food for thought

At lunch today, Eli started talking about the differences between Roald Dahl's Fantastic Mr. Fox and Wes Anderson's film version. We've only seen the movie once, but Ben has been reading the book to Eli in the car, and the conversation about the two different versions of the story shows no sign of abating. So Eli announced he wanted to write a sequel to the book, one that would come to a more exciting conclusion than Roald Dahl's. I offered to type it up for him, not knowing that I have been harboring a budding Gertrude Stein, someone who will write the same sentence over and over and just when you think you know how the paragraph is going to end -- bam! -- surprises you with a new detail.

Or maybe it's just that while I was typing, he was running circles around the living room. Anyway, here it is:

Once upon a time, there were three farmers. Their names were Bunce, Boggis and Bean. They were trying to catch a fox, but he was too clever. So they were waiting at the fox's hole so when the fox came out, they could shoot him. But the fox was too clever. Bunce was a geese and duck man. Boggis was a chicken man. Bean was a turkey and apple man. Let's go back to the story. So, each night Fantastic Mr. Fox would say, "What should it be now, dear? chickens from Boggis, ducks and geese from Bunce, turkey or apple from Bean?" And then she would say, "A turkey from Bean, or, a chicken from Boggis, or, a geese from Bunce." So after she said what she wanted, Mr. Fox would go out of his hole, sniff the air, and go to fetch what she wanted. The farmers did not like things getting stealed from them, so each night, they'd go down to the hole with their shotgun and wait. But the fox was too clever for that! So each night he would look around or sniff around and then he would go to whatever Mrs. Fox wanted and help himself. Then he would come back and get dinner ready and then they would eat dinner. Then they would go to sleep, wake up, Fantastic Mr. Fox would say, "What should it be now, dear? A chicken from Boggis, a geese or duck from Bunce, or some cider or turkey from Bean?" Then Mrs. Fox would say whatever she wanted and then Fantastic Mr. Fox would go out of his hole and help himself. The farmers had a bad idea. They would go in front of their farms, waiting for the fox. But then the fox went into the back door and they saw the fox go into the back door and they hid their gun in the back door and then Fantastic Mr. Fox would go into the front door and help himself. The farmers did not like that so they tried going back to his hole with their shotguns. And then it turned dark and Fantastic Mr. Fox said, "What would you like, dear?" And Mrs Fox would tell whatever she would like. And Mr Fox would dig a tunnel to solve the problem, a pretty big tunnel and then come out, do you know why? because if he came out the regular way he might get shot, so he dug a little tunnel where the farmers aren't. So he would come up, and help himself. And the farmers saw his tunnel so they moved to that tunnel. He would come back out the regular tunnel and then fix up dinner and after dinner they would go to sleep. Then after they went to sleep, morning would come, so they would wake up. Fantastic Mr. Fox would say, "What should it be now, darling?" So Mrs. Fox would say whatever she wanted and then Mr. Fox would help himself. Then he would come back, fix up breakfast, eat it, have a little rest, then go get lunch. After lunch, the one fox would have a little play, then dinner arrived. Mr. Fox would say, "What should I get? A chicken from Boggis, a duck or geese from Bunce, or a turkey or jar of cider from Bean?" Mrs Fox would say what she wanted and then they would fix up dinner, go to sleep, do another day, next day they would wake up, get breakfast, eat breakfast. The little fox would have a play, get lunch, the little fox would have some play, then dinner arrived. They would eat dinner, another day passed, they would wake up, have breakfast. The little fox would have some play, eat lunch, the little fox would have some play, eat dinner, another day. ["It's a long chapter," noted Eli, "to get you into the story. You might not keep reading if it was just, "Once upon a time there were 3 farmers. Next chapter." Fair enough.]

Next Chapter
They would get breakfast. The little fox would have some play, then lunch arrived. After lunch, the little fox would have some more play, dinner arrived. Eat dinner, go to sleep, another day passes.

Another Chapter, Chapter 3
They would wake up, get breakfast, the little fox would have some play, then lunch arrived. They would eat lunch, the little fox would have some playtime, then dinner arrived. They would eat dinner, another day passes. Wake up, eat breakfast, the little fox would have some play, then lunch arrived. They would eat lunch, the little fox would have some more play while Fantastic Mr. Fox would read the newspaper while Mrs. Fox would clean dishes.

Chapter 4
Dinner arrived! They would eat dinner, go to sleep, another day would pass. They would wake up, they would get breakfast, eat breakfast, the little fox would have some play, then lunch arrived. They would eat lunch, the little fox would have some play, then dinner arrived.

Chapter 5
They would wake up, get breakfast, eat breakfast, the little fox would have some playtime, then lunch arrived. They would eat lunch, the little fox would play while Fantastic Mr. Fox would read the newspaper and Mrs. Fox cleaned dishes. Then Fantastic Mr. Fox would fetch dinner, then they ate dinner, the little fox would have ten minutes of playtime and go to sleep. Another day passes.

Chapter 6
So they would wake up, get breakfast, the little fox would have some playtime, Fantastic Mr. Fox would get lunch, the little fox would have some playtime.

Chapter 7

To be continued...

Labels: family life, Fantastic Mr. Fox, movies, writing

Depending on the company, Ben and Eli play lego, or rocket ships, or build forts, or draw, or do puppet shows. On Saturday, their puppet show friends came to play and, as usual, Ben and his fellow second grader took the lead, assigning smaller roles to the younger siblings. The boys wanted to perform a play by Shakespeare, but then realized that they don't really know the plots of any of Shakespeare's plays. So they went to Plan B, starting with an announcement from the MC:



Next, they produced a script:



At this point, Eli apparently became disgruntled about his role, and expressed his dissatisfaction:



That seemed like a good time to pause for dinner. The quartet of kids gets together again next weekend, and it'll be interesting to see how the scripts -- on stage and off -- develop.

Labels: family life, writing

The hardest aspect of editing was not editing the selections, nor working with the publisher to fine-tune essays, nor copyediting, nor even coordinating all of this work with a coeditor living 3,000 miles away who had two (now three!) kids of her own. No, I think really the hardest part was actually getting the essays. We sent out a call for submissions to our friends, and asked them to send it to their friends; we published it on list-servs and websites and broadcast it as widely as we knew how. It wound up in places that we didn't even know existed, like the Women and Crime mailing list. But still, many of the essays came from women of similar backgrounds and in similar disciplines as ourselves. For Mama, PhD this wasn't a deal-breaker: the collection winds up accurately reflecting the diversity of women in higher education. Still, I know there are more stories out there that we didn't manage to uncover, and I'll always wonder how we might have found them.

Yvonne Bynoe, who edited , found an amazingly diverse group of women to contribute to her anthology. The women are different races and ethnicities; they are single, widowed, divorced and partnered, gay and straight, mothers and childless, at home with their kids and working outside the home. The women are not all professional writers, but they contribute deeply-felt stories which are powerfully told.

Mary Warren Foulk's piece, "Which One's the Mother?", beautifully traces her complicated road to lesbian motherhood, and I loved Kathy Bricetti's sweet essay, "The Baby Bank," about going with her partner to a sperm bank, way back in 1992.

Christine Murphy is resisting friends' and family pressure to jump on the "baby train" in "Mommy Maybe..." -- and wondering if she's making the right choice. Liz Prato writes poignantly of her decision not to have children in "Is Life Without Kids Worth Living?" With a mother who died at fifty-eight and two aunts who passed away in their forties, she feels that "knowing the parent-child relationship can come to such an abrupt end has shut down our desire to have kids."

