shirts and sweatshirts, the aroma of coconut drifting all around me, and I wanted to buy the whole effing store.

But I left empty-handed. Can you believe it? My very own credit card like a gorgeous wet-looking girl nestled in my wallet, and I walked away. Good God, have I grown up? Am I that parent--the one who balks at the $50 hoodies and the skanky-looking models? Yes, I am.

circles go round and round

2010-12-12T22:03:00.000-07:00

Last week, I met a friend for coffee. While standing in line, a complete stranger gave us $15 worth of credit at the cafe. We laughed and ordered extra tall lattes. The next day, the same friend called me to say that another stranger in front of her at Starbucks had payed for her coffee anonymously. I was talking this over with the Mister and we decided we try to initiate our own little mini-holiday inside this big holiday month: For the five days before Christmas Day, our family will commit to doing at least one random act of kindness for somebody out in the world. Whether it's buying the groceries for the person behind us in line, or giving someone a coffee, or filling up somebody's tank of gas, we will set aside some cash and dole it out for these anonymous good deeds. Just like the guy whose $15 gift is reminding us to pay it forward, hopefully the circle will keep going round and round. I'll try to post here how we spend our random kindness December 19-24.

apt advice

2010-12-05T22:28:00.001-07:00

Though sometimes Keri Smith's own success makes her seem overexposed, I'm not sure I can get enough of this list. See if you agree.

Secrets of the Self Employed (or How to be an Amazing [insert profession here])

1. Don’t worry about marks while you are in school. No one will ever ask you what school you went to or what your marks were when you leave it. (this pertains to the field of illustration).

You are always working for yourself, even when you work for others. Sometimes it feels like you are just the hired hand (and some clients can be really challenging to work with). But there is always some way to turn an illustration job into something exciting for you. Some ideas: experiment with a new technique (or a new color palette), use it as an opportunity to learn about a new topic, rebel against the job in tiny ways (do some roughs just for yourself in which you insert subversive material).

There are no actual rules for how to become a successful [insert profession here]. Make your own path.

It will help you to create a social network of other self-employed people.

Move your body every day. There are many health reasons for this, but it also helps you to work on ideas subconsciously. Ideas and solutions will come in when you least expect them but (almost always after a minimum of one hour of walking). There are new studies that suggest increased oxygen to the brain is a greater source for creativity than “creative brain exercises”. I have found this to be true for myself.

Goof off on a regular basis.

If you want to work on your art, work on your life. All those personality traits that aren’t working for you will come back to haunt you in your career (i.e. assertiveness, fear of conflict, fear of confrontation.) It’s all connected.

What you think becomes your reality. I always had a belief that if I cleaned out my recycling bin in my studio I would get new work. And guess what, it always happened. If you think the industry is screwed and there is no work to be had, guess what you will find out there?

Focus on ideas instead of tools (technology). Anyone can learn to use the tools, but it is the thinkers who really impact the culture in important ways. In the end the tools don’t offer anything interesting.

Worrying about the competition does very little to help your career. I know it’s hard sometimes to ignore what other people are doing (we all think that others are doing better than us), but every one of us is on a different life path. We are all here to accomplish different things and even though it would seem like one person’s path is similar to yours, it is not.

Only work for free if you are passionate about the cause or receive something of value in return. (Be wary of people who offer your name in lights in lieu of money. Many people will tell you something is good promotion for you, often it is not and there are no guarantees when it comes to promotional value). If you are not getting something of a measurable value (i.e. printed pieces, or money) ask for something else, creative freedom. If they refuse then they may not be a good client to work for anyway.

Take some small risks on a regular basis. Some ideas: write some places/companies you would really like to work and let them know why you think they are great.

Don’t worry about whether or not you are good (good is subjective and most people are not great judges of their own work), just keep making work.

Ignore cool. Successful people do not try to be hip, they just do work that excites them.

Always come back to work that excites you. Even if you get off track for a while. Do personal work on a regular basis, show it to others. You can reinvent yourself at any time.

