Tag: family

Journaling and Italy and My Father

I’m not into journaling. I know a lot of writers are, and if I never get another journal as a gift, I’ll be a happy girl. I just don’t care for it. Part of me wishes I did. I think about these famous authors who left behind a legacy of hundreds of journals filled with their thoughts and bits of writing, starting from their teen years through their old age. Then I think, “Oh, well. I should’ve started as a teen, and now it’s too late. Besides, you know, I still don’t like journaling.”

It’s not that I haven’t tried. As a teen, I tried to keep a diary, but I ended up writing lame, stilted entries that sounded like I was explaining my life to somebody’s awkward cousin. Happily, those journals have long ago disappeared into a trash bin.

I would happily never journal again, except that my school asks us to every summer when I go off to my summer residency. They like us to record our experiences and then we read an entry to each other our last night together. It’s actually very fun to hear the readings, to hear how others were inspired by what we experienced. I generally write exactly one entry during the residency – the one I read out loud. (Sh. Don’t tell my school.)

This summer in Italy, I planned to do a better job, but I kept putting it off so I could do homework or cool off in the pool at Spannochia. Then, in the last days of the trip, my father passed away. When I sat down to write my one journal entry, all I wanted to was curl up and cry. So the journal entry I read our last night was not a happy one. I broke down reading it, and my amazing friends cried with me. And I was reminded how cathartic writing could be, and how it connects us with people, even when we feel disconnected from everything.

I didn’t plan on posting this, but because a few people requested that I do, here it is. I promise to post a much more cheerful piece of writing next week.

I will not journal. I will not sit and pause over what this trip has meant to me. I will not ponder the grieving pietas or the blood-stained Colosseum or the churches with their body parts. I will not write about the Roman roads that often never led home or the wars that showed the darker side of men. I will not think about the Inferno, or the Purgatorio, or a paradise that some men may not reach. I will not journal about an email from home or how Italy has left her mark on me.

Because everything here reminds me of death and grief and him. It’s in the ground and in the air and in all the words we breathe. Age makes me think of wasting, waning time and everywhere I look I see bricks older than a great-great-great me. We’re dying every minute, blowing back to dust. Which brings me back to an email and to him. Which makes me cry. So I will not journal.

Debut Vlog

Alright, people. This is a momentous day. I decided to go for it and do my first vlog. And believe it or not, I had a lot of fun doing it. So I may do another one. At some point. Questions and prompts are welcome below, and please let me know if you liked it!

When Good Things Happen

On July 3 I flew off to Italy for my MFA residency and a much needed vacation. One of the lectures I attended while there was by my MFA mentor, Mary Yukari Waters. She spoke about “The Deceptively Simple Question” and challenged us as writers to steer from the obvious to keep our writing fresh and unexpected. The writers who give the readers what they expect are not the ones who will stand out.

I thought about that lecture a lot over the weekend. If one writer were to write about my experience in Italy, they might list the obvious facts. My car broke down on my house sitter while I was away. A centuries-old villa set off my asthma so I was on Prednisone a lot of the trip. I dropped a glass on my foot. I was stung by a bee – twice. I fell on the cobblestones in Rome, bruising my left knee. I tripped on a curb in Florence, deeply bruising my right knee, which caused me to limp the rest of my trip (and still hurts). And a couple days before we left, I got news that my father had passed away.

When you see the facts laid out that way, a reader would conclude that nothing good came of that trip. Even though it was difficult, I’ve forced myself to look beyond the simple answer, to be the writer and the PERSON, who digs deeper. Here’s what I found.

A hundred comforting hugs from new friends who found out what I was going through so far away from home. Two friends who held me in a foreign kitchen when I received news my father had signed a DNR. A roommate and new dear friend who stayed with me when I received news he’d passed before I could say goodbye. A travel agent who did everything in her power to get me to the funeral. Dear, dear classmates who made it their mission to make me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry. A sister who centered me and gave me strength. A brother who walked through some difficult days with me and held my hand at the funeral. Siblings and cousins and an aunt I’d scarcely met who made me laugh and told me stories about my dad. Stepsisters and a stepmother who invited me to share in their grief and be part of their family. Coworkers and colleagues who made sure I could be away without worry. And so many messages of love from friends everywhere, including some very personal messages from those who have lost their own fathers.

