It’s been a long time since I’ve picked up a book and been so entertained I can’t wait to steal away, if only for a few moments, to devour another page. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, the Pulitzer-winning first novel from acclaimed short story writer Junot Diaz, is the kind of book you fight through sleep to read, a flashy, heartbreaking, funny, intelligent family saga about a Dominican family in New York. Unapologetic in its refusal to cater to those unfamiliar with Dominican slang, astoundingly original in voice and scope and dishing out devastating foot-noted history lessons about the Dominican Republic with irreverent flair, this is a gem of a book.
In other words, you should read it. (Check out this New York Times review for further proof.) And while this tour de force is enough to make an aspiring writer chuck aside her ambition in defeat, Diaz’s honest recounting of the “dozens of times [he] had quit this novel only to restart it” in this Wall Street Journal profile proves ultimately endearing and inspiring. Diaz claims to still be scared of writing but says, of his life post-Pulitizer, “what’s changed is now I have hope I can write something else.”
It strikes me that the last two writers I’ve posted about here, Diaz and Lahiri, are both writers who speak frankly about how hard this business of writing is — but, ultimately, that it brings hope. I like that. I need that. It makes me feel not so alone in my struggles to put words on the page and reminds me that there is a reason for doing so.
May 8th, 2008
It shouldn’t, but it always seems to take me by surprise just how exhausting these pilgrimages to Glasgow are. I think because, no the surface, it looks like a grand holiday, I never seem to adequately prepare myself for the toll it takes both emotionally and physically. It is, frankly, not a relaxing endeavor; in fact, it’s anything but. Which is not to say that it isn’t enjoyable, as it is, but it’s also extremely difficult.
The travel alone is, of course, taxing for someone with fibromyalgia. The discomfort of sitting in planes for hours, sleeping in strange beds with wonky pillows is very disruptive. But I don’t seem to feel that as much until I get home, perhaps some delayed survivalist tactic my body performs subconsciously, so that I can function while I’m there. What I feel most is the overwhelming grip of emotion and nostalgia that tightens around me before we even leave the states and squeezes relentlessly until long after our return.
Every time I return to Scotland it is a strange set of contradictions for me. I am, in one way, returning home, to a place I left when I was ten, a place I didn’t choose to leave but was whisked away from as my father’s career took him to the states. There is an unbelievable amount of emotion, mostly in the form of an intense melancholy that kicks in as soon as our plane descends through the clouds and the green fields of Scotland appear below the wings, fields dotted with sheep and cattle. I’ve never been able to put my finger on why, exactly, but I feel overwhelmed by a dull aching, an inexplicable sadness that bubbles up and sort of simmers below the surface the whole time I’m there.
Unquestionably, that feeling has intensified for me since my mother’s death nearly five years ago. How can a child possibly go home, to a place where nearly every memory, every person, every street, is tied so deeply to the past in general and her mother in particular? How can I walk those same streets, pass our old flat, our old playground, visit my grandmother and my uncle (on my mother’s side) without that constant reminder of loss? And beyond that, even is another sense of loss — of this other life that I might have lived, of a connection to my childhood.
There is the strange dichotomy of feeling as though I am coming home yet, at the same time, to a place I no longer fit in or belong. It feels a bit like being a pretender, a party crasher into the past. Whatever it is, it is always — that is to say, that the entire time I’m in Glasgow, I am feeling things with full, relentless force. It is difficult and it is exhausting. It is wonderful to sit in my Gran’s flat — the same one I came to on lunch hours from our primary school just a half block away, almost completely unchanged over the years — and talk about memories, but it also means constant awareness of the loss of my mother, a fresh wave of grief that is tough to escape from, unlike when distracted by the tasks of my everyday life back home.
On this trip, I also attended the wedding of my oldest friend, Deborah, and again the conflict of emotions presented itself. On the one hand, it was good and nostalgic to see her get married and hard to believe that this was the person I’d met first when we were four, when we lived in flats whose back greens sat just across the alley from one another. But it also highlighted the fact that, although we’re still in touch, we aren’t in touch very often and we don’t know each other that well anymore. Another thing from the past that is both strong and present yet somehow distant and tenuous at the same time.
And on this trip we met a few Europeans who didn’t make any attempt to hide their contempt for the US. Again, a conflict: while I certainly understand the negative view the world has on our nation, and agree with many of their concerns, I wasn’t clear why criticizing the country I live in was appropriate opening small talk. It seems European contempt for our country’s international actions supercedes a sense of hospitality (at least) and manners (at best), as well as the realization that we individual Americans are not the actions of our government. (I may blog more later about how deeply over-simplified the European understanding of US politics seems to be, but it might just upset me again to revisit it right now.) It both angered and saddened me at a time when I was already feeling extremely vulnerable, a bit out of place.