*Above photo evidence of E's adherence to #6

Lovies

2010-12-01T21:41:00.000-07:00

Can you believe it? Again, I find myself staring into the eyes of creatures made from felt. These creatures, I'm certain, are alive. Aren't you?

Cat: Just be still. They'll be gone in a moment.

Bunny: Shit. My onion is upside down. It's itching my neck. I hate it when things touch my neck. Seriously, guys. . . .I think I might have to move. What happens if I blow our cover?

Donkey: Sigh.

Found here, with a price only available upon request. And only in French. That is some handy-dandy needle work.

blank

2010-11-30T12:40:00.000-07:00

I'm here. I really am. I haven't forgotten you, blogland, it's just that I'm short on images and if you want in on a secret--that's usually how I start this thing. I find an image that I like and ruminate on it and think about what I can say about it. So let me just tell you a bit of what I've been up to: I finished reading FREEDOM and I was totally underwhelmed. But then, when I saw THE RIGHT STUFF (you know, Oscar-winning film about the astronauts that I somehow missed in my adolescence) I was bored to tears. I actually was moved by the end of FREEDOM, mostly because I didn't think there was a chance in hell that Patty and Walter could end up together and happy (maybe?). Sorry if that was a spoiler. The best part of the book in my opinion is a couple of pages midway through when the rock n'roll character is riffing about pop culture and ipods and rebellion. Otherwise. . .

Also, I've begun THE GREAT HOUSE by Nicole Krauss. I'm perturbed. But I'm persevering. Writing is hard, no?

I shared a little with you about my adventure in felting--remember, how it fixes everything? Well, check these out and be prepared to drop you jaw. This is no felting for forgetting. This is felting with some kind of crazy know-how remembering. Really, you'll be amazed.

older

2010-11-21T21:38:00.000-07:00

I gotta say, I never thought I'd still get zits when I was 38 years old. I mean, really! When I was sixteen and trying my hardest to sell a Gap pocket T to every person in the mall, I thought that as soon as I hit twenty, acne would be a thing of the past. My real life could begin.

BUT, I also never could have anticipated that those blemishes would really be a very small annoyance in a life filled with fine people and things made by those people, such as the cardboard robot in the above photo. It was made several years ago by T and it still makes me happy. As this week of thanks begins, I'm feeling gratitude by the buckets. Now pass the zit cream, please.

felting fixes everything

2010-11-15T21:27:00.000-07:00

In full disclosure, as much as I find great joy in my textile obsession, I'm not a prescision crafter. I cut corners (literally and metaphorically) all the time. So, the elation I experienced when I felted a sloppily knitted bowl and saw it become a perfect specimen, was tremendous. Felting can do for knitting what time often does to the past: smooth over all the lumps and loose ends and make it better than you imagined. You were beautiful. He was handsome. Everyone laughed and everyone danced and there was confetti falling like glitter when you first kissed. Here's to felting!

faux fux

2010-11-12T20:19:00.000-07:00

Do you think the above title would work for a phone sex business? Where is my mind? No idea, except I found myself a deal on some black faux fur at the fabric store today and I am flying high. Immediately, I came home and started cutting. I had the dog in mind (it was the only way I could justify such a purchase to myself) who has been napping on a nice down pillow that didn't have a cover. Now it does!

I was covered in black faux fur pieces for most of the afternoon. It was not easy, this beast. But it is a luscious landing pad for one lucky pooch.

Meanwhile, some strangers invaded our house:

Some of the Uglydolls are real and some are half-bloods, designed by the boy and made by the fur lady, who has a wee infatuation with textiles.

it is the desert. . .