In "The Mother I Always Wanted," Robin Templeton describes how her pregnancy makes her finally confront the reality of her own troubled mother; sitting on an airplane on the way back home, she writes, "I fanned myself with the laminated safety instructions, closed my eyes and a neon warning scrolled behind them like an interruption from the Emergency Broadcast System: Beep. This is a test. Beep. You are your mother's chid. Beep. Your baby will be raised by a woman raised by your mother."

Eileen Flanagan also addresses the legacy of difficult mothering in her essay, "A Pellet of Poison: I Don't Want to Feed Racism to My Children the Way My Mother Fed It to Me." Untangling what she was taught from what she wants to teach her children, she searches out slave narratives, abolitionist histories, novels and songs; she writes, "In the realm of race, I can also face the heat of my family history, sweating out whatever I've absorbed and teaching my children to do the same. Stories are like saunas that can help draw the poison out of us."

And I loved Lisa Chiu's essay "Ching Chong!" which hopes her son won't hear the playground taunt that haunted her childhood: "Nico's classmates haven't yet asked him where he's from. But when they do ask--and they will--I hope he will answer the question with clarity and confidence. I hope he will respond in a way that educates people, informing them not just of his own cultural background but of a world that is multi-hued, complex, and complicated.

"It took me years to come up with my own succinct answer to the question, replying that I'm a second-generation Taiwanese American woman who was born in Canada and raised in Cleveland. It took a long time for me to learn how to define myself. Now, it is time for me to guide my son along his cultural identity journey. I know where we're from. And I'm gaining clarity in knowing where we're going."

I like these essays for asking good questions rather than presuming to have all the answers. These are women in the midst of journeys, and it's interesting to follow along with their thinking.

Want to read this book? Leave me a comment by Saturday, May 30th, and I'll choose someone at random to receive my advance galley.

Labels: book reviews, mama phd, reading, writing

My fabulous writing group, The Motherlode Writers, is reading at Book Passage on Sunday and we'd love for you to join us!

Motherlode is a Berkeley-based community of mother-writers. We work in a wide variety of genres, including essay, memoir, poetry, and fiction. Our work has been published in print and online outlets including The New York Times, The Washington Post, Literary Mama, a variety of anthologies, and numerous other journals, blogs and 'zines. Our recent books include Sybil Lockhart's (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster, 2009); Sophia Raday's (Beacon Press, 2009); and Caroline Grant's (Rutgers University Press, 2008). Readers also include Marian Berges, Ursula Ferreira, Rebecca Kaminsky and Sarah Kilts.

Bring the kids and join us on Mother's Day for a celebration of motherhood and writing!

Sunday May 10th 2 - 3 p.m.
Book Passage

Labels: literary mama, mama phd, mother's day, mothering, writing

I once tried to write an essay in which I compared my writing to the proverbially ignored third child, but the analogy didn't seem to hold up and I shelved the piece. And now it's out of date; I can't claim that my writing isn't getting much attention, and I'm grateful for that. But now this blog is becoming that third child -- the independent oldest, left alone for long periods while I tend to its younger blog siblings.

At Learning to Eat, I've been giving my muffin tin a workout, and offer recipes for blueberry, banana, and vegan banana muffins, as well as pizza. Browse around and you'll find a balanced meal or two (and the drink to accompany them).

At Mama, PhD, I've been invited to participate in a reading at UC Riverside, and posted a video of our recent event at the University of Richmond. So go check them out and I'll try to update here over the weekend.

Labels: blogging, food, mama phd, writing

I was delighted today to receive my contributor copy of , in which my essay "The Cookie" has been reprinted. My story is about a particularly trying day of new motherhood and how a little old-fashioned advice and infant Ben's own ingenuity saved the day.

My Literary Mama colleagues Amy Hudock and Kristina Riggle also have essays in this collection, which is a terrific group of moving, honest, and unsentimental essays about new motherhood. Check it out!

Labels: anthologies, Cup of Comfort, literary mama, reading, writing

The conference so far:

One blood orange margarita at Frontera Grill

Two meals with great writers and fans of Mama, PhD: Elline Lipkin and Elizabeth Coffman

Three sighing, meaningless invocations of the word "craft" (in one panel!), as in
Question: What makes this writing stand out?
Answer: Well [long pause], I'd say, really, well, it's just ... the craft.

Four (out of five) speakers on the Fictionalizing the Family panel who don't have children, and so advised "Write as if everyone you know is dead." Kill your darlings, indeed! I can't write like that.

Five speakers on the fabulous Writing as Parents panel -- Kate Hopper, Jill Christman, Shari MacDonald Strong, Sonya Huber and Jennifer Niesslein -- who spoke much more relevantly to me. I loved all their presentations, and am thinking this morning particularly about Sonya Huber's anecdote expressing the whiplash of talking with small children. Her son asked her one day, "How many days until the day we die?" When she responded, "We don't know," he asked, quite reasonably, "Why don't we ask the one who made all our parts?" And then, as she was still struggling with her answer to that, he tossed her a softball, "How do you spell Chewbacca?"

Six more meals until I head home.

Seven readers at tonight's Literary Mama reading at Women and Children First bookstore; if you're in Chicago, please come!

Eight panels today that sound interesting to me, so many that I may not make it to any.

Nine times I laughed out loud during Art Spiegelman's brilliant, funny, keynote talk, a swift survey of comic strips and his place in them.

Ten minutes in the bookfair before I was weighed down with free chocolates, pens, and subscription forms.

Labels: AWP, literary mama, mothering, writing

There's a little something for everyone at Literary Mama this week. Can't stop thinking about the election? Read Children's Lit Book Group for some books that will get even the youngest readers involved, and The Maternal Is Political for a thoughtful exploration of one mama's political journey. Sick of thinking about the election? Then read about how Doing It Differently came to take one big step, or follow as Me and My House takes many steps.

In Literary Reflections, you know you all do it -- now read about how Heidi Scrimgeour writes in the shower. And finally, I wanted to learn about how my friend and former LM columnist Gail Konop Baker writes anywhere, in addition to mothering her 3 kids, running, and dealing with cancer. So I interviewed her; read our conversation here.

Labels: literary mama, reading, writing

OK, I realize I've been ignoring the blog a bit lately, but it's been a busy time spreading the news about Mama, PhD. So I'm delighted to stop talking about that book (just for a moment) to announce the publication of my essay, "Wonderful Life," in the new anthology, (Health Communications, Inc). The book is one-stop Christmas shopping, with essays, stories, recipes, pictures and advice on how to get through what can be a stressful holiday without losing sight of the magic. I've never shared space in a book with a martini recipe before, and I am well pleased. My piece is based on my Literary Column on It's A Wonderful Life; here's an excerpt:

Christmas Eve, 2002

It's my first Christmas as a mom, and I as sit rocking infant Ben to sleep in the darkened room, I realize that the ubiquitous Christmas telecast of It's A Wonderful Life (Frank Capra, 1946) is flickering on the ancient television. The sound is muted, but I remember the dialogue. George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart) has just learned that Uncle Billy misplaced the day's deposit, and despite sacrificing his whole life for the Building & Loan, George is ruined. He can't listen to his wife Mary cheerfully prattle on about their daughter Zuzu's cold. He rages about the money spent on the doctor, their money-pit of a drafty house: "I don't know why we don't all have pneumonia!"

Ben stirs in his sleep and cries out. I hold my breath as I adjust his IV, which has tangled around my arm and pulled taut. I touch my lips to his sweaty head and he relaxes back into sleep. I exhale, relieved to have avoided another cycle of the anguished cries that raise his fever and bring the nurses running with another round of invasions.

We have pneumonia.

