Love in the Battlefield

I don’t know whether I’ve said this before or said it recently, but I’m a vegan. (Insert your own joke here, my favorite being the one about how you only have to wait five minutes before a vegan will lay claim to his or her veganism, probably while giving you the hairy eyeball and a lecture about where that pulled pork sandwich came from.) I get that I embody the worst of the worst of the liberal mindset, uptight and self-righteous, all holier-than-thou with my almond milk and lentils. I won’t even eat a fucking egg.

But I didn’t take up this way of eating because I’m trying to save Wilbur or even because factory farming seems so, well, gross. It just feels like the right thing to do. A small, personal act of defiance and denial which has come to define certain aspects of my character that I find difficult to express in other ways. I don’t want to hurt things: the critters, the Earth, my own wretched body—though it’s true that I dole out my share of abuse to all three of these in other ways, and not just on occasion. Maybe this is why eating vegan seems to posit each meal as a sort of diffuse apology and helps me imagine I’m doing less harm to the world than is actually the case. It’s why a simple bowl of soup can feel like an act of both dissidence and love, like marching into Times Square with a handpainted sign, only alone and with kale.

I used to believe, in other words, that individual acts of stewardship meant something, that you could choose a battle without worrying how to win it, that though the decisions you make might be trivial, they could, given time, aggregate with the decisions of others to make a larger impact. The very smallness of an individual meal gave me hope, a dose of positivity, a sense that doing something is better than doing nothing and that inching toward goodness might not get me there but could at least act as balm to my self-flagellation.

It’s harder now. The air is ripe with pessimism, and the problems we face are so big, and so scary, that this small thing I’ve been doing feels quaint to the point of embarrassment. After all, if we’re going to hell in a handbasket of deplorables, what possible good can come of a single person’s effort to mitigate the damage? How can the issues that matter to me so deeply stand against this onslaught of bigotry and sexism, indecency and unkindness and screaming from all sides? How can it matter whether I eat a carrot or a drumstick when our new president-elect has just named Steve Bannon as his top adviser and is preparing to deregulate the banks, withdraw from the Paris Agreement, and appoint Rudy Guiliani as secretary of state? I feel like I’m tossing pebbles uphill in an avalanche.

How do you choose your battles from the center of a battlefield?


And so it goes. My candidate lost, my party lost, and we will now have all branches of government under Republican control.

Much has been said about this already, though for now I’m beyond the point of hearing it. Like many of us I’m engaged in some soul-searching and education about what it means to be an American in 2016, and what it might look like for my kids when they get to be my age. I’m trying to keep my mind and heart open to the possibility that a toxic personality like Donald Trump might serve as a sort of chemotherapy for the culture, killing off the cancerous tumors that have grown inside our democracy.

I think it’s clear that the white working class, my own demographic, is feeling left behind. In some industries this is unavoidable. Technology has replaced human labor, service jobs have replaced those in manufacturing. My husband’s role as a truck driver will soon be performed by a computer, and when that time comes, if it comes before retirement, he’ll have to adapt and find something else to do. That’s not easy and will come with a hefty dose of the existential angst that a large swath of the electorate is already feeling. We’re going to have to address it as a country, and try to understand both the technological reality and the psychological ramifications that come with it. Democrats understand the former and have totally dismissed the latter.

Obviously there are tricky times ahead. We’ve elected an openly bigoted misogynist who clearly has some troubling pathology at play, making him dangerously unpredictable and vulnerable to manipulation. I dislike him intensely, passionately, and I can’t yet bring myself to call him President Trump. But for all of that, my fellow Americans did elect this guy so we are all going to have to suck it up and get through the next four years. It’s irresponsible and childish to say “he’s not my president” when the result of an election is not to your liking, or point, for example, to the president’s birth certificate for signs that he might not be legit. It was unacceptable when Trump did it and it’s unacceptable for me. America is my home and Donald Trump will be my president, god help me, so for the next four years I will accept this and carry on—screaming my head off the whole way, of course, and from the comfortable back-seat position of opposing presumably everything he tries to do. It’s so much easier to criticize than create, as we writers know. As The Donald will learn.

And so it goes. We all have a role to play in our democracy and we can choose to be part of the conversation or be silent. I have more work to do inside myself before I can fully participate. For now, I’m trying to channel the motto of Kenneth Branaugh’s Cinderella: Have courage and be kind. As mottoes go, I think it’s a good one. I’m willing to try.