2010-11-07T21:06:00.000-07:00

. . .and it is beautiful. I'm not sure how you all keep yourselves distracted (clearly not the types for word searches, ahem), but I could look at and wonder about how this cactus blossom finds its precise shape for a very long time. I know there are people out there who actually understand biology and how it is that cells speak to one another, form a plan, create a finger, toe or eyelid. I also know there are people who prefer to think that these cells were made by God. To me, cells are divine not because something all-powerful made them, but precisely because of their humble origins--because they spontaneously, mysteriously scrapped it together, long before anyone could see them or name them or claim them. And they made these shapes whose beauty takes my breath away: The outrageously long eyelashes on my little boy, the perfect thumbs on my little girl, and these bright yellow blooms on these ancient cacti.

11-1=10

2010-11-01T22:35:00.000-06:00

Well, strangers, we're coming up on the first anniversary of this blog. How can it be? As if on cue, to remind me of the powerful connections made in the old-fashioned world, I had such a surprise in the snail mail today from a stranger all the way in Canada. A lovely note from a reader, who took the time to make a word search with vocabulary from DEAR STRANGERS!! Behold:

My friends, I deeply understand distraction; my poison happens to be fiber-related, Nicole Foucault's seems to be letter-writing & puzzle-crafting. I don't mean to sound hokey here, and I'm afraid that I will--but, does she know how much I love the graph paper? Did she read this post? Is this all too much? Thank you, Nicole Foucault!

If anyone wants to solve the puzzle and send me the answer, I'll send the author of the first correct answer one of my fiber-related distractions. Maybe your own birthday number pillow, comme ca?

now there's a story idea. . .

2010-10-27T21:50:00.001-06:00

For sale in the quite beautiful etsy shop called restless general store is a lock of brown human hair for $12. Hmm. I'm not sure whether I find it more strange that this is strange (vintage?) or that someone might actually buy this. Are you making dolls? Or are you placing it carefully on your mantel beside a well-worn pair of shears, as a new, exciting, totally unique objet d'art? Either way, I've got a lock of blond hair I could sell you. . .

what the what?

2010-10-25T20:14:00.000-06:00

I happened upon a piece of an interview with the writer Linda Barry the other day as I was driving home from the morning carpool. She said that creativity, be it drawing or singing or writing, is a biological need. I found myself chewing on that phrase for most of the day. What are our other biological needs? Eating, breathing, drinking, sleeping. Are artists simultaneously so revered and reviled because we've found a way to make a living (sort of) by living? Are we akin to the folks at the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating contest--fulfilling a biological need in an obscenely public and gluttonous sort of way? I don't think this is what she meant. I think she meant that the desire to tell our stories and connect to one another is as integral to our species as opposable thumbs. Whatever she meant, I found it a little bit easier to sit my ass in the chair and do it. Breathe, Drink, Write. (Great book title, eh?) I sat down to do my work and I thought--it's in me. It's biological, for god's sake. Like acids breaking down proteins. Like bones connecting and twirling in their joints. Like the thick muscle in your chest flexing itself with a rhythm it found years ago.

twenty days. . .

2010-10-24T22:15:00.001-06:00

. . .seems like a lot more in internet time, doesn't it? Nothing like the sound of gas burners in the pre-dawn light to break up the fall.

Twenty Ways to Not Blog for Twenty Days:

Wake up at 5am, drive the bikes to a convenient location, bike into Balloon Fiesta Park, take loads of pictures for sharing, then give in to all urges to nap the rest of the weekend.
Check out loads of books from the library. One of which is The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai whose writing is like a sweet reward and compels shutting the computer earlier and earlier.
Bake two loaves of banana bread every three days.
Spend a decadent afternoon at the bookstore reading each and every magazine you'll never actually buy.
Sew clown pants for T.
Felt an array of bowls. (Felt is a verb there, guys.)
Host sleepovers, watch Michael Clayton, Revolutionary Road, and Thirty Rock.
Forget you have a blog.
Remember you have a blog.
Take out the trash.
Buy overpriced drapes.
Return overpriced drapes.
Buy cheap drapes; hang cheap drapes; hem cheap drapes.
Learn the capitals of Spanish-speaking countries.
Establish new rules about no screens during the week; try to lead by example.
Rearrange your office.
Indulge yourself in mild bouts of melancholy brought on by cool air and early dusks.
Pretend you're moving to Istanbul.
Play Scrabble.
Believe in tomorrow.

