Um...Help?

Thanksgiving is at our place this year.

We move November 17 and my family arrives three days later.

Believe me, I’m not the one who is nuts. My family claims they are looking forward to helping us unpack, hang pictures, and, of course, cook.

I’m all for it.

The cooking part should be interesting. Other than pouring cereal, slapping together a PB&J, or boiling pasta and dumping red sauce on top, the time I’ve spent in the kitchen has been severely limited – that is, until this past year when I turned over a new leaf and began blogging about clean eating. But despite my dedication to juicing, expanding my skills from basic spaghetti to more fancy stuff, and debating the benefits of coffee, I’ve never tackled anything as major as a major holiday.

So far my Turkey Day “to do” list looks like this:

1. Order a turkey (I found a local, sustainable farm - check!)

What else does it entail? Oh, I know. Number 2 on my list will be “buy champagne.” That should cover the basics, right?

Crickets Chirping

Here’s a funny aspect about the art of personal essay: I write first.

Meaning, I do the work upfront. Once I have a solid version, I send it to the publication I’m targeting so they can consider buying it.

I put in the time, the energy, the tears and laughter, the enjoyable (but difficult) effort of structuring scenes, developing place, and crafting dialogue. This differs from “regular” articles where I pitch the idea and only put in the time and effort after a magazine has agreed to buy it. Anyway, after I write the essay – with no guarantee that it will sell – I wait.

And I wait.

And wait.

I’ve adopted a prayer my mom encouraged me to utter when I first started this business: Thank you God, for finding a home for my piece. I may not know where that “home” will be, but I’m grateful first and foremost.

Still.

Waiting for the news can be nerve-wracking. It helps to leave my office. Go to a yoga class. Spend days doing freelance editorial work for a newspaper in their offices – far, far, away from my personal e-mail. Take the dog on a walk.

“Any word on your essays?” Ron says when I call him.

“Nope. Nothing but spam in my in-box,” I say.

“Crickets are chirping?” he says.

Loudly.

But then, when I’m least expecting it, I’ll hear an e-mail ding.

I do a happy dance.

Jump on the bed.

Add a flip.

The wait was worth it.

Here We Go...Again

We signed the lease.

It’s official.

We’re moving . . . about 30 miles away.

I wish I had known fifteen months ago that moving 3000 miles across the country (from LA to DC) would feel so devastating. I wasn’t prepared for how much I’d grieve the loss of my “home.” I miss my friends, the sunshine, and the familiarity of my favorite nooks and crannies.

Recently, I came across Just Moved Ministries – an organization founded by a woman who dealt with the trauma of leaving her beloved South for the arid desert. I don’t know much about her program (although it seems like a brilliant idea). Anyway, she says: “A move is something a woman feels and a man does.”

So true.

Here is the good news: Yes, I have an empty place inside me that misses the city of angels. But another place inside me is filling up with all the lovely people, places, and things DC has to offer.

Once I get my hands on a GPS tracking system, my tears over the move should all but vanish. (DC is not a good city for someone with no sense of direction. In LA I could always fall back on my favorite trick: adjusting my body so that the ocean was on my left and then telling myself, “Okay, straight ahead = north!”)

After searching and searching and searching, Ron and I finally agreed where we’ll settle down for the next few years. We’re going to rent a place from a couple who is moving to California (funny, huh?).

It’s sort of a far commute for Ron, but I think we both realize that if there is any chance of staying here long term, it’s important for me to fall in love with the area.

I think I’m finally ready to do just that.

Writing

“That which is most personal is most universal.”
--Henri Nouwen, priest and author

That quote might be a paraphrase, but I’m taping it above my writing desk.

About What Was Lost

Last night I scanned the bedside table where a handful of books are piled up: The Namesake (I want to read this before seeing the movie), my sister-in-law’s copy of The Other Boleyn Girl (can you believe I haven’t read this yet?), The Imaginary Girlfriend (John Irving’s memoir that I found in a used book store).

My eyes keep falling to one book: About What Was Lost.

I don’t know.

I should want to read it, but another part of me wants that book to stay away. I interviewed a lovely writer a few months ago, and she suggested it after I told her about my miscarriage. It’s an anthology of 20 writers who share their pain of miscarriage, healing, and hope.

