Memoir Week

It is memoir week at Slate.com (er, it was -- I guess not anymore since it's Fri afternoon).

I love memoir. Love it. It's so raw. And messy. And nothing ever ties together in the end. It's so life.

I have to go back and read Slate.com's articles because I just found out about memoir week this morning (thanks Jen!), but I saw this quote in an article by Mary Karr:

"I'm certain that I've forgotten, blurred, or misremembered a zillion events, characters and details large and small . . . it's understood that memoir is not an act of history but an act of memory, which is innately corrupt."

Karr goes on to talk about the importance of telling the truth and sticking to the stuff that's stuck the hardest, but I love her honesty about memory. I've read too many statements by writers who claim they remember everything perfectly. And I always think, What a lie! Not to mention that what one person honestly thinks is true may very well not be, because people assign motivations to others' actions that may not really be there (oh, the countless times I've done that to my husband!). Anyway, I'm glad memoir has become more popular and that readers (and writers) are gaining a better understanding of what it's about and grappling with the complex issues it raises.

Follow Your Bliss

A Few Years Ago . . .

• Eyes glazing over as I search 40 boxes of documents in a law firm at 2:00am for those that contain German words or phrases.
• Body crying out that it needs exercise and sunlight as I continue to crank out motions against deadline.
• Driving on the highway at 5:00am, upset about the fact that I had to cut my vacation short. Then leaning out the window to barf (from stress).

A Few Days Ago . . .

• Visiting a farm and petting "Poppy" who acts like a puppy but is really a goat.
• Having a lovely discussion with Rebecca Walker about her current book Baby Love.
• Drafting articles about these events, made even better because I'm in my yoga pants and t-shirt with a mug of coffee and my dog at my side.

I waited and waited and waited to be a writer. It took me forever to find the guts. This road of "freelance writing" has been far from easy the past two years, but I did walk down it and I'm so glad. Happy, happy, happy. Actually, it's more like joy, joy, joy. Or peace, peace, peace.

So . . . what is your passion?

Open Diary

Watching House on TV. It's a scene where Dr. House has to insert a catheter into his own body.

Me: Oooo, I could never be an actor. How embarrassing to have to act out a bathroom scene.

Me: Of course if I ever had to go to the hospital and get a catheter, I could blog about it no problem though.

Ron: Yes, I know.

A Blue Crab

Ron and I are coming upon our 1-year anniversary of living in Maryland.

Here's what dawned on me the other day:

1. I've been so homesick for California the past 12 months that I've been sad and down
2. I haven't meshed with the east coast the way I'd hoped so I've been grouchy and cranky
3. Maryland is the blue crab state

The Aftermath of Miscarriage

The days flip by and I'm fine.

Then I read this:

The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don't flower
--opening lines of a Galway Kinnell poem

Or this:

Heartbeat! Oh my God. The most outrageous thing I have ever heard.
--pregnant writer talking about her prenatal exam

Or sometimes a woman will need me, like the housekeeper who asks me to carry the vacuum up the stairs because she's 8 months and her stomach is too big and her arms too tired, and the unexpected moment makes me panic because I shouldn't be able to carry it either.

Mmm...Mmm...Good

Me: Should I make a peanut better and jelly sandwich or a cream cheese and jelly sandwich?

Ron: Should I eat a lemon Clif bar or a black cherry almond Clif bar?

Ah, yes.

Dinnertime decisions at the Rough household.

But not anymore! Thanks to Fully Caffeinated, we are turning over a new leaf. Ron has signed on to cook two nights every week, I get two different nights, one night is leftovers, and the remaining two nights we eat out.

So this evening was Ron’s first experiment. As he sorted through our pots and pans I settled onto the couch with a glass of red wine and my new Anne Lamott book.

Here are the sounds I heard coming from the kitchen:

Clatter, boom, bang.

“Oh, sh—"

Clatter, BAM!

“OW!”

Beep beep boop. “Hello, Mom?”

Then the smells wafted into the living room. And it smelled…good. Darn good.

Tasted good too. He made jambalaya.

I’ve mentioned before how I don't like to cook. But Thursday is my assigned night, and you can bet I’ve never been so motivated to whip up a tasty dish in my life...

House Guests

My parents are coming to visit next month for the cherry blossom festival:

Mom: Do you have whiffy?

Me: Wiffle ball?

Mom: You know. . . whiffy. . . for my computer.

Me: Oooohhh. WiFi. Yes, we have it.

Labor of Love

Ron and I bought a small house last year. A writer’s retreat for me, vacation spot for him.

At first I was itching to deck it out. Scrape up every last penny to fill it with beds and cabinets and pots and pans. But my husband said, “Hang on. Not so fast.”

And I’m so grateful.

I’ve come to realize that over these next four or five years (or six, or ten), we will add items one by one, slow and thoughtful.

Right now our sweet home has two queen size air mattresses, a much-loved love sofa (given to us by our real estate agent), and a wooden table with two chairs. The rest of the place is bare – but hey, what more does a writer need than a place to write (table), a place to eat (same table), and a place to sleep (air mattress)?

In Mexico I bought a ceiling lamp made of native wood with flowers carefully carved into the side. It’s not fancy. It wasn't expensive. But it's darling and crafty and was made with love by a man and his young son. We’re going to hang the lamp over the table.