Go pick up a copy of to read the rest!

Labels: family life, holidays, mama at the movies, reading, writing

It's always gratifying to update Literary Mama on Sundays and see pieces--some of which I first read several months ago--find their broad audience. I try to give each just a quick final read--they've all been through a couple rounds of editing and copyediting, but sometimes I might catch a stray typo--still, inevitably I forget myself and get drawn into the essay or story or poem as if for the first time.

This week, there's Hilary Meyerson's beautiful Voice: A Study in the Writer's Art, which begins with a nightmare like one I've had myself:

The night before my daughter started kindergarten, I had a nightmare. . .that I was nine months pregnant with a third child. Not just pregnant, but in labor. In typical dream-reality, I had missed the pregnancy signs until labor was imminent. My dream voice broke as I told my husband that this child would be born September third, two days after the crucial September first enrollment cut-off date. Didn't he understand? It meant that it would be almost six more years before this third child started kindergarten. Six more years before I'd have all the kids in school, before I could finally begin my new life as a writer. I woke in a sweat, grasping my belly, relieved to find it still less firm than I'd like, but not in fact, housing a third child.

In Children's Lit Book Group, Libby writes about a different transition, as kids finish school and move away from home:

It's back to school time around here. Four of my friends have packed sons or daughters off to college for the first time and are learning how to reconfigure patterns set over the last eighteen years of parenthood. As my friends face their new version of parenthood, their children have the gift of an extended transition, a prolonged adolescence as they negotiate the four years of college.

This month's poems focus on a place dear to my heart: the kitchen! In Elizabeth Bruno’s Kitchen Daffodils: "their necks tilt Vincent-gold toward the glass." In Cookie Bakers, Lois Parker Edstrom listens to "radio tuned to Queen for a Day". I empathize with Yvonne Pearson who writes, in Eaten Alive, "All day I feed and I feed." And finally Ann Walters notes, In the Kitchen, "A gingham tablecloth makes a fine parachute."

And finally, I confess I got as caught up as the next girl in the gossip and hoopla surrounding Sarah Palin's nomination as VP on the Republican ticket: I was up late reading blogs, looking at pictures, wondering what to make of the story, all the while feeling increasingly queasy about the way she and her family were being portrayed -- and all my reading about it. So, since I'm in the fortunate position of knowing lots of good and thoughtful writers, I suggested to LM's columns editors that we put put out a call for some op-eds on the topic, and I'm delighted with the pieces we received this week.

First, we have our own Subarctic Mama, Nicole Stellon O'Donnell, unpacking "The Sarah Myth:"

I never voted for Sarah Palin. Politically, we don't get along... But I did like her. I've never liked any politician so unlike myself so much. Many of my liberal pro-choice mom friends liked her too. She was an Alaskan after all--a mom like me, bundling babies in snowsuits and dragging them around in sleds. She nursed and governed. She seemed real, someone who, despite our differences, I could talk to. Like everyone else in this giant, small state, I was on a first name basis with her. "Sarah," I'd say if I ever ran into her at the airport, "Hello."

And in a terrific complement to her piece, Mama, PhD contributor Rebecca Steinitz writes about "Sarah Palin's Kids, Our Kids:"

On the third night of the Republican National Convention, Sarah Palin finally spoke up. The next morning I woke up to a front-page article in The Boston Globe, announcing that Sarah Palin has reignited the mommy wars.

No kidding. Birth plans, breastfeeding, working moms, teenagers and sex: it's like the national conversation has become one big mommy kaffeklatsch. Or one big mommy driveby, as women across the country wonder how Palin does it--when they're not condemning her for doing it.

I couldn't be prouder of all this writing if I'd written it myself; click on over to Literary Mama to check it out!

Labels: literary mama, mothering, reading, sarah palin, writing

Grateful Gramma wins the Writing Motherhood paperback giveaway; thanks to all of you who entered. I'll look for another book to give away next month!

Labels: giveaways, writing

Part of my wonderful Mother's Day this year involved attending a reading/writing workshop with Lisa Garrigues, with whom I've corresponded since I reviewed her book, Writing Motherhood, for MotherTalk. She was in town to celebrate the paperback release of her book, and so a friend and I drove out to the event, where everyone got a chance to write a bit, share their work if they liked, and offer feedback. Somehow within just a few minutes, under Lisa's guidance, small groups of strangers were offering thoughtful feedback on each other's work. It was a great way to spend the afternoon.

Today, when I got home from collecting Ben at school, I found the paperback in the mail, courtesy of Lisa's publisher. Now it's a beautiful book, and if I didn't already own the hardcover (now signed!) I'd keep it, too. But that just seems greedy. So, lovely readers, I'm hosting a giveaway. Leave a comment on this post by the end of the week and I will pick a winner at random.

And in case you missed my earlier review, here it is again; it still holds up--though now my copy of Lisa's book is a bit battered from use. (I've updated the final paragraph to reflect changes at Literary Mama.)

Very early on the morning of July 4th, 2001, I climbed out of bed and took a pregnancy test. As I waited for the result, I left the stick resting on the edge of the bathroom sink and sat down at my desk to write a few lines on my computer. A few minutes later, I went back and added some more thoughts, trying to absorb the fact that I was pregnant.

That was the start of my mothering journal.

I’d kept journals sporadically in the past: a small, cream- colored book my aunt gave me before a high school month in England; a cloth-bound book I bought before my junior year at Oxford University. But when I didn’t have a discrete period of time to document, I could never keep a journal going. I’d get fed up with myself for using it as a dumping ground for my complaints about adolescent life, or I’d get hung up with worry about someone finding it.

But this time was different. I’d just started a new job, I was pregnant, Tony and I bought a house: my life was changing fast, changing permanently, and I wanted to keep track of my thoughts.

That January, my computer crashed and took my journal with it. I lost teaching notes, syllabi, years’ worth of emails, but it was the journal’s loss that made me cry. It took me a few days to regain perspective (I hadn’t lost the baby, I kept having to remind myself, only the writing about the baby), but when I did, I took myself to a good art supply store and bought a nice journal with lined pages and an elastic strap to keep it closed.

And now I have a neat pile of six on the bottom shelf of my bedside table, with the current one, a pen in the middle holding my place, on the top shelf next to my lip balm, the current New Yorker, and a water glass.

I’ve kept it going.

The problem, though, was that before long the journal was not enough. I’d start something, jot down a funny thing Ben did or make an observation about my new life, and then it would sit there, undeveloped. I didn’t have any compelling reason to develop my thoughts into an essay. And after years of steady writing in graduate school, culminating in a nearly 300-page dissertation, I didn’t really even know how to write an essay about myself. I cast about for a year or so, writing unfinished essays during Ben's naps, not knowing what to do with them. Eventually I lucked into a writing group and from there landed a position at Literary Mama and, between the gentle pressure of my monthly turn to present at writing group and the inspiration of the essays I edit, I found my way to a regular writing gig, a book, and a new life as a writer.

But it all would have been much simpler if I'd had Lisa Garrigues book, back then.

I confess, I haven’t read any other writing books, so I have nothing to compare this to. Well, that’s not even quite right; I haven’t finished any other writing books. I’ve poked around Bird by Bird (and found it quite useful when I do), read a few lines of Writing Down the Bones, but I’ve always gotten a little impatient with the books, always had a moment when I realized, “Wait... no one’s asking me for snack, no one needs a dry diaper, I should be writing!” and put them down. So one of the things I like most about Garrigues’ book is that she invites you to do just that. It is not a book to read cover to cover (although I did, for this review, and it holds up perfectly well to that sustained attention), but one to pick up and read for twenty minutes when you have an hour free, or five minutes when you have ten: pick it up, find your inspiration, put the book down, and write. Because just as no one learns to parent by reading parenting books, no one learns to write without writing.