By my admittedly bad math, I received a thousand blessings when I look beyond the obvious.

Now I have a favor to ask. I would love it if you would all share something good someone has done for you during a difficult time in your life.  It can be anonymous. I just want to read something good for the soul. Think of it as a way to give back to the person who gave to you in your time of need. Has something good come of a bad time in your life? Do you just want to thank someone who was there for you? Do it. Seriously. Life is too short to leave things unsaid.

Dinner with the Fam in 20 Stages

1. Plan trip to LA for SCBWI conference. Believe I will have loads of time to see family. Ask Sister and Brother #1 in separate conversations to meet for dinner.
2. Panic when realizing I only have one night free. What to do? Well, I guess we could have dinner together. That wouldn’t be weird, right?
3. Brother #1 and Sister are on board. Sounds like fun. Yay!
4. Whoops! You can’t NOT invite Brother #2. His feelings would be hurt if he hears about all the fun had by the rest of us. Immediately call Brother #2 to rectify mistake. He lives three hours away and will not come, but it’s the thought that counts.
5. Brother #2 shocks you by immediately agreeing. Ok, wow. The four of us are going to dinner. No spouses. No kids.
6. Day before Dinner: Sister and Brother #2 are at baby shower with the Mother Figure. Her feelings are hurt a wee bit that we didn’t invite her. (Geez, Mom, we’re flying by the seat of our pants here. Besides, you don’t like driving to LA. Or visiting.)
7. Crisis avoided when Sister and Brother #2 tell Mother Figure she wasn’t invited because we are deciding what home to put her in. She is bitter but resigned. Tells Brother #2 she hopes we all get diarrhea. Nice, Mom.
8. Day of Dinner: Brother #1 drives three hours  to meet up at Sister’s house. Everyone is shockingly pleasant.
9. Mother Figure calls Sister and hangs up.
10. Mother Figure calls Brother #2. He warns her the quality of the home we put her in is going down. She hangs up.
11. Siblings eye each other. *snickers*
12. Brother #1 finally arrives after three hours in traffic. Pile into Sister’s SUV to go to dinner at the Elephant Bar.
13. While waiting for a table, Mother Figure calls Brother #1. He is confused by her snarky comments, but bravely listens when we tell him to hang up on her.
14. More *snickers*
15. Brother #1 calls Mother Figure and asks if she’s ready to “act like an adult.” She tells him she’s not going to a home and we’re not taking her driver’s license either. Hangs up.
16. Seriously, my stomach hurts from laughing. *puffs on asthma inhaler*
17. Finally get a table and our food. Never a dull moment in the conversation. Funny enough, the boys dominate the conversations. When did they turn into such talkers who bare their souls to their sisters? *warm fuzzies*
18. Brother #1  looks around table and asks, “When was the last time that just the four of us went out together?”
19. Pause. Sad to realize the answer is NEVER. Promises all around to make a better effort.
20. Mother Figure sends text with this picture.  First response: shock she knows how to text a picture. Second response: *snickers*. Third response: Smiles when we realize Mother Figure managed to invite herself to dinner anyway.

I guess by now you’ve figured out that my family shows love with sarcasm and hang ups. What others consider mean, we consider a valentine. Honestly, this was the most fun we’ve all had together in pretty much…ever.

Five reasons my niece will be a criminal. Or President.

Killing Innocent Bystanders with her CUTENESS. Obviously this photo is old. If this Auntie doesn't get new photos soon as requested, certain pics (rhyming with loiter) of 2008 will make an appearance on this blog.

There’s a fine line between criminal behavior and brilliance. She walks it like a Cirque du Soleil artist.

1)      At the age of two, she walked from the kitchen to the living room where she informed my sister, “Mama, there’s fire. I like it.” Turns out she put a chip clip in the microwave for twenty minutes and had a nice blaze going. She told everyone for weeks that she was a “Chip Clip Murderer.” If she turns out to be a pyro, we’ll be able to trace the tendency to a very early age.*

2)      Last October my sister came to San Francisco for a visit. In her absence, her husband had a contractor out to their home to lay concrete in their backyard for their new Jacuzzi. He looked away for five minutes to take care of paying the contractor for his work. When he looked back, my niece had run back and forth through the wet concrete. While I admire her enthusiasm for leaving no inch of concrete untouched, I do hope she learns to not leave evidence in the form of her footprints behind.