But that wasn’t the balance of my experience in Glasgow. These trips are both good and important in the grand scheme of things. I’m sure I’ll get around to posting more photos and more specifics about the trip, a few tales of our time in the motherland. However, for now, I am just feeling sore and tired and a bit overwhelmed by the experience. And glad to be back in my home, in my own life, which distractions and routine and one thing I don’t feel in Scotland: ease.
May 7th, 2008
I get to Glasgow and I have great intentions of posting regularly, keeping you, my dear readers (and, especially, family members) apprised of our every move across the great pond. Then I wake up and it’s our last day and I haven’t written a word. Yet. It’s also an unbelievably beautiful day, so I won’t be spending much of it posting here. Glasgow in the spring is something to behold indeed, almost gorgeous enough to justify the massive rise in the ticket price compared to our usual October-November visits. Almost.
This has been a particularly quick trip for us, really only five days on the ground and the first hardly counts as we always spend it wandering around in a daze, having lost a night’s sleep on the way over here. It has been a whirlwind, this two-fold visit: attending the wedding of my oldest friend and celebrating my Grandma’s 90th birthday. There are tons of photos and stories to post later.
But the sun is shining — no guarantee here, even in spring — thus, I’ll wrap it up and get on with my day. We’ll try to work in a visit to Glasgow’s famed Botanic Gardens (which I haven’t been to since I was a wee lassie), but the real priority of the day is getting in farewell visits with family and friends. I see many cups of tea in my future!
May 5th, 2008
I don’t remember a lot of things. I have a memory like a sieve. (Except, oddly enough, for anything before the age of around 18, including the plot of every sitcom episode I ever watched as a child. Apparently, after that, my brain was full.) Thus, it was a surprise to me — and a pleasant one at that — to learn I’ve been credited with inspiring the theme for the soon-to-be-released latest issue of 52nd City, my favorite literary mag.
Actually, since the theme of the new issue is “sexy,” I should probably clarify that the 52nd City website credits me with suggesting the theme, as opposed to inspiring it. That’s a big difference, I realize, as I write this. The latter could be confusing, particularly to anyone who’s ever actually met me.
Even more thrilling than this claim to fame — and the very fact that a new issue is imminent — is that I have a piece in the issue. It’s a pretty short piece about an encounter I had with a woman at the St. Louis Greyhound bus station about five years ago. I actually tried to expand it, to fictionalize it to make it more resonant. But, in the end, I hope (and think) that it’s best left alone, as an unembellished glimpse at a brief, awkward moment in time.
To find out, you’ll need to get your paws on the new issue and I can’t think of a better way to do so than to attend the release party, this Saturday, April 26 at Snowflake. Now, having been out of St. Louis for a few years now, I don’t know what a Snowflake is, but it sounds cool and refreshing, and that seems reason enough to go. From the 52nd City website, the event details are as follows:
52nd City Sexy Issue Release
Where: Snowflake, 3156 Cherokee Street
When: Saturday, April 26, 2008
Time: 4:00-7:00pm
Admission: Free
What’s classier than Playboy and Maxim and much easier to hide under your mattress or in your sock drawer? SEXY–52nd City Magazine’s ninth issue. Join us at the Snowflake on Saturday, April 26 from 4 to 7 p.m. for some delightfully cheeky food, drink, music, and entertainment. This issue includes a free CD from the SOUND issue–and a party at Snowflake never disappoints.
52nd City is also making some big changes after this issue — they’ll be going to a free distribution model. Personally, I have some mixed feelings about it — I hate that people seem so reluctant to pay a decent and fair price for good writing. But I hope the increased circulation will attract even more advertisers and help ease the editors pain, eking by as they do by the skin of their teeth each month to pay the costs of producing this lovely-looking product.
It’s worth noting that contributors are not paid for their submissions, so it’s not like the writers or the editors make a penny. It’s truly a labor of love. Thus, if you are a fan of writers and writing, of St. Louis, of art, of independent publishing, of me, of my cats, of being acknowledged for your support of said things, please note that there is now a Paypal button on the front page of 52nd City’s website and you can make a contribution to the print fund, no matter how small (or big, of course), to help keep this gem afloat. I’d consider it a personal favor.
Also, on an entirely unrelated note, I just ate the most sublime avocado. Perfectly ripe, not even a bit brown around the edges. Thank you, nature. Thank you very much.
April 24th, 2008
Yesterday was earth day and I didn’t get you anything. Man, I feel just awful about that. I hope that someone else filled up your earth day stocking with leaves, reusable grocery bags, additive-free-beauty products and hope.
Me? I took kind of a literal approach, planting things in actual earth. I went to the nursery and bought some gorgeous yellow and purple pansies and filled my window boxes and pots for the deck. It’s really as close as I come — and as close as I like to come — to gardening.