I like the bold orange cover of this book, which won’t get lost on my desk; that bright flash will always peek out from under the messy pile of drafts, bills, and Ben’s latest train drawings, and remind me to write. I like her tone, which is encouraging and friendly throughout; she leaves behind any kind of authoritative teacher voice and comes across as a woman you’d happily share a coffee with. Garrigues calls her writing prompts “invitations,” another subtle way that she manages to lighten up the task of setting down to write. And I like that she gives you lots and lots of good stuff to read, because the most important work in becoming a writer, after writing, is, of course, reading. Garrigues gives you her own short essays (on topics ranging from copying other writers, to marriage, to mama playdates); some of the little essays are hardly about writing at all, but about mothering, and then as she comes to the end and crystallizes the feeling that she’s expressed in the essay, she neatly raises a question for your own writing. She provides sample “mother’s pages” (essays written by her students), and she offers loads of great quotations from other writers. She also offers concrete advice on everything from buying a writer’s notebook to setting up a productive workspace. I have both of those things, but I still picked up a couple good ideas from her. She closes the book with an entire section on moving from new writer to a writer seeking connection and publication, with ideas on setting up and maintaining writing groups and taking one’s writing public. And then, in case there weren’t already enough ideas to keep you going in the text of the book, she offers a list of 99 writing starts and a bibliography.

I am keeping this review short because, inspired by Garrigues book, I want to get back to my writing! But I want to leave you with a couple quotations. The first, from Annie Dillard, resonated with me right now as I struggle to clear space in my days to write:

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing. A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days.

And now here’s Garrigues:

This book is, in part, a story of growing up and into a role I claimed for myself.

Is she talking about mothering or writing?! The point, as she claims throughout the book, is that the two are not mutually exclusive but complimentary roles that feed and develop each other. We should take advantage of that fact, and make time to write our lives.

Garrigues teaches writing classes, and those of you in the NY/NJ area should check them out. For anyone looking for on-line writing classes, I highly recommend Susan Ito's parent lit workshop (which I have taken) and the poetry workshops led by Violeta Garcia-Mendoza (an editor at LiteraryMama). Literary Mama is now offering monthly writing prompts, with personal feedback from the Literary Reflections editorial staff, as well as listings of workshops and other resources for writers. So get writing!

Labels: literary mama, mothertalk, reading, writing

Literary Mama's Literary Reflections department is seeking personal essays about writing as a mother, reading as a mother, or developing a career as a professional mother-writer. If any of you have such an essay in your portfolio or an idea brewing along these lines, we welcome your participation. Also, pass along this call to any other writers/mothers who may have an interest in submitting to LM.

Click here for the complete submissions guidelines.

Labels: literary mama, literary reflections, mothering, writing

I've been meaning to point you all away from my blog and toward the Literary Mama columns for a couple weeks now, ever since the latest installment of Libby's (on the question of boy books vs girl books) and Elrena's (on the question of the Bible's setting boy rules and girl rules...) fabulous pieces.

Now, those columns have been joined by a whole new cycle: Susan Ito's sweet Valentine to her husband; Ericka Lutz's funny piece on binge writing; Ona Gritz's and Rebecca Kaminsky's different reflections on self-image; and Shari MacDonald Strong's beautiful dream for a better world. So head on over to Literary Mama and dive in.

(the image is for Shari's column; you can start there, but be warned: you'll have "Yellow Submarine"thrumming through your head the rest of the day!)

Labels: columns, literary mama, reading, writing

Inspired by Hemingway, who (maybe) wrote:
"For sale: baby shoes. Never Worn."
6-word memoirs by various writers.

My "memoir" earned a comp copy.
The entry? Inspired by my book:
"Closed a door, opened a life."
Pretentious? perhaps, but certainly heartfelt, true.

I can't put the book down!
My copy from e-friend Felicia Sullivan.
Her entry, page 150, quoted here:
"Weird quiet girl, fading from view."
Others worth a look; my sister's:
"Learned reading, writing, forgot arithmetic"
(Though note, it's only five words!)

Also love this, from Ariana Huffington:
"Fearlessness is the mother of reinvention."
And also, from writer Daniel Handler:
"What? Lemony Snicket? Lemony Snicket? What?"
or commercial approach from Martha Clarkson:
"Detergent girl: Bold. Tide. Cheer. All."
And a thoughtful entry; Arthur Harris:
"Good, evil use the same font."
Brilliant understatement from Roy Blount, Jr:
"Maybe you had to be there."
And I relate to Barb Piper:
"Rich in degrees and student loans"
Ayelet Waldman always makes me laugh:
"New Jersey to California. Thank god."

Get the book; read some more.

Labels: books, reading, writing

The fortune in my cookie tonight:

The world will soon be ready to receive your talents.

And they're .

Labels: books, mama phd, writing

Atonement: There was one moment in this otherwise too-dramatic-for-me film that I found moving, when the wrongly imprisoned young man, about to head to France to serve the rest of his jail term fighting in World War Two, meets with his young love and reaches a trembling hand out to touch her hand. That was it. At the end of the movie, when Vanessa Redgrave shows up to play the aged writer, the woman whose story had sent a man to jail and to war, I caught a glimpse of how interesting the novel must be. But I didn't think the film was, very.

Winter Passing: The premise of this sounded so intriguing. An editor contacts the grown daughter of two esteemed writers, offering her $100,000 for publication rights to their love letters. The daughter, who is down and out, grieving the recent death of her mother and estranged from her father, thinks this might be an easy way to make some money, and goes home to collect the letters. Her father is a drunk and mired in writer's block; one of his students, a woman somewhat younger than his daughter, lives with him as his cook and housekeeper (she's thankfully not too fawning, nor does she seem to be sleeping with him -- which would have been a tired old eww!), while Will Ferrell works as his handyman and security guard. If you love Will Ferrell, then maybe you could get past Ed Harris as the annoying cliche of the wild alcoholic writer, because Ferrell's performance is compelling and nuanced. But I don't love Will Ferrell enough. This is one of those movies that referred to, but did not tell, the story that interested me: the mom! What did she write, and what was her relationship with her daughter like, and what was her marriage like, and what did she write? What did she write?!? Oh, well.

My Kid Could Paint That: Oh, this one kept Tony and me up talking way past our bedtime! This is a documentary about Marla Olmstead, a child who paints. Because her father is a painter, and he wanted to get some work done one day, he gave her a canvas, some paints and brushes, and got to work while his daughter covered her canvas with a bright, abstract, typical preschool painting. Except, you know, on a proper canvas with quality paints, so it looked really, really good. A friend saw it and asked to hang it in his cafe, where a gallery owner saw it and asked if there were more, and before long, four year-old Marla Olmstead had a show. And then buyers. And then another show. And then some press. And then some very big sales. And then of course came the skeptics, led by 60 Minutes, to suggest that her daddy was really directing, if not in fact just doing, the paintings himself.

But the "Is she or isn't she?" question wasn't really the question that interested me so much. First, there's the problem of abstract art (which we happen to be fans of in this house), and people's strong reactions against it: It's too easy; anyone can throw paint on a canvas and say "It's a painting!" It doesn't tell a story. It's impossible to evaluate its quality (because of its refusal to represent "reality"). It thumbs its nose at the viewer as if to say, If you don't like me, it's because you're not smart enough to get me. In the documentary, the strongest voice against abstract art happens to be the gallery owner representing Marla, a photo-realist painter who devotes months to a single painting and is peeved at how quickly she produces work. But not peeved enough to avoid making a buck on it.