reaching

2010-10-04T10:09:00.000-06:00

There were pieces from Michael Cunningham's editorial in Sunday's NYTimes that I found deeply moving. I'm not entirely sure how much of the article I completely agree with, but this passage alone made me want to stand up and hug him:

Here's a secret. Many novelists, if they are pressed and if they are being honest, will admit that the finished book is a rather rough translation of the book they'd intended to write. It's one of the heartbreaks of writing fiction. You have, for months or years, been walking around with the idea of a novel in your mind, and in your mind it's transcendent, it's brilliantly comic and howlingly tragic, it contains everything you know and everything you can imagine, about human life on the planet earth. It is vast and mysterious and awe-inspiring. It is a cathedral made of fire.

But even if the book in question turns out farily well, it's never the book that you'd hoped to write. It's smaller than the book you'd hoped to write. It is an object, a collection of sentences, and it does not remotely resemble a cathedral made of fire.

I had a really nice time at the New Mexico Women's Book Festival yesterday. Thanks to everyone who was there. I'm still puzzled by the elegant-looking woman who asked why I seem different on this blog than I did behind the podium. Hmmm.

are you coming?

2010-10-02T11:15:00.000-06:00

I'll be there in the Fiction tent at the Museum of New Mexico on Sunday, October 3rd @1:30, speaking about my current work, the craft of writing in general, and maybe reading a little bit from DEAR STRANGERS. It should be fun. It's FREE and it benefits the Museum of New Mexico Foundation. You know you want to come. . .

fall fruit

2010-10-01T11:15:00.000-06:00

I ate a pear this morning for breakfast and it tasted like fall. We had a pear tree in our back yard when I was growing up. The rotting pears always ended up smashed underfoot in the grass like an albino dog poop, or spilling in messy clumps from the dog's foul-smelling mouth. This turned me off of pears for a very long time. Then, in my twenties when I'd come home for the holidays, my father would store a beloved box of gifted pears in the garage. Sometime mid-afternoon, bundled in his camel-colored cardigan, he'd ceremoniously make a trip to the garage and re-enter the house with two or three huge, beautiful pears. He sliced them and presented them on a plate with the greatest of appreciation. I couldn't resist. Now, I love me a good, juicy pear and this morning as I ate, I wished I could cut one up for my father.

why is graph paper

2010-09-29T12:23:00.001-06:00

SO BEAUTIFUL?

For me, a decidedly imprecise, non-mathematical person to adore graph paper the way I do gives me pause. But then, I remember speaking to a group of people somewhere (sometimes they let me do that) and I was recalling what a brilliant metaphor math can be for fiction writing. If you don't know what to do next, look at what's already on the page. You're constantly trying to balance equations of the emotional or structural or narrative kind. The hints are all there, just like they are in algebra. There are knowns and there are unknowns. Start with what you know and keep working until the unknowns reveal themselves.

I imagine it to look something like this in my brain:

(Hensley stands between cars and throws off pieces from lunch) + (why?) = The bread tumbles quickly down into the ravine on one side of the tracks and it gives her a jolt of adrenaline.*

I sometimes wish I could graph a book. Translate each and every sentence into a numerical value and place it on a sheet of tired, old graph paper. I love plotting points (no pun intended) with a sharp pencil. I even like all the unknowns. I just don't always know how to solve for x.