Pansies are such a beautiful little flower, don’t you think? With their lush little faces shining up at you? They’re in good company, too. Chris and I took advantage of the gorgeous weather (finally!) and strolled into town for dinner and, let me tell you, it’s a veritable riot of spring in these parts. Gone already are the crocuses that poked their hopeful faces up through the dirt even when spring was not a confirmed notion and in their place are daffies, tulips, hyacinths that perfume the street from feet away, and bright bursts of forsythia.
Perhaps most breath-taking of all, though, are the magnolia trees in the yards of the houses on West Washington. Aren’t those the most amazing blossoms? Giant, elegant, the most perfect shape and shades of white and pink. Who came up with those? Genius, I tell you!
Would that I had taken my camera with me! Instead, I decided to try being in the moment and observing these things first hand rather than removing myself behind the lens and filtering the experience. Worthy, I say, but makes it harder to share. So for now, you’ll just have to get your own spring.
Wandering into town last night, returning just when it was a tad chilly, reminded Chris and I of why we fell in love with Ann Arbor in the first place. And, for those curious, the answer is yes, it’s worth every extended moment of winter.
April 23rd, 2008
Normally I’m chomping at the bit for a little travel, but our next trip to Scotland is creeping upon us quickly — we leave April 30 — and I’m finding myself a tad exhausted at the thought. It’s no reflection on the trip itself or the people we’ll see; after all, we’ll be celebrating my oldest friend’s wedding and my grandma’s 90th birthday in a short five-day visit.
But if I’m to be honest, I’m just feeling exhausted in general right now. I’ve written quite extensively — and, likely, boring-ly, for some of my readers — about the shift I’ve made in my fibromyalgia meds in the past few months, in the hopes of diminishing my pain. I did not realize when I undertook said shift that it would have such a profound impact on my life for a number of months and beyond. I think I foolishly thought that it would be a quick shift and I’d be off to the races and feeling like a normal, pain-free person.
I’ve been on neurontin now for about six weeks now and, yes, my pain has been lessened. Unfortunately, so has my energy — which, as those who know me, will attest — is not naturally high. I’m tired all the time right now. Not low-level tired, which is pesky but ignore-able. But a pervasive and overwhelming exhaustion that makes even the basic tasks difficult and somehow far larger than they actually are. I am left wondering if this is the long-term trade-off and, if so, what would a sane person choose? Energy with pain? Or less pain and exhaustion? Both have a tremendous impact on quality of life and I’m struggling with what may be the right answer. (It occurs to me that I’m dangerously close to stomping my feet here and crying, “It isn’t fair!”)
On top of it all, I’m gaining quite a bit of weight which I suspect has something to do with the new meds, especially considering the fact that I’ve been following a pretty sensible eating plan. Seven pounds in six weeks. (I haven’t had the energy to exercise very much lately, plus a knee injury that frustrates my meager efforts, but I don’t think that’s entirely to blame.) Yikes. It’s a tough side effect for someone who struggles constantly to eat well and try to keep the scale moving in the other direction. Just feels like it’s stacked against me right now and maybe I just need to focus on trying to accept, accept, accept. Blech.
And that concludes our highly whiny, self-pitying, mostly uninteresting post for the day. Sorry. It’s what I got right now, folks.
April 22nd, 2008
Yeah, I know. It’s not the best time to be putting a house on the market. Unfortunately, it doesn’t change the fact that the house we’ve been hanging onto in St. Louis needs to go. Don’t get me wrong; we’ve had a good run of it. There are no hard feelings. It’s just that our current renters are moving out May 1 and I don’t want to do the long distance landlord thing anymore. Long distance is just too hard. You feel me?
So we’re putting our little blue house o’ love up for sale and I am, of course, a tad worried. Every time I read the news there’s another horror story about the housing market. I’m worried about months of paying rent here and mortgage there while we wait for someone to snap up our little home. Fortunately, our realtor tells us that houses in certain areas of the St. Louis market — including Maplewood, where our house is — are still moving. If it’s cute and clean (which he says ours is) and priced right, which we hope it will be, it should still sell. Gulp.
We still have some work to do on it before it can go up and we’re currently debating whether to update the kitchen before selling — in the hopes of getting a little more for it — or selling as-is at a lower price. As you can tell from the pic above, it’s pretty old. The cabinets were pretty shabby when I bought the house and there’s no dishwasher, which can be a dealbreaker for some. I probably need to stop watching HGTV shows that bellow “the kitchen sells the home!” Part of me wants to renovate but the thought of trying to coordinate it from here or having to camp out in the empty house for weeks in St. Louis — and disrupt my life here to do so — sounds like a huge headache.