I picked it up. By page xvii I was a mess. These were not a few tears. Oh, no. I was upset.

I let the book drop onto the floor and it sort of flopped under the bed. Fine by me. I’m not ready for it yet.

Links

Notice I haven't been probing for "Ask a Blogger" questions lately? That's because one of my favorite bloggers, M'ON, is taking over the column starting October. Give her some love and post a blogging question over here.

My article "What to Do When You Get Stiffed on Freelance Pay" is running on MediaBistro. Thanks to Amy from the National Writers Union, Brian from Writer's Digest and Steve and Roberta and so many others for allowing me to interview them. A friend once asked me how often I think up titles for my pieces vs. the editors. I'd say 85% of the time the titles are mine (or Ron's - he's great at coming up with them when I'm stuck). For this piece, I was stumped. I couldn't think of anything other than "Getting Paid" or "Recourses for Writers." MB came up with the funny and much needed replacement.

It's Never Too Early for Books

Forty-five minutes in a mall.

My husband was due for a haircut, and I had time on my hands. Malls make me nutty. They’re not my thing. But then I remembered: malls have bookstores.

I raced up the escalator and spotted a Borders Express. My friend’s baby shower was coming up and instead of registering for onesies and diaper pails, she was having a “build a library” shower. Each guest was supposed to bring their favorite children’s book.

(Isn’t that a GREAT idea?)

I skimmed the shelves: Where the Wild Things Are, The Tale of Peter Rabbit, The Runaway Bunny. How would I ever pick?

“What are you doing?” I heard a familiar voice ask. I looked up at my husband. Had it been 45 minutes already? I was sitting on the floor with a pile of old favorites next to me, and I was still warming up.

“Here,” I said, handing him one from the stack.

“What’s The Giving Tree?” he asked.

“You’ve never read The Giving Tree? You must read it right now! It’ll only take five minutes. You might cry.”

Five minutes would buy me more time. I was still agonizing. Should I buy Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day or The Very Hungry Caterpillar?

Goodnight Moon or Bunnicula?

The Monster at the End of this Book?

“Does he grow old and get buried in the trunk?” my spouse asked. He was halfway through The Giving Tree.

“Not exactly, but close,” I said.

Ends up my friend received two copies of The Giving Tree at her shower, so I guess it’s good that I didn’t buy it even though I love the story. I decided to go with an environmental theme (The Lorax) and added in one more Dr. Seuss book for kicks (My Book about Me) just in case the baby inside my friend is a budding memoirist.

What was your favorite book as a child?

Blog vs Journal

Thanks to Maria from The Writer’s Perspective for spotlighting Roughly Speaking as part of her Project 20/20.

She asked how I keep up the pace of my blog. About six months after I started blogging I realized I barely wrote in my private journal anymore. Blogging sort of replaced that writing time.

I panicked, because I don’t blog the same way that I scribble in a notebook. My journal has rants and raves (I try not to blog in moments of emotional passion…but private journaling, heck yeah), as well as the nitty gritty events in daily life. All this comes in handy when I’m writing an essay. It helps me remember details -- I ate a bruised peach that day or I called my husband at the office to talk about taking the dog to the vet or I had a dream about trying to solve an impossible math problem on the chalkboard.

Sometimes I can use those details in a piece, sometimes I can’t. But it’s helpful to have a record of them.

So I’ve tried to pick up journaling again. What do other bloggers do?

Every Soul on Earth

Thanks to Eileen and Kathi who nominated me for the nice blogger award. That was nice!

I started thinking…it’s so important to have a support group when you’re a writer.

At times I've caught myself thinking that I wanted to be a writer so bad that I could’ve made this career happen on my own.

Ugh. How silly.

There is no way I could’ve done it without my husband and parents and brothers and friends and teachers and editors and writing groups and bloggers and the lady behind the counter who hands me a cup of Joe to help fuel my days, among many, many others.

I love this passage in Sy Safransky’s Notebook in the latest edition of The Sun magazine:

"'Independence,' wrote George Bernard Shaw, is a 'middle-class blasphemy. We are all dependent on one another, every soul of us on earth.' It’s humbling to remember that at practically every moment, someone, somewhere, is working hard on my behalf: a farmer in California is watering vegetables I’ll one day eat; a young man in New York is writing a poem I’ll read, weeping; a woman is finishing her residency in anesthesiology, her eyes perhaps the last eyes I’ll ever see."