But what made Tony and me both really sad was one tiny moment toward the end of the film, when Marla is painting and asks her dad to paint with her. And because of the skeptics, and because of all the money involved, he has to say no. The minute he kneels down to paint a picture with his little girl, the whole structure of her career collapses. But it seemed to me that their family had collapsed in some important way already, without their even noticing.

Persepolis: I thought the were very good, though they didn't knock me out (they'd been built up too much, I'm afraid). But at the risk of building up anticipation for the film too much, I thought it was spectacular. Here's a rare instance when translating a book to film opens it up and deepens it; rather than the flat black & white images on the page (which are quite moving in their simplicity), the film gives you black & white and a thousand shades in between, moving subtly on screen, with incredible depth and beauty. Yes, the story's been simplified a bit, but the film tells such a compelling story, I had to sit in the theater a while after it had emptied out and collect myself before I could leave.

Labels: mama at the movies, movies, writing

The call to participate in a blog day for Patry Francis attracted my attention because I'd just enjoyed reading her profile on Literary Mama. To learn that she's too ill, right now, from cancer treatment to promote her book, , attracted my sympathy.

I don't know Francis, and I admit I haven't read her book, but having just started work on a publicity plan for my own book, I feel terrible at the thought of someone publishing a book and not being able to support it with readings and other events. It's like putting your kid on a school bus for the first day of kindergarten and saying, "Bye! Good luck! See you at the end of the year!"

So if my writing about her writing can help raise attention to her work, I'm happy to participate. Here's an excerpt from her profile that struck a chord with me:

I really admire writers who can get a lot of work done when their children are small. I was never one of them. For me, trying to understand who each child was and what they needed to grow and develop their own talents took all the creativity I had. There was no room for me to ponder the inner life of characters. Though I made many outlines and filled notebooks with ideas for the novels I hoped to write, nothing much was finished while there was a child under six in the house.

Writing, if it’s genuine and honest, is an act of supreme empathy. In writing a novel, I struggle to understand my characters, to accept their strengths and weaknesses, to allow them the freedom to be themselves (even when it doesn’t fit in with my plans), to celebrate them, forgive them and then to let them go. When you think of it, it’s very similar to the arc of parenting.

I also think my dedication to my work, both when I met with success and during the long years when I didn’t, has had a positive influence on my children. It’s taught them that if you truly love what you do, the process itself is always the greatest reward.

I have always loved my role as a mother, but I am also grateful to have something that is all my own. As my children are growing older and beginning to leave home, there is a sense of nostalgia and even loss, but that is counter-balanced by the joy I have in my other life: my work. Knowing that mom is busy and happy is also making the transition easier for the children. And, oh yes, one more thing: they are so proud of me.

And now go check out her blog, where she's got many more lovely reflections on writing. And then (don't forget!), check out her , which sounds like a good creepy read for a winter's night.

cross-posted at Literary Mama

Labels: reading, writing

My, there's quite a lot of ink being shed on this film! And my little column doesn't cover all I could say about it, either, but here's an excerpt from my contribution to the conversation:

The best thing the new movie Juno (Jason Reitman, 2007) achieves as it traces the impact of one teenager's unplanned pregnancy is its refusal to shy away from the complexities and odd juxtapositions of life; in fact, it embraces them, insisting that we look at the messiness of relationships, the rapidly shifting peaks and valleys of emotional intelligence, so that we can begin to understand how a smart girl could have sex without birth control and how a sensitive girl could give a child up for adoption. When sixteen year-old Juno MacGuff (Ellen Page) discovers she's pregnant, she puts her head in a noose -- made out of licorice ropes (she frees herself by taking a savage bite). When she contacts a clinic to arrange an abortion, she makes the call on a hamburger-shaped telephone. Her boyfriend, the father of her child, sleeps in a racecar-shaped bed. As Juno responds when her dad asks where she's been, "Out dealing with things way beyond my maturity level."

You can read the rest of my column here at Literary Mama. And while you're there, check out some of our other columns and a new book review, too!

Labels: literary mama, mama at the movies, movies, writing

Thanks for the suggestions on the Amazon boxes! I have written Amazon customer service to suggest that they could have used one less box, and broken down the boxes (all too big to mail my PIF books, alas; I need to be giving away more and bigger books, apparently). We didn't build a fort with these, but will save them in case one of the birthday boys this spring wants a rocket or train-building party.

And thanks even more for the words of sympathy and concern about Eli's encounter with the new book case (this is what we get for unpacking all our books from the nice, soft, cardboard boxes). Ten of Eli's stitches came out last week. He was stoic, saying only afterwards that "the teeny-tiny scissors hurt a teeny-tiny bit." One of the dissolving stitches has dissolved, and one's still hanging on, like an umbilical cord stump that won't drop.

And, finally, as for my movie-watching binge, I wound up writing a column on Juno. Look for it at Literary Mama next week.

Labels: family life, mama at the movies, movies, writing

Woo-hoo! has its very own and its very own (though not yet a cover image that I can share).
I'm a very proud mama, PhD, indeed.

You can learn more about the book, my co-editor, Elrena Evans, and all our incredible contributors at our website. Then click on over to . It's never too early to !

Labels: mama, phd, reading, writing

Libby tagged me with this weeks ago, and while I've been mulling it over, I've been tagged with two other memes, so I'd better catch up! But I've got to say (and this is not because I'm feeling behind, or being lazy), my responses truly don't differ much from Libby's. Big surprise there; on paper--and in real life--we are probably more alike than different.

To recap what Libby wrote: I like to write; I don't have a great memory, which leads to lots of re-reading, which leads to new ideas; I had teachers in high school and college who required lots of in-class writing; I come from a family of writers, and living within a family that values the written word provides support that I do not take for granted. I spent those same years in Japan that she did, though since I was five when we left, that time was formative for me in different ways; I was bilingual from birth, and although I'm not any longer, I like to think that turning on that language button in my brain so early has given me an ear for language that I might not otherwise have.

The one thing Libby didn't mention that I think of as a strength is that I truly like revising. I might even prefer it to drafting the original. I was struggling with an essay recently, truly having the hardest time sitting still at my desk and pushing the words out, and the only thing that kept me going was the knowledge that as soon as the draft had a passable beginning, middle, and end, I could pass it on to my writing group for their feedback. I was watching the holes develop in the essay as I wrote, but knew that my fellow writers would suggest ways to patch them, knew they would point out places to expand and develop. I'm generally not so attached to my own words that I can't trim or recast them, and I like to fuss and tinker and try to find just the right word.

In fact, this post could use a little revising itself, but I will let it go--another writing strength! being able to identify when something is good enough for the purpose--and move on to another writing project for now.

Oh, and I should tag some people: Kathy, Violeta, and Elrena -- you're it!

Labels: memes, writing

I know it's October, but I've got a new essay, "Summer Reading," in the issue of MotherVerse available today. The Ben I write about in this essay seems so much younger to me now, I'm glad I captured this moment when I did!

Here's a little blurb:

I don't see Ben working to read, although he's been interested in books and letters since he was a baby. We used to leave a couple boardbooks along with the stuffed otter and doggie in his crib, waking some mornings to the sound of him chattering and turning the thick pages. We called it his morning book group. When he was two, he got interested in what Tony and I did at our laptops hour after hour, and he'd asked to type words, too; I still have some of these files, long lists of his favorite words in giant blue font: "Mama! Dada! Ben! Cookie!"

Click on over to MotherVerse to read the rest; a one-year digital subscription is only $9 and supports the work of wonderful writers and artists.