Revealing her true self, or as we affectionately call her, BABYZILLA

3)      Someone else’s toys always look better than her own. She torments my five-year-old nephew by playing with all of his toys. To add insult to injury, she does this in his room. We’re pretty sure if we left the two of them alone for any length of time, she would tie him up and lock him in the closet.

4)      She’s charming. And cute. Seriously. It’s disgusting how this kid works a crowd wrapping everyone – kids and adults – around her dimpled fingers. Even better, she’s no pushover. If she doesn’t like something, she tells you. You always know where you stand with her, but somehow she makes you laugh while insulting you. (By the way, brat, I’m taking all of your birthday presents back for the next ten years. Remember that the next time you refuse to talk to your Auntie on the phone.) She’s three. I’m terrified of her teen years. I’m also looking forward to watching her give attitude to my sister. Their battles are going to be EPIC and movie-theater-popcorn-with-extra-butter worthy.

5)      About a week ago, upon returning home from an early morning errand, my sister drove up to her house to find my niece twirling in the front yard in a tutu, tap shoes, and her underwear. Flinging the innards of a newspaper about, so it looked like a black-and-white paper-beast had been slaughtered in the front yard, my niece informed my sister that she was putting on a tap-tap show for the neighbors. Always thinking of others, my girl.

Not even the Trampoline Disaster of 2010 (an unfortunate incident in which my five-year-old nephew – with nothing but a pair of dull scissors and his wits – had to free her from a trampoline zipper that tried to eat her braid leaving her with an unruly section of hair that, according to my sister, makes her look like a rooster) can put a damper on her cute factor. Whether it’s for bail money or a political campaign, I think it’s time her parents start a fund on her behalf.

*To those who might ask, “where was her mother when this maniac kid was doing these things?” I have four things to say. (1) my niece is sly like a ninja, (2) my sister has 4 kids, (3) my sister is a frickin’ AWESOME mother whose kids are happy, well-adjusted, and LOVED in a major way, and (4) my sister has FOUR kids.

Writing from Dark Places

I know divorce. My parents had eight of them, all but one by the time I was thirteen. I have called four men “Dad,” as if the label was interchangeable. To me, divorce is a very personal story of abandonment, lies, and broken hopes. Simply put, I learned that people walk away from each other with far too much ease. The men who passed through my life taught me that children were disposable, and regret is a poor Band-Aid for wounds that have carved deep under the skin.

These kinds of scars don’t go away. You learn to move on despite them, and become the person you are meant to be both because of and despite them. And still, sometimes a moment, a look, a stupid commercial can pick at the wound, exposing it to a bloody mass you have to heal all over again.

The kind of pain I’m talking about goes soul deep. It lives in a dark, airless place, suffocating between the things we are afraid of and the things we are ashamed of. Like most writers, this pain ends up in my writing. There are scenes I read, and go, “Yep. Doesn’t take an analyst to figure out where that came from.” Too often, the first emotion I turn to in my characters is anger. It’s the easiest to understand and to feel. Anger is camouflage for the walking wounded.

Anger is too simple, though. It hides the complex snare of emotions we feel, blending the hurt and sorrow with the rage. Sometimes I wonder if I am too guarded, if my armor expands to protect my characters from feeling too much. How do you pull off the armor to expose those dark places to the light? Worse, how do you show those dark places to others, knowing they will casually discuss and mayhap dismiss them? This is something I am challenging myself to do in my writing every time I sit at my laptop. Some days I fail. And other days, I write a scene that leaves me crying and upset and proud. As writers, we pick at our own wounds, exposing them and, if we are lucky, we experience a moment of catharsis. If we are very lucky, we help our readers to experience a catharsis of their own. That bit of gold may make living the hurt over and over again worth it.

This monstrosity is my family tree. You will note that this does not include aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, or the many step-siblings I’ve had. I don’t have a website big enough to encompass my family’s particular brand of craziness. Have a question? I’m glad to answer.

10 Things I Am Thankful For

A Thanksgiving meme borrowed from my AWer buddy, Kate. The rules? List ten things you are grateful for, but every even numbered item must be about writing in some way.