*From my own algebraic work-in-progress.

on happiness

2010-09-25T11:03:00.000-06:00

When you have kids, you really want them to be happy. So much so that sometimes you slip them an extra chocolate, or buy them an overpriced super-cool pair of shoes, or cuddle them long past bedtime. But here's the thing about happiness that I've slowly realized: it's a homegrown product. It's difficult to acquire from a source other than your own heart or head or wherever the hell you think it's located. So when we had a quiet (dare I say, sullen?) moment in the car this week and I wanted so badly to tell a joke, or turn in to Baskin Robbins, or say to hell with all the homework, let's just kick off our shoes and watch a million hours of TV, I refused. I didn't try to cajole a smile or turn on the radio or even rant and rave about positive attitudes. Because that would only bring amusement or distraction. Instead, I let the sullen mood ride. It hung with us in the car all the way home. As I caught glimpses of that little face in the rear view, I winced. I come from a long line of enablers and I have to fight the impulse to make everything all better. But I told myself that maybe this would be a moment that he will remember. Maybe he's hating me, or hating life or hating the hating, but whatever he's doing and thinking is all his very own. His life is already here. And whatever daydream he creates or tirade he composes in that moment is his alone. When he emerged from his room later that day, a smile on his face and a bounce in his step, it was clear that the happiness was all his, too. Homegrown.

the story of an engine

2010-09-21T21:51:00.000-06:00

In addition to educating me about why yesterday's post was technically impossible (outputs to your USB?!--the typewriter becomes your keyboard, peeps), my dashing husband has become a finalist in the Guggenheim YouTube Play Biennial!! Out of 23,000 entries, his is one of the 125 short-listed. Go and observe.

advancement in obsolescence

2010-09-19T22:33:00.001-06:00

Since I've been having some trouble in the ass + chair department, I found myself wondering if this amazingly innovative invention could be a magic bullet, or shall we say seatbelt? Believe it or not, folks, it's a fully operational typewriter (click, click, click) that outputs to your USB monitor. I love it. It's so ridiculously sentimental and simultaneously fickle. You still long for the romance of typewriters and the long nights and hot sweats that kept them company, but you're just not quite ready to do without the excellence of the instant edit and air conditioning. The delete and save and shrink to fit. Just check out the video and then see how much you love it, too.

adulthood

2010-09-12T21:51:00.001-06:00

photo via jakandjill.com

Funny that in the last post I called myself an old woman for whom time flies faster than she can fathom. Because suddenly thanks to the Franz, I find myself wondering what in the world makes an adult? And when do we really think of ourselves that way? And will I ever? Aren't we all secretly just masquerading. Getting better at doing the things we don't really want to do and dealing with the things that scare us and disgust us, but still, really, just absolutely clueless? I remember the first time I had to kill a roach, instead of standing on the toilet seat and screaming for some adult to come and help me. It was a big moment. Maybe my feelings of being trapped at age 23 have something to do with not having a truly adult skill. I don't do surgery, or trade securities or run a business. I don't climb telephone poles, or dissect tissue in a lab or write code upon which the world depends.

The Franz seems to mourn the loss of real adults. People who are certain of their age and maturity. People who no longer feel like rebels or poseurs. They make better parents, better citizens, he told Terry Gross on Friday. I'm not so sure. Maybe when and if I ever become certain of my adulthood I'll see the wisdom of his words, but for now I tend to like it when I see a little bit of the kid showing through in otherwise totally adult people. How 'bout you?

september

2010-09-06T20:47:00.000-06:00


artforlinux.org

We sat on the porch and watched the first leaves fall. It made me catch my breath. Am I already that old woman who can't believe how quickly the seasons change? Yes, I am.

We retreated to the cabin and looked at photos of the children there when they were younger. So freakin' adorable. So cherubic and joyous and easily carried. And yet, I know they're just that adorable now, plus they can count change and pick-out wardrobes and do laundry and wax philosophical and build their own forts and make excellent chocolate chip cookies all by themselves. This is the time. This is the moment that I will soon (gosh, those seasons just change in the blink of an eye) be longing for. When the children are still my main occupation. They live in the house and make the house purposeful. Here we are, they seem to speak with their mismatched socks and overgrown bangs, becoming ourselves.