Labels: writing

I went with a couple of my writing group buddies to a reading last night from . It was a great hour devoted to the craft of writing nonfiction, from journalism to creative pieces, and I left all charged up and ready to write. Perhaps because I'm such an avid movie watcher, I particularly liked this bit from the editor, Mark Kramer's, own essay on "Setting the Scene:"

Purposefully or not, the author sets out the camera and the microphone--might as well put them where they help most. They are often set in one spot, but they can move--say, to the shoulder of a main character. The author may reset the range but must do it with care and intention, as filmmakers do.

I just love that first sentence. For starters, it's a terrifically helpful metaphor; I like thinking of my essay's point of view that way, as something that I can subtly shift depending on where I put the equipment. And then that casual "might as well," generously assuming that of course we're always in control, when in fact we're often scrambling to remember just where we might have left our cameras and microphones.

It's not that we don't know all this stuff, right? It's just good to get a fresh way of thinking about it every once in a while.

Labels: writing

It's rare that I get two nights out in a row, rarer still that I get two such different, such enjoyable booky events in a row, but that's what I got this past weekend.

First up, a reading from the new Bad Girls anthology at my friend, teacher, and fellow columnist Susan Ito's house. She always gathers a fabulous group of people, this time many of my fellow Literary Mamas, including Ericka Lutz, Rachel Sarah, Joanne Hartman and Sybil Lockhart. Meanwhile, the Bad Girls themselves are fantastic writers: Ellen Sussman (the book's editor), Lolly Winston, Mary Roach, and Kim Addonizio all read from their essays, and I'm eager to read the whole book. Following the reading, the writers answered a range of questions; it was interesting to hear Ellen Sussman talk about how her idea of the anthology shifted as she was editing it, as some writers joined up and others, for various reasons, dropped out of the project. And I was interested to hear, as I await cover art for my book, about how many of these writers hate their book covers! Sussman acknowledged that the will probably sell some books -- but worries that those same lips might put some readers off.

The next night, a very different, quieter event: a reading by George Saunders at a home in Menlo Park. The hostess, Kimberly Chisholm (another Literary Mama writer; the Bay Area is full of us!) periodically gathers writers together for an informal salon, and I wound up on this lucky guest list due to the good graces of LM columnist and Mama, PhD contributor Jennifer Margulis. Saunders read a story, talked about the different approaches he takes to writing fiction, nonfiction, and humor pieces, told us about trying to find something new to write about Bill Clinton (with whom he recently traveled in Africa), and revealed that even very successful writers sometimes need a bit of encouragement.

Labels: literary mama, reading, writing

Soon, I will produce a longer post on my fabulously literary weekend, but for now, here's a pearl from George Saunders, on what he got when, after slaving over a story and its revisions, he went fishing for an encouraging compliment from his New Yorker editor, Bill Buford.

What, Saunders asked Buford, do you like about this story?

And the perfect response: "I read a sentence, and I like it -- enough to read the next sentence."

Labels: writing

I've been wondering what to write about Madeleine L'Engle's death last week. Episcopal Life has a beautiful tribute, as do several of the blogs I read, including Lessons from the Tortoise and As Yet Untitled. I'd just written about L'Engle's books recently for the Literary Mama Essential Reading list:

Madeleine L'Engle is one of those writers whose books have carried me through a few different stages of life. I loved her when I was little, and reread her annually when I was a bit older. I found L'Engle again as an adult, reading her series meditations on faith, family, and marriage, and found a passage from to read at my wedding.

She was essential reading for me my whole life long, and although our paths never crossed, I feel a bit like I've lost one of my grandmothers. I am well comforted by her books, though, and glad that Ben's of an age that he can enjoy them, too. Time to dig out the Austin family chronicles and start re-reading!

Labels: reading, writing

My Literary Mama friends and colleagues Violeta Garcia-Mendoza and Amy Mercer are putting together a new anthology by and for women living with diabetes. They are both such terrific writers, I wish I could submit to their book. But instead I am doing what I can to spread the word; please pass this on!



Co-editors Amy Mercer and Violeta Garcia-Mendoza are seeking personal essay submissions from women writers for their upcoming collection.

Essays should fall between 1,500 and 3,000 words and explore an aspect of living with diabetes.

The collection will cover any and all aspects of living with diabetes: from diagnosis to aging gracefully. Other possible essay topics may include:
• Growing up with diabetes
• Dating with diabetes
• Diabetes at college
• Diabetes & eating disorders
• Finding the perfect doctor
• Wedding planning/marriage with diabetes
• Diabetes in the workplace
• Traveling with diabetes
• Starting a Family (either through pregnancy and/or adoption) with diabetes
• Talking to kids about diabetes
• Dealing with complications/ Staying healthy with diabetes

Our goal is to provide diabetic women- type 1 and type 2- with a place of community while they navigate the various stages of their lives, and their diabetes.

We welcome you to submit one or more essays. For more information, or to submit, please write mercermendoza(at)gmail(dot)com or visit the website.

Labels: health, literary mama, writing

I was tagged for this meme once already, but it's always fun to play. And since tonight Eli took an extra-long time to go to sleep (see list 4), I have written an extra-long response. I posted the rules previously, so I'm skipping that step now; I'm also all out of bloggers to tag. But I will say that Jean Kazez tagged me, a contributor to Mama, PhD and a terrific writer, so go check her out!

List One: 8 small ways to improve the world
join MomsRising
subscribe to a CSA
compost
recycle
Freecycle
call the organizations who send you junk mail and get off their lists (or sign up for Green Dimes to do it for you)
walk, carpool, take public transit
buy refillable water bottles

List Two: 8 things Ben has made from his new cookbook
heart in hand cookies
extra e-z fudge
papa’s pesto
berry dip and roll
boss banana bread
blueberry pie
chocolate covered bananas
bunny salad

List Three: 8 things I carry in my bag
phone
rosebud lip salve
eye drops
wallet
notebook
pen
keys
tissues

List Four: 8 things I’d rather be doing now than keeping Eli company while he falls asleep
drinking a glass of water
doing research for an essay
packing for our trip
eating the last piece of blueberry pie
putting 3 years of family pictures into an album (or two or three)
reading the newspaper
watching a movie with Tony
sleeping

List Five: 8 best movies I’ve seen so far this year
Away from Her
Waitress
Whale Rider
Once
The Miracle of Morgan's Creek
The Lives of Others
The Namesake
51 Birch Street

List Six: 8 things I worry about sometimes
light pollution
global warming
the safety of our food supply
the war
my kids’ nutrition
global malnutrition
earthquakes
accidents

List Seven: Eli’s current 8 favorite books
The Bunnies Are Not In Their Beds
Kipper
I Went Walking
Everywhere Babies
Why Do Babies Do That
The New Baby Train
A Fish Out of Water
The Baby Goes Beep

List Eight: Recent(ish) reading that’s stayed with me
The New Yorker article on light pollution
Irene Nemirovsky’s Suite Francaise
Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma
Nicole Krauss’ The History of Love
Andrea Barrett’s Secret Harmonies
Jeannette Walls’ The Glass Castle
Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler's Wife
Susan O'Doherty's Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued

Labels: family life, memes, reading, writing

On the one hand, I could say--with a great sigh of relief and a handful of salt tossed over my shoulder-- that it has never happened to me.

On the other hand, I could say that my eight years in graduate school (and the three years’ office work before that) were a protracted block, a self-imposed detour from the writing I should really have been doing the whole time, an elaborate (and ultimately expensive) procrastinatory ploy.