1. My Four Fathers (not to be confused with forefathers). Without them, I would not be me. Nor would every work I write have a running rant about fathers. Or a girl who is afraid to love/has abandonment issues/is fiercely independent/needs therapy.
2. iTunes Genius. Seriously. An insta-playlist that creates an insta-mood for whatever scene I’m writing. The rubber on my second set of earbuds has disintegrated from overuse.
3. My Sister. Who else would listen to me whine? Who else would take me on a tour of every TJ Maxx and Marshalls between Redondo Beach and Palm Springs? Who else would tear the lace off my shorts without asking and then tell me to get over it already? Who else would love me and encourage me and threaten me when I need it? My friends, that’s who. But not one of them could make me laugh like my sister does. – Even though she’s older and stole my “baby of the family” thunder, or as I tell her, she “stole my sunshine.” And then I rub in that I have blue eyes and she has brown and she fumes with jealousy. Deal with it, Sis! – Who else has that kind of shared history with me? And who else would have four kids just cuz I love being an Auntie? (at least that’s what I tell her).
4. Querytracker.net. The insanity tamed by tables and charts.
5. My Million Nieces and Nephews. They keep me grounded in things like Spongebob and iCarly, and their dreams inspire me to have ones of my own. Damn right I can sing the entire Spongebob theme song.
6. AW Forums. My fellow writers keep me sane and the Bewares and Background Checks for Agents keep me smart. SNI stands for Shiny New Idea, and hell, no, I’m not paying an agent to read my manuscript! < — See what I learned.
7. My New Asthma Doctor. Funny how we take breathing for granted. Huzzah! My lungs work again! *tackles San Francisco hills* I can so take you now!
8. Dr. Irena Praitis. My grad advisor in my Master’s program. Second week of school in her poetry workshop, shy little me proceeded to announce how much I hated poetry. Two weeks later I wrote my first sonnet. A year later I had a scholarship to the West Chester Poetry Conference and received honors for a Master’s Project that included a sonnet redoublee. Don’t know what a sonnet redoublee is? Look it up, and be very afraid.
9. Starbucks. You bring me together with my friends. You are the starting point for outings with my sister. You are the maker of the bottled Frappacino that my mother buys for our camping outings, while shaking her head at our ridiculous need for you. You are the place I write and procrastinate and write. You are the keeper of the Caramel Brulee latte. I frickin’ HEART you.
10. Beta readers. Where, oh where, would I be without your taunts, LOLs, rusted-bloody-box-cutter criticisms, and encouragement? Probably huddling in a corner rocking. Or sticking my fingers in my ears and squeezing my eyes shut to avoid editing.

Tag! You’re it! Oh, wait! Kate tagged everyone already. Damn you, Kate!

Underpainting Yourself into Your Work

We can’t escape it. Somehow bits of ourselves worm and wheedle themselves into everything we write, even without our knowledge. Our opinions and views, our history, our emotional hang ups. The boy we pined for. (You know who you are, Zach.) The sibling who drove us crazy. (My brother loved to take my book and throw it across a room, thereby losing my page. Awesome.) That embarrassing moment in high school that we never quite got over. (Mind your own business.) All of who we are becomes fodder for our writing.

The most invasive example I have is revealed when I write about family dynamics. My father walked away when I was a child, and I went through a series of stepfathers in his wake. My mother – a hardworking waitress – worked long hours on her feet to keep the four of us kids with a roof over our head. My siblings and I have a kind of bond like soldiers who’ve been through war together – few can relate to a house like the one we grew up in. What is the impact of this on my writing?

Hardworking waitresses appear in my stories frequently. The bond I had with my siblings – we raised each other – appears in the siblings I write. As for fathers? At first, they were always absent with no redeeming qualities at all. Then, I wrote my Master’s Project about a dying father trying to connect with the daughter he abandoned. I dug up all those ugly emotions and put them to page. To rave reviews, I might add. (I received Honors on my project.)

My latest work features a father who abandoned his daughter, but is trying to repair the relationship. He becomes a good father, but it’s not an easy path for him or the daughter. What can I say? I’m evolving.

What parts of you make it into your writing with the highest frequency?