death by shopping

2010-08-30T22:40:00.000-06:00

Photo: Corbis

It's a very dangerous world and I'm not even talking about the men who boarded the Amsterdam-bound airplane but suspiciously sent their luggage that contained a bottle of Pepto Bismal taped to multiple cell phones and watches on to Dulles Airport. You can't make this stuff up. No, I'm talking about a new study commissioned by the Environmental Working Group, in which 40% of receipts were found to have the harmful BPA chemical on them. It seeps into your skin and cannot be washed off. Decline receipts whenever you can. And when in doubt, just do what I do and zip yourself into a latex hooded body suit whenever you leave the house. Honey, has my latex suit been tested for BPA?

dear weekends, never stop coming

2010-08-29T22:35:00.000-06:00

Weekends take on a whole different tone once school starts. It's not totally unwelcome. They become sweet, perfect little packages that end too soon, but are delivered each week. We made pizzas, watched lots of the old Get Smart TV show, climbed trees, had brunch, rented the ball machine, made eggs with potatoes and green chile at 3 in the afternoon just because, slept late, grocery shopped, made cookies, and read Kiki Strike. What could be better? E started the Kiki Strike craze, but now she's reading the first aloud to me and T, and we are gobbling it up. Why isn't this book everywhere? Why isn't Kirsten Miller our friend? It's basically espianoge and intrigue for the 8-38 year old set. I love it. I wish I'd had this book when I was a kid. Forget about the website. It's all perfect. Happy Monday.

the block

2010-08-25T21:32:00.000-06:00

How simple-minded my last post was. If it were as easy as butt + chair, I'd have finished the bloody book already. But even when the ass is in the chair, self-doubt and self-loathing and all the other hyphenated words that are responsible for my cuticles looking the way that they do can be there, too. Every GD day--so cocky, so piece-of-cake. Ha!

Since everyone else seems to be talking about the great American novelist, Jonathan Franzen, I'll share with you that he used to blindfold himself in his little rented office space so that he would be protected from distractions. It's very Zorro, don't you think? I don't really want to be blindfolded or handcuffed or tied. I think I could still find ways to delete every other word I type. And when it's dark, I tend to go to sleep.

Don't worry about me too much. I am moving forward. I do have more pages than I did last time I appeared here. I'm just looking for that magic button. The one you press and your whole, brilliant book comes out of the printer, page by page. Anyone got that button?

the beginning

2010-08-16T22:02:00.001-06:00

I have to say, though I get the same angst and dread as the last day of summer drags its bare feet across the grass, that I like the way school marks a beginning. A new year. New classes. New expectations. New friends. New problems. It makes all things feel possible. Including finishing a draft of book that is really barely begun by November. I'm saying it here: Every GD day. Hold me to it. In this new beginning, there must be time to work every single freakin' day, including weekends. Hard core. It's the only way. Wanna write a book? Ass + chair = book. No other way, folks.

beautiful photo: Gymnastics, 1967 Gerhard Richter, found via the lovely&amazing royalquietdeluxe.blogspot.com

the power of words

2010-08-13T10:17:00.000-06:00

If somebody says it's so, it's so. Just like my rant about religion, here we go again. Words create our reality. And how about Jonathan Franzen's reality today? I remember when I sat around a table at Columbia, all of us looking to him, our esteemed adjunct instructor, to guide us into the world of invented realities. He was tall, sometimes grumpy, hard to impress, and passionate. So passionate, in fact, that he made us graduate students a chart showing how, exactly, to conjugate "to lie." It's a hand drawn gem that I still, occasionally, refer to. If he is the great American novelist of our generation, does that mean my kids can auction that little chart for a bundle of money at Sotheby's in about forty years?

my lucky stars

2010-08-10T16:26:00.000-06:00

It's our 14th wedding anniversary. I have a ton of images in my mind. Recent and not so recent. The first in my catalogue is a warm spring night circa 1991. The Mister is playing his guitar, making up the words as he goes along, singing with abandon. I watched his fingers as they changed from chord to chord and I fell in love. Do you believe me? Do I believe me? I do now. I know that something happened that night. I saw something in those hands that was the sum of all his best qualities: humor, tenderness, beauty, humility, passion. It was maybe the first time I'd been seduced by the best of someone, not the worst. And I thank my lucky stars, especially today, that my heart had the sense it did.