I’m talking about writer’s block, of course, a subject that I’ve been thinking much more seriously about since reading Susan O’Doherty’s sharp, smart, and sensitive .

Before I go further, I should say that I am not an unbiased reviewer. I first discovered Sue’s work in Andrea Buchanan’s anthology, ; her beautiful essay, “The Velvet Underground,” about her music-loving, costume jewelry-wearing son, Ben, struck a chord with me, the mother of a Ben who used to wear “dress-up hair” to school. I came across Sue’s work next in Jessica Berger Gross’s anthology, ; “The Road Home” details, with agonizing honesty, her journey through multiple miscarriages to motherhood. When my co-editor and I were collecting essays for Mama, PhD, I remembered “The Road Home” and wondered if Sue might have a story to tell for the anthology. Indeed she did, and in working with her to edit her essay and pave the way for its publication, I’ve come to respect her and admire her writing even more.

So when I saw that MotherTalk was enlisting bloggers to review her book, I signed up, looking forward to reading a book I knew I’d enjoy, despite thinking, mistakenly, that it wouldn’t really have much to say to me.

But here’s the thing: my truth, of course, is more complicated than the two versions I offer in the first two paragraphs above. I would never say that graduate school was a waste of time or even a detour from a more satisfying writing life. I did a lot of good writing in graduate school, including a very readable 300 page dissertation. Graduate school, and the courses I took and taught, gave me a great framework for reading and writing that I draw on to this day, and I’m proud to have earned my doctorate.

Still, Sue’s book has made me wonder for the first time whether if I’d skipped grad school and stayed at work in publishing, would I have kept noodling away at the workplace novel I started at my desk? Would I have continued adding sentences between phone calls and correspondence? Is there enough of a writer in me that I would have kept at it, after work, and on lunch hours? Or would something else have come up to interfere with that writing?

Maybe, maybe someday I’ll dig out those fragmented bits of that novel, dust it off, and see if it might still have life in it. In the meantime, though, here I am, seven years post-doc and five years into motherhood, developing a different and very fulfilling writing career. At the moment, I have more ideas than time to write them all out. I can gaze out my window and see writer’s block just hovering out there, past the trees in my neighbor’s yard, but here come Eli and Ben, thundering down the hall giggling, trying unsuccessfully to sneak up on me at my desk, and I race to finish my sentence, jot a few notes to remind myself where I was headed, close the laptop and bounce onto the big bed with them. For now, writer’s block and I are keeping at arm’s length.

So even though I didn’t pick up Sue’s book looking for answers, I’m happy to report that it gave me some anyway. Each chapter in the book is followed by an exercise intended to help you apply the chapter’s lessons to your own creative life and artistic goals. I decided, as a diligent reviewer, to do the exercises, starting in order, and although I haven’t finished (none of them takes more than twenty or thirty minutes, but each warrants a return visit, a reflection a few days later), I’m learning plenty from them already. Some of the exercises are serious (completing the “Girls Should…” sentence with messages you received as a child; identifying your inner critic) and some are a lot of fun (imagining a day without consequences, or imagining your greatest success) but so far I’m already filling pages with memories from my childhood, images I’d forgotten, ideas for future essays: in short, loads of new material. Thanks, Sue!

Like any good teacher, Sue makes her points in this book by telling stories. She’s brave enough to describe the ups and downs of her own creative life, and then sympathetically relates the stories of several of her clients, women at all different stages of their artistic careers, some trying to come to terms with past difficulties, some trying to address current hindrances. And again, although none of these stories is exactly relevant to my own situation right now, each taught me a little bit more about keeping creativity active throughout various different stages of life, whether single or partnered, parenting or childless, younger or older.

When I first started reading this book, I kept thinking of writers I’d give my copy to when I finished writing the review, thinking I’d absorb the lessons and move on. But now I think I’d like to keep it on my shelf after all, and I’ll be giving some copies as gifts.

Labels: book reviews, mothertalk, reading, writing

Eli (at 26 months) has used the potty three days in a row, and the Mama, PhD manuscript (at 363 pages) is in the mail to the publisher. These milestones seem all the more appropriately linked, to me, as Eli's words for "pee," "penis," and "computer" are one and the same: "pee-pee."

Dr. Freud would have a field day with this, I know.

I'm just happy we're moving forward, and trust that by this time next year, Eli will be looking sharp in his big boy underwear and Mama, PhD will be looking beautiful in a hard cover.

Labels: family life, writing

Very early on the morning of July 4th, 2001, I climbed out of bed and took a pregnancy test. As I waited for the result, I left the stick resting on the edge of the bathroom sink and sat down at my desk to write a few lines on my computer. A few minutes later, I went back and added some more thoughts, trying to absorb the fact that I was pregnant.

That was the start of my mothering journal.

I’d kept journals sporadically in the past: a small, cream- colored book my aunt gave me before a high school month in England; a cloth-bound book I bought before my junior year at Oxford University. But when I didn’t have a discrete period of time to document, I could never keep a journal going. I’d get fed up with myself for using it as a dumping ground for my complaints about adolescent life, or I’d get hung up with worry about someone finding it.

But this time was different. I’d just started a new job, I was pregnant, Tony and I bought a house: my life was changing fast, changing permanently, and I wanted to keep track of my thoughts.

That January, my computer crashed and took my journal with it. I lost teaching notes, syllabi, years’ worth of emails, but it was the journal’s loss that made me cry. It took me a few days to regain perspective (I hadn’t lost the baby, I kept having to remind myself, only the writing about the baby), but when I did, I took myself to a good art supply store and bought a nice journal with lined pages and an elastic strap to keep it closed.

And now I have a neat pile of six on the bottom shelf of my bedside table, with the current one, a pen in the middle holding my place, on the top shelf next to my lip balm, the current New Yorker, and a water glass.

I’ve kept it going.

The problem, though, was that before long the journal was not enough. I’d start something, jot down a funny thing Ben did or make an observation about my new life, and then it would sit there, undeveloped. I didn’t have any compelling reason to develop my thoughts into an essay. And after years of steady writing in graduate school, culminating in a nearly 300-page dissertation, I didn’t really even know how to write an essay about myself. I cast about for a year or so, writing unfinished essays during Ben's naps, not knowing what to do with them. Eventually I lucked into a writing group and from there landed a position at Literary Mama and, between the gentle pressure of my monthly turn to present at writing group and the inspiration of the essays I edit, I found my way to a regular writing gig, a book, and a new life as a writer.

But it all would have been much simpler if I'd had Lisa Garrigues book, back then.

I confess, I haven’t read any other writing books, so I have nothing to compare this to. Well, that’s not even quite right; I haven’t finished any other writing books. I’ve poked around Bird by Bird (and found it quite useful when I do), read a few lines of Writing Down the Bones, but I’ve always gotten a little impatient with the books, always had a moment when I realized, “Wait... no one’s asking me for snack, no one needs a dry diaper, I should be writing!” and put them down. So one of the things I like most about Garrigues’ book is that she invites you to do just that. It is not a book to read cover to cover (although I did, for this review, and it holds up perfectly well to that sustained attention), but one to pick up and read for twenty minutes when you have an hour free, or five minutes when you have ten: pick it up, find your inspiration, put the book down, and write. Because just as no one learns to parent by reading parenting books, no one learns to write without writing.