How are you feeling today?

Pleading the 8th

It’s almost over. That’s what I keep telling myself. This awful election will take place on November 8, and after that—assuming Clinton wins, which is an outrageously bold assumption even now—we’ll be able to put all this behind us and return these outsized feelings of fear and loathing, misogyny and racism, this bleak unhappiness and seething self-righteousness to the black box of our national soul from whence it came. Soon we’ll vanquish the monster, collect the prize, and go home, and everything will be okay again.


Or am I doing what we on the left have been accused of doing for years: outmaneuvering and out-thinking our opponents and then leaving them behind. If I’m a white person in an all-white town, and my children have left in search of the jobs that left before them, and if my hero has been defeated and my Trump-Pence yard signs, tee-shirts and MAGA hats have been rendered obsolete, what’s to become of the hamburger this rage has made of my heart? How can I forgive the rest of the country for being right about this con man? How am I going to get on with my life when the only powerful person I trust is revealed to be the biggest, sleaziest liar of them all?

The easy answer—easy for me, because of the racial mix in my childhood environment and because of my gender and the fact that I was raised by a pair of atheists and have a gay son—is to say, “Fuck them and the pickup truck they rolled in on.” It’s easy to hate the people who hate the people you love. It’s easy to claim the moral high ground when your Trumpian counterpart is wearing a tee-shirt that screams, SHE’S A CUNT. VOTE FOR TRUMP. It’s not exactly a stretch to be outraged by crowds who can be whipped into a frenzy by scattershot hate and fear-based white nationalism, whose howls of “Lock her up!” can be instigated by the kind of trolling misogynist who’d buy a beauty contest for, apparently, the right to stroll into a dressing room with a bunch of teenage girls as if touring a garage full of sports cars before deciding which one to take for a spin. It’s easy to loathe a guy like that. Easy to despise the people who are trying to elect him. The message and the messenger are deplorable and it’s not a hard sell when the takeaway from my camp is, “Deplore them all.”

But I saw this picture the other day of some Trump supporters at a rally. I’m not sure of the actual context. Maybe they were praying, or had simply grown tired of waiting, their signs dangling half-mast at their sides or propped against their legs, their heads bowed as if by exhaustion, their faces creased atop a sea of brightly hateful tee-shirts seeming already anachronistic and sad. And for a moment I had a flash of sympathy, a flicker of warmth. For one moment I felt the numbness retreat from my heart and I thought, My god, how can I help you? How can I heal you? How can I heal myself?

I have no answers. My tiny epiphany came and went, though the memory of it is enough to sustain me for now. I still hope we win by a landslide. I believe in our platform and the policies we’ve laid out, and I hope we’ll get some things accomplished for the greater good. But part of me also hopes that, before we do anything else, we put some of those clean energy jobs into the red-state communities that need them. I hope we raise the minimum wage, reform the healthcare system, and put people to work building the kind of bridges that might someday become a metaphor for Clinton 2.0. I hope our girl gets into office and shows who she’s been all along: a flawed human being like the rest of us, a badass, a do-gooder, a policy wonk in a pantsuit who really wants to make things right.

I’m with her. I’m with all of us.



cgcjpjhsov7tntuyWhat do you think about in the middle of the night? Do you wake at 2am as if at the clapping of hands, one moment dreaming and the next intensely awake, eyelids twitching, feet unstoppable, your shoulders creeping toward your ears, hipbones like a stack of bricks under your forearm? Does the pillow always bunch the wrong way? Do you beg yourself to sleep? Do you flop, roll, flop, roll. Count sheep, count unicorns, count the flaws of Donald Trump. Count the hours you might get if you go back to sleep right now. Do you hate yourself more at 2am, the reasons bubbling up from the darkness, burning at the back of your eyes? Do you worry for your children? Your country? Yourself? How do you calm your racing heart? How do you let it all go?

How’s your sleep these days?


So I’ve started the new project. Sure, it might have been better to take the time to plan this out a little better and give myself a road map, but if I’ve learned anything from the fallow fields of yesteryear, it’s that doing something is better is almost always better than doing nothing, and if you feel like writing you should write. As a result, I’m sort of flashlighting around with this story, hoping to stumble onto a plot without breaking a toe.