word

2010-07-28T23:14:00.000-06:00

"But the real life of a writer resides in showing up at the keyboard every day, with the necessary patience and mercy, and making the best decisions you can on behalf of your people. It’s a slow process. It often feels hopeless, more like an affliction than an art form."

steve almond via therumpus.net

i never thought

2010-07-25T22:36:00.000-06:00

I'd spend a Sunday afternoon learning to play the ukelele alonside my kids and husband. And I never thought my teacher would be the wonderfully energetic Heidi Swedberg, aka George's fiance Susan on Seinfeld. Thanks, Laurie!

did you hear?

2010-07-22T21:41:00.000-06:00

For the first time, Amazon sold more ebooks in the last quarter than real books. 180 digitals for every 100 old schools. It's unstoppable. Like the impending end of summer, the accumulation of dust around the edges of my baseboards, and the devastating hair that accompanies puberty.

a first

2010-07-21T21:47:00.000-06:00

Today I made my first visit to a book club in a church. It was a nice time. Here's the thing I left thinking about, though. One of the passages that inspired discussion was when Miranda realizes why Mr. Scrap did what he did:

He's afraid, she thinks. He was afraid of Jared. Preemptive strikes and hasty decisions all over the world.

One reader in particular really loved this and the commentary it provides on the current wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Others were quiet. Very quiet. And I wondered--which I know is ignorant, because spirituality is not politicality, but, then again the personal is political--how do people who believe in God accept what's happening in the world? I mean, I know there are different conceptions of God, and some are quite distant and abstract, but, really. Are they angry at God? Just disgusted with humanity? And if your idea of God is like some distant, uninvolved figure, then why bother praying? It confuses me. But I'm a heathen. Words created God and Allah and all the rest of them. I bow to words.

everything matters

2010-07-18T22:08:00.002-06:00

While at Anthropology, shopping for doorknobs (?) I had to restrain myself from buying a certain blue and black blouse. I was with T. He held my hand as we exited and I said to him, but mostly to myself, "I don't need that. I don't need that. It's not like it will change my life. Right?"
"Actually, Mom," he said, full of 8 year-old wisdom, "everything matters. Like, right now, if I said it instead of and, that would change what happens in my brain, which could change what I say next and could change absolutely everything."
"Hmm," I said. "You're right. Maybe if I bought that blouse and wore it, I would be the victim of a case of mistaken identity and attacked. Or be seduced by a royal prince and end up living in the hills of Portugal. Either way, I wouldn't be here having this conversation with you. Which would be really terrible."
"Let's go to the Apple store and see what that will change," he said.
Point taken. But I didn't get the blouse. . .

things i'd tell my 11 year old self

2010-07-13T22:03:00.001-06:00

Be nicer to everyone, including the people you're afraid of.
You are not yet afraid of speed and heights--enjoy.
Don't smoke those cigarettes during lunch.
School is actually for learning. You'll regret all the things you aren't bothering to learn (geography!).
Please, please don't spray your bangs to stand up vertically.
You're never too young to write a book. Crank the Depeche Mode and do it, sister.
Fourth grade was the best year you'll ever have with boys. Don't bother trying too hard.
Eat healthy. Or at least healthier than a Nutter Butter and ice cream sandwich for lunch everyday.
Listen to the stories your grandfathers tell. When they're gone, they're gone.
If your parents' cars are the worst things about them, you're doing pretty good.
Someday you'll have a daughter and she'll be eleven and she'll already know all of this. She'll be wiser, braver and nicer than you. And you'll love her more than you can imagine.