I like the bold orange cover of this book, which won’t get lost on my desk; that bright flash will always peek out from under the messy pile of drafts, bills, and Ben’s latest train drawings, and remind me to write. I like her tone, which is encouraging and friendly throughout; she leaves behind any kind of authoritative teacher voice and comes across as a woman you’d happily share a coffee with. Garrigues calls her writing prompts “invitations,” another subtle way that she manages to lighten up the task of setting down to write. And I like that she gives you lots and lots of good stuff to read, because the most important work in becoming a writer, after writing, is, of course, reading. Garrigues gives you her own short essays (on topics ranging from copying other writers, to marriage, to mama playdates); some of the little essays are hardly about writing at all, but about mothering, and then as she comes to the end and crystallizes the feeling that she’s expressed in the essay, she neatly raises a question for your own writing. She provides sample “mother’s pages” (essays written by her students), and she offers loads of great quotations from other writers. She also offers concrete advice on everything from buying a writer’s notebook to setting up a productive workspace. I have both of those things, but I still picked up a couple good ideas from her. She closes the book with an entire section on moving from new writer to a writer seeking connection and publication, with ideas on setting up and maintaining writing groups and taking one’s writing public. And then, in case there weren’t already enough ideas to keep you going in the text of the book, she offers a list of 99 writing starts and a bibliography.

I am keeping this review short because, inspired by Garrigues book, I want to get back to my writing! But I want to leave you with a couple quotations. The first, from Annie Dillard, resonated with me right now as I struggle to clear space in my days to write:

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing. A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days.

And now here’s Garrigues:

This book is, in part, a story of growing up and into a role I claimed for myself.

Is she talking about mothering or writing?! The point, as she claims throughout the book, is that the two are not mutually exclusive but complimentary roles that feed and develop each other. We should take advantage of that fact, and make time to write our lives.

Garrigues teaches writing classes, and those of you in the NY/NJ area should check them out. For anyone looking for on-line writing classes, I highly recommend Susan Ito's parent lit workshop (which I have taken) and the new poetry workshop led by Violeta Garcia-Mendoza (my editorial assistant in Literary Reflections). Literary Mama will soon be offering monthly writing prompts, with personal feedback from the Literary Reflections editorial staff, as well as listings of workshops and other resources for writers. Get writing!

Labels: book reviews, mothering, mothertalk, writing

The fabulous Violeta Garcia-Mendoza, one of my editorial assistants over at Literary Mama, is going to be teaching a 10-week workshop for beginner mama poets. If you're an expecting, new, birth, step, adoptive or grandmama wanting to learn more about the joys of poetry, as well as create and present your own poems in an encouraging and inspiring workshop format, this is the place for you!

Among others, topics will include: reading & writing as a poet, poetry of remembering & remembrance, forms and how to make them relevant, and the rigors and rewards of revision.

The workshop will run from July 1st to September 9th. Cost is $250. Class size is limited. For more information or to register, please write violeta724 at earthlink dot net

Labels: literary mama, teaching, writing

Every other Thursday, I manage a day without children. I leave the house early to meet my writing group, allowing an hour to drive 17 miles through rush hour traffic. If I'm lucky I arrive in time to pick up some tea at the Peet's on the corner. We circle our metal folding chairs in a kindergarten classroom decorated with posters defining "community" and "friendship." Some of us bring our kids—the nursing toddler, the preschooler on vacation—and we set out crayons and Lincoln Logs to keep them occupied while we catch up on our personal and publishing news, then settle in to discuss and critique each other's writing. Even when I haven't shared my work, I leave after 90 minutes recharged and full of ideas for my own writing. I spend the afternoon holed up in a café with my laptop and my latte.

I've been feeling particularly grateful for my writing group since watching The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio (Jane Anderson, 2005), the true story of a woman who "raised ten kids on twenty-five words or less."

Read more of this month's column at Literary Mama.

Labels: mama at the movies, movies, writing

6:30 A.M.
With two little kids, I didn't really expect to sleep in. Still, Tony got up with Eli at 6, and I got to keep my eyes closed another half hour, until Ben came thundering down the hall. Sweet guy, he's been waiting to give me my Mother's Day present since he made it in preschool on Friday afternoon, and now he can't wait another minute. We snuggle up in bed to read his card and admire the "garden" of shiny pebbles, feathers, and bits of potpourri pressed into playdoh in a big yogurt lid. I don't have to fake my enthusiasm, even at this hour: I love it.


7:00 A.M.
Tony and Eli bring me breakfast, the Sunday Times, a little gift and another card. Then the big gift: they all leave for two hours while I read the paper, uninterrupted.

10:00 A.M.
We walk over to the park, where we run into a friend with her two girls (her partner's off on a training ride for the SF to LA LifeCycle). We all ride the carousel a while, hopping from animal to animal.

noon
Eli falls asleep on the stroll home and miraculously transfers to nap in the crib. Tony, Ben and I eat lunch on the sunny deck.

1 P.M.
Tony (who's fighting a cold) takes a nap; Ben plays lego while I get ready for my reading.

4 P.M.
We meet up with my writing group at the Nomad Cafe in Berkeley. The microphone's set up in the children's play area, so our kids lounge on big cushions, look at picture books and play with Exo-Bonz at our feet while the 6 of us take turns reading from our work. It feels just like our bi-weekly meetings!

6 P.M.
Pizza dinner with most of the writing group at one member's house. Eli can't believe his luck: we're letting him play with marbles (he's almost old enough to deal with choking hazards; besides, I figure, most of these are small enough to go through). Ben discovers the trains just as we're about to go, but is lured away by the promise of a stop at a friend's house.

9 P.M.
We're finally heading home, the boys delirious from playing with their two friends. Ben falls asleep when we're halfway home; Eli, wired, can't stop talking. By the time we get home, he's sighing "Mama, mama, mama!!" like a little drunk. And falls asleep after three minutes in the crib. I'm not far behind.

Labels: family life, holidays, writing

Dionne Ford just wants five minutes to work on her novel. Here's how her day begins:

Every morning starts at a deficit. The day has not even begun, and I'm already behind. I hear shouting: "I want to take a shower!" "I don't want to take a shower!" "I need to take a shower!" "Get up!" It could be my husband. It could be one of my daughters. It could be my subconscious. I mean to get up before them all, to sit quietly and listen for guidance for the day, some instruction that will steel me when my plans all go to hell.

Click on over to Literary Mama to see if she ever gets those five minutes.

Labels: literary mama, reading, writing

Today, in honor of MotherTalk's Fearless Friday spotlight on Arianna Huffington's new book, , I'm supposed to write about a fearless moment in my life, or a moment when I started becoming fearless.

First, here are some moments I remember feeling fear:
When I was five, and we'd just arrived in Connecticut from Japan and my unfamiliar uncle reached into the car to pick me up;
When I was twenty-two, and a guy with a finger in the pocket of his sweatshirt mugged me;
When I was thirty-five, and I was in an emergency room with my listless, feverish, 9 month-old baby being diagnosed with pneumonia.

Some more typically frightening things -- leaving my public school and going to boarding school in 9th grade; moving across country at 22 with no job and no place to live (that one probably scared my parents, but they were remarkably calm!); giving birth -- didn't scare me at all, and I'm trying to work out the pattern, but I think mostly for me (as, I suspect, for many others) the things you choose are less scary than the things that are imposed or inflicted on you.

Just over a year ago, I started a blog. Before that, I'd been afraid of even commenting on a blog, worried, as we often are, of coming across as too stupid, too trivial, too ordinary. Well, maybe I am all of those things some of the time, but I'm also not any of those things enough of the time that I keep putting it out there. And in a direct line from blogging comes my column, and now a book, and a measure of fearlessness. I'll write to anybody, anywhere, and ask them to talk to me.

So if you're reading this blog and have never commented, celebrate Fearless Friday with me and drop me line.

Labels: fearless friday, mothering, mothertalk, reading, writing