And while I’m eager to sell the house and let it move on to its next relationship, I’m also a bit sad about it. I bought the house myself when I was a mere 27 years old and it was the biggest, most grown up thing I’d ever done at that point in my life. I made a lot of changes to the inside — new floors, painted walls, details here and there… I really loved living in it. It’s no doubt a starter home, but it’s a sweet little one.
Once we sell it, we’ll be able to start thinking about buying a house here. Well, let me rephrase that, since I’ve been thinking about buying a house here for two years. It’s true that we’ve seen housing prices here drop drastically in our time in Ann Arbor, but they’re still far above what we’d pay for comparable dwellings in St. Louis. Although my HGTV watching does remind me that St. Louis is a low-housing-oasis and that houses in the rest of the country go for ridiculous amounts. We’ve been spoiled and lucky and it’s hard to adjust to this market.
We need something bigger than our little house in St. Louis, since Chris and I now both work from home and each need an office. And recent visits from friends and family have me convinced that we definitely need more than one bathroom. But that means we’ll be paying around twice what we think we can sell our St. Louis house for. Yikes. It all gives me such a headache.
And we’re not there yet, so I should probably just keep breathing for a while. I have faith that the house will find a buyer and that we will find the right house here when the time is right. But I figure it doesn’t hurt to get things moving, so if you know anyone looking for a house in delightful Maplewood, why, I might have just the thing!
April 14th, 2008
Perhaps the most endearing, interesting thing about seeing Jhumpa Lahiri read at Borders last night was the fact that she seemed so uncomfortable doing so. I’m heartened by writers who are just that: writers. And not performers. She struck me as someone far more at home lost in grappling with words at her computer than standing in front of a room full of fans. I like that. The author-as-rock-star phenomena is often so off-putting to me. Although, if I ever publish a book, I plan to only do readings in giant sports arenas. But that’s just how I am.
I was also moved, quite literally, to tears by her admission that some of her stories were two years in the making. I tend to be so hard on myself when my stories don’t emerge fully formed or beaten into submission after a month of revision. I tend to be so impatient with the process because it is so very, very difficult, so very frustrating. And, along those lines, I also took great comfort in Lahiri’s admission that winning literary prizes, in the end, makes no difference in the writing process because it is still hard and humbling and it doesn’t make it any easier. She said:
“Every time I write something new from scratch, I am on all fours on the ground, trying to stand up…I am like a child, trying and trying and trying to stand up.”
Which I think is so raw and beautiful and honest. I love her for not making it seem like writing is easy and, by extension, not giving me permission to give up just because it doesn’t come quickly or easily.
And I loved her unabashed passion for the art of writing fiction. In response to one young reader’s question, she said she thought that books and fiction are everything, that creating a good novel or a good story is one of the most important things anyone can contribute in a lifetime. Perhaps out of anyone else’s mouth, those words would have seemed like hubris. But Lahiri has such humility about her that it was just obvious she was speaking of literature as a whole and not her own accomplishments, considerable though they may be. Of literature, of books and of writing, she said:
“They are my religion…. They give me faith and they give me hope and they guide me when I am lost.”
Isn’t it strange — both wonderful and slightly uncomfortable — to feel so deeply understood, to share such naked passion with someone you’ve never met, someone whose words and whose attitudes about writing give you faith, give you hope and guide you when you are lost?
April 10th, 2008
I’m in the midst of reading Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary for (gasp!) the very first time. How I missed reading a classic such as this in my expansive liberal arts education, I don’t know. But I did. And now I’m making up for it. I could tell you that I am fueled by some passion for the classics but the truth is I kind of struck a deal with a writer friend of mine, whose favorite book this is, and am trying to make good on my end of the bargain.
I’ll be taking a respite from my reading this eve to head down to the downtown Borders (trivia: Borders started in Ann Arbor) for a reading by a very different writer indeed, the lovely and amazing Jhumpa Lahiri. She is, perhaps, about as different a writer as you can get from Monsieur Flaubert, even if both are given to plumbing the depths of human unhappiness within the family structure. If you haven’t read her stuff, you may have seen the film The Namesake, based on Lahiri’s debut novel and featured either Harold or Kumar is, of course, of course, not nearly as good. It doesn’t count. You must still read the book.
It has been, in fact, a long time since I read and was instantly drawn to a writer the way I was when I first read Lahiri’s short stories. (An exception may be Junot Diaz who, I was delighted to hear, just won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction yesterday for his novel The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.)
Lahiri is a spare writer, somehow achieving a balance that I find infuriating to accomplish: rich emotion without sentimentality. How? HOW, I ask you? I do not know. It is my hope, however, that if I go and bask in her presence and listen to her share with us her own written words, it will somehow rub off on me and I will become an equally magnificent writer through nothing other than proximity.
It could happen, right?
April 9th, 2008
Previous Posts