in honor of E, inspired by hula

small, unintended consequences of large corporate blips

2010-07-12T14:59:00.000-06:00

Since we don't have cable TV, the children are always excited to spend a Friday night with Gma, who has the luxury of Disney channel, etc. Lately, they are like zombies when we come to retrieve them. The TV has stolen their brains and replaced them with grumpy, ungrateful sacks of rocks. This Friday, the Mister and I had a long-awaited "date" and nearly the best part of the night was that when we went to fetch the children, they were playing a game with Gma. Imagine that. Smiles all around. They were laughing and loving one another. Comcast was on the blink. As we walked home in the dark, they (the children) said how thankful they were for the respite. How much fun they'd had: eating outside, chatting, playing. Being old fashioned. Ahh.

simplicity is beautiful

2010-07-09T10:32:00.000-06:00

via aphotoeditor

pix from the 4th

2010-07-05T15:52:00.000-06:00

on nests

2010-07-05T15:41:00.000-06:00

Bad news for our renegade mother. I thought about keeping this to myself, but why? Is a collective disappointment worse than an individual one? The nest did not survive, nor the eggs. Should we have moved the nest to higher ground? Would the mother have abandoned it? Is she still courageous, still admirable for forging her own way? Or is this a reminder of why sometimes ignoring our own history and the wisdom compiled by our ancestors is reckless?

Strangely enough, we found another bird, stuck in our sprinkler head, like a perfect little trap. What up, aviary nation?!? The Mister, with the help of another chivalrous friend, managed to untangle the poor little broken bird leg and release it to the air. I was too traumatized for photos. Blood on the sprinkler head. . .

And, another incredible nest found to remind us of how often things go right. This one was huge and empty, having already successfully served its purpose. Behold:

great waters

2010-07-05T15:29:00.000-06:00

Once again, we crossed the waters for a weekend getaway. Special thanks to Ben Kweller for turning our van into a music machine and giving us pure joy as we crested the hill outside Taos. This one was our favorite.

doing the best she can

2010-06-29T09:15:00.000-06:00

When I first saw this nest last weekend I couldn't help but feel a sense of despair for the perfect quartet of eggs. Why? Because the nest is built ON THE GROUND, in a clump of grass smack in the middle of a clearing where gophers, chipmunks, mice and snakes abound. What a dumb mother bird, I thought to myself as our dog nearly keeled over with the euphoria of the nest's scent. But upon further reflection, maybe the mama bird is doing the best she can. Maybe she wants to outrun her own troubled youth, to do everything differently than the way her parents did. Maybe she has seen too many eggs lost in windstorms. Whatever the case, best of luck to you and your little ones, renegade mom!

twigs talking to me

2010-06-24T22:28:00.000-06:00

Don't hang your head. You're doing fine.

I should do more. Forty pages is not enough.

It's the fucking forest. You gotta see through the trees.

I can't see anything.

'Cause you're hanging your head.

fierce nature

2010-06-24T22:22:00.002-06:00

We had a really lovely weekend away, but came home to such sad news. Our friends & neighbors who were expecting their baby in just a few weeks had a stillbirth on Saturday. A beautiful baby boy was already gone when he was delivered to his capable, loving parents. I know their hearts are broken and words are totally inadquate to describe or convey their grief, but because words are my security blanket, I brought them a copy of this book:

If you know it, you know it is the kind of book that reminds us of the incredible capacity we have for loss and love and sorrow and strength. Elizabeth McCracken is an author I admire, but this book made me love her.

fortune cookie

2010-06-18T22:28:00.001-06:00

Towards the end of the second week of working on this new thing (hardly anything close to a book, yet) I had the good luck to eat a cheap & delicious Thai lunch with the Mister. Do most Thai places bring fortune cookies with the bill? This one did. And this was my fortune:

Not bad, eh? After feeling like I'd written certainly written thirty pages in vain, the next day I actually think there may be a dim light shining forth. So, we returned to the scene of the first fortune and received another:

Guess what? We are indeed crossing the great Rio Hondo for a fun weekend. You can read about the place here, where I revealed it as one of my favorite spots in New Mexico.