One piece at a time.
Slow and thoughtful.

This summer we’re adding a fresh coat of paint. I’ve never painted anything in my life, and Ron isn’t exactly Tool-Time Tim, but who cares about hiring professionals and doing things the “right” way?

One room at a time.
Fun and special.

I’m looking forward to spending the upcoming summer days learning how to use a roller and paint brush...although any painting tips would be much appreciated. (Hey, by the way...why do painters always wear overalls?)

B-B-B-B Bad to the Bone

Last night I was cranky and wanted to do something outright BAD.

I debated sending Ron to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for homemade chocolate chip cookies. The plan: eat a bunch of dough and then bake a few and eat those hot and melty off the pan. I decided against it (my arteries thank me).

Next I debated logging onto Amazon.com and ordering a ton of books for overnight delivery so I could continue my book binge this weekend. When I thought it over, I changed my mind (my bank account thanks me).

Finally, I crawled into bed at 7:16pm and pondered what the heck was UP. Why did I want to be so B-B-B-B Bad?

“What’s wrong?” Ron said when he saw me in bed.

“Maybe I’m getting sick,” I said.

“Do you have symptoms?”

“No," I said. "Except I’m exhausted. And I’ve been sneezing all day. And my throat hurts."

Suddenly everything was making a little more sense. Ron rubbed my back and brought me liquids to drink and I feel much better today. But I still bought chocolate chips at the grocery store this morning...just in case.

Book Binge

UPDATE: And this just in...Michelle O'Neil contributed to the anthology A Cup of Comfort for Parents of Children with Autism. It's on bookstore shelves now. I'm honored to call Michelle a friend, writing buddy, bloggy sister, etc. If you haven't read her blog, well, get your bootie over there. Her writing is lovely and reaches down to the depth of a soul. Now if you'll excuse me I've gotta run to the bookstore...

~

I'm on a book binge:

Driving with Dead People: I couldn't put this down. This book takes you on an emotionally exhausting journey, but at the same time it's so funny. www.MonicaHolloway.com.

Gaining and Final Exam: Both good nonfiction reads. Gaining mentions a bunch of memoirs I haven't read, so I've added those to my list.

And Waiting for Daisy and Baby Love (coming soon), both of which I've mentioned before.

Anyone else reading any good books lately?

Land of Fruits and Nuts

A few weeks ago I met a girl who lives in New York. But her home is New Orleans.

Everyone presumed she was relieved about the fact that she’d moved away before Hurricane Katrina hit. The truth is that she hated “not being there” when devastation struck. Her heart is in New Orleans and she wanted to help people through their pain. To this day families are leaving the city in droves. She’s thinking of moving back.

I know exactly how she feels. It may sound crazy but if a big quake hit California there’s no place else I’d rather be. It’s my home.

Articles N Stuff

This is fiction, but funny:

A Writer's Rejection Letter from Every Day with Rachel Ray.

~

Anyone getting married? Portovert's March issue is online with a few articles from yours truly.

Anyone Hungry?

"Ugh," I say.

"What?" Ron says.

"Time to cook dinner."

Ron glances over my shoulder at the recipe card. "There are four ingredients," he says.

"I know – what a pain," I say.

I mix together the honey, lemon juice, and Dijon mustard. I dump it over the chicken, sprinkle the chicken with thyme, and slide the dish into the oven.

Whew. For someone who is Not a Chef*, that was quite a feat.

~

*Not a Chef: defined as someone who cannot even make oatmeal. Yes, oatmeal. As in add hot water to small, brown flakes. I messed up when I tried to make it for breakfast the other day. So I started from scratch -- and messed it up again. I have the pictures to prove it.

Checking In

My mom. Love her, love her. When I was a kid all my friends wanted to come to my house to play because my mom was "fun." She's funny too. She read my last blog post this morning, and she happens to be privy to the fact that I had Montezuma's Revenge after returning from Mexico (aren't you glad you're now in on the secret too?). So she called: "I just wanted to make sure you haven't bled or diarrhea-ed yourself to death," she said.

There are different types of laughter. The one my mom invokes in me is my favorite kind of all.

Sharing Stories

There’s an article in Women’s Health magazine on miscarriage (March issue, by Eryn Brown).

It's different than the article in Alternative Medicine I mentioned a few posts ago. Not as personal, but still good. The author says (in kinder words) what a crock of poop it was when the doctor told her she'd spot bleed for "several days."

My doctor fed me a similar line.
I believed him.
Try six weeks, one day, 11 hours, and counting…

It took ten weeks to build up the inner lining, so once I thought about it I realized of course it’s going to take time to bleed out – especially because I miscarried naturally (so nothing was sucked or vacuumed from my womb), but why don’t the doctors just TELL you? Jeez...

I finished reading Waiting for Daisy, Peggy Orenstein’s story of a six year battle with infertility. I love her honesty about her struggles – her guilt over deciding to wait to have a baby. And more guilt over still wanting to wait despite her challenges with fertility. And trying to figure out if it’s motherhood she’s after or just pregnancy.

My own story of miscarriage found a home, so I'll post a link to it when it's in print.

Next on my list is Rebecca Walker’s Baby Love. If I'm not mistaken, I think it addresses her ambivalence about desiring motherhood.