So thanks again Eileen and Kathi and so many others. Your encouragement and support means a lot.

This Morning

This morning I was touched by Susie J's post about September 11.

Susie has four boys (four!). I read her blog last night before going to sleep (the "pet toad" post), and I dreamed about raising a houseful of kids. I hope...

Here's a link someone sent me about freelancing. An entirely different topic than Sept 11 and pet toads, but it was fun reading through the list and seeing which reasons hit home.

Weekend

Full time freelance writing often means that one day runs into another into another into another. Instead of “work days” and “weekends” I simply have days. At least, that’s my approach. I realize some writers compartmentalize (on x days I must write x many pages in x many hours), but I tend to go with the flow (well, to the extent that I can while working within the bounds of my assignment deadlines). This often means I might be grocery shopping on Monday morning, but then working late Friday night (or Saturday or Sunday).

Personally, I love this lifestyle. If children are in my future, I realize it’s limited. But for now, it is what it is. Last week I wrote like crazy, putting in long hours on emotional topics (illness, life, death). By Friday afternoon I was wiped out. And I was in the mood for a good old fashioned “weekend.” I picked up my husband from work and we drove to the Chesapeake Bay where we shared a meal and then wandered through the opening reception of an art gallery. Saturday was girls’ night, and I chatted with a woman who just adopted a baby from Guatemala. After church on Sunday, Ron and I snuggled on the couch and watched a movie. Tonight we grilled kabobs.

Here’s the best part: the weekend is winding down and I feel peaceful. I used to get anxious and depressed on Sundays knowing I’d have to spend the next five days wading through the duties of litigation. In fact, it was about three years ago this month when I was wavering between deciding whether to continue down the career path I’d started or switching to a career I wanted. I was paralyzed with indecision. Looking back, I can’t believe I waited so long to do what I’d always wanted to do.

Writing Class

Barbara Abercrombie teaches at UCLA Extension and writes the blog Writing Time. Looks like she's going to post assignments for her upcoming class for anyone who wants to follow along. Here's the link:

http://writingtime.typepad.com/

Blunder

Yesterday I discovered I'd made a writing blunder. Actually, blunders are more like it. I was making rice and beans for dinner and mentioned to Ron that I was so upset I wanted to cry.

He said, "Are you sure it's not the onion you're chopping?"

I was sure. I felt the frustration in my chest, not my eyes.

He slid his arms around me and tried to help me calm down. Today I was reading Walking on Water by Madeleine L'Engle and came across this quote by Chekov: "You must once and for all give up being worried about successes and failures. Don't let that concern you. It's your duty to go on working steadily day by day, quite quietly, to be prepared for mistakes, which are inevitable, and for failures. . . . The thought that I must, that I ought to, write, never leaves me for an instant."

And so today I continue to write.

Welcome, September

More posts are online over at EatWasaFeelGood.com

And Whole Life Times is out with its latest edition with two small pieces I wrote: What Counts - the grey column underneath the pitcure of the mailboxes, and Uncorking Organic Wine - scroll down to the end of the page for this piece, especially if you're heading to Santa Barbara wine country anytime soon (I wish)

The weather broke this weekend, and fall is coming. I love September and October. The only time I'd ever feel a twinge of sadness about living in California was during this time of year. It's nice to be in a place where the leaves change color. Welcome, September.

The Hidden Side of Luxury

A few years ago, Ron and I went on a vacation to Hawaii. We stayed at a so-so place on the rainiest part of the island. One afternoon, we went to visit some friends who had booked a suite at a luxurious resort on the sunny part of the island. They were older than us and didn't have kids. At the time, I was ambivalent about motherhood, and I remember I tried to convince Ron that we shouldn't have kids so that in a few years we could do cool stuff like stay at fancy hotels, instead of spending our days changing diapers. Hopefully this won't be the case, but if we don't/can't have kids in the next year or so, I suppose we'll go to Hawaii and stay at a luxury resort. I'm sure it will be nice and all, but I realize now that some couples who stay there might be struggling to appreciate it as best they can while carrying around an ache inside their soul.