It’s not my usual modus operandi. I don’t have one of those, actually. Every book has its own life cycle, coinciding with the phases of mine, and is subject to the transitory whims and wishes of its author. One moment I’d swear I can’t possibly write without clutching my Dumbo’s-feather outline in one sweaty paw, and the next I’m launching myself off a cliff with only a pair of wax wings and a couple of encouraging emails to guide me. That’s what makes writing so hard, and not just for me but for all of us. There’s no consistent pattern. No reliable, repeatable method. You can improve as a writer and you might even, for a time, believe you’ve discovered a process, but any break in confidence can bring the whole thing down. Writing is self-delusion, it’s the act of an unstable person searching for solid ground. It has been ever thus.

Okay, I’m totally projecting. You probably have a much more confident hold on your work than I do. So you tell me:

What’s your process and how reliable do you find it to be?



I have waded into Twitter. The election coverage in particular drew me in, partly out of a certain dark-hearted perversion which is par for the course with me, and partly arising from a genuine curiosity for the subculture that seems to have evolved there: the Twitterverse. Such a beguiling word that I just had to see for myself what it’s all about.

And now I do see. It’s where the trolls live. Where people make up silly handles and call each other names, where we post triumphant links to act as surrogates for our own truncated points of view. It’s the rubber-and-glue space, the I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I space, where tiny gladiators slay straw men and post pictures of themselves like the Trump boys beside their slaughtered elephants. (Whose population–the population of elephants, that is, not Trumplets–has declined by 30% recently. Twitter can always be trusted to deliver the most depressing and unworkable pieces of news.) It’s where people feel smart for calling a Nobel Prize winner stupid. Where a white guy can explain the meaning of racism to a person of color. Where the words “taco truck” are shorthand, along with “Sad!” and “NYT.”  Where a man can call a woman “sweetie” without having his balls delivered to him on a shish kabob. It’s where the privileged go to feel indignant, to choose a team, to drink the sort of toxic brew we’d almost certainly decline in real life. It’s a reality check: OMG, these assholes really exist–in fact they’re flourishing, multiplying. They are among us even now!

I don’t know what to do in that space, or who to be. Though I can’t see myself forging a persona or becoming much of a contributor to the murder of crows, I will probably struggle on for the time being. There are things about the mass-consciousness aspect of the collective that I want to understand for the sake of my work in progress. And, frankly, for my own sake, as an American living through a strange point in our nation’s history. I want to understand who we are and where we are and how we got here, and try to imagine what kind of people we might become if we follow the current trajectory. But mostly I want to write a better book.

#amwriting, bitches.

What have you done in the name of research?



I could hardly sleep last night. I’ve been engaged in a back-and-forth with an old friend who took one look at my book idea and knew immediately how to make it nine thousand times greater than the smallish thing I had in mind. What’s more, he gave me permission to aspire, to write it my way, leaving out the stuff I don’t care about, including only and everything that matters to me–to me, to my aesthetic and sense of story, to my obsessions, fears, and dreams. He says I can write this big book, that I should take the risk, aim for something that feels out of reach but could be wonderful enough to make even failure worth the effort.

I didn’t know I needed permission until I’d received it. Now I feel a set of wings unfurling and it doesn’t even matter that they might be made of wax. Because, after all, first there is the sky.

Are you waiting for permission?



How do you get your shit together and just do it? How do you get over or around or beside yourself and put the words on the page and tell your inner weeble that it truly doesn’t matter whether the words are right or wrong, so long as you manage to toss them outside the swaying bouncy-house of your own imagination? How do you stop the parsing, the self-recrimination. How do you tame this elephant of a story that’s trying to squeeze through the square white doorway of your screen? How do you comfort yourself? Punish yourself. Convince yourself you really have something to say which, in the fullness of time, will matter more than another hour of chasing Donald Trump around the internet? How do you start when it feels okay to stop? When you know the words won’t get you there, because the world is so big and so plastic, elastic, ditzy, divine, and the X on the map is written in water. What’s the point and why do we bother? Somebody’s already written it (better), and the bottom line’s been drawn. All that’s left is to scribble in crayon along the margins.

How do you make it matter?


Photograph by Mary Ellen Mark


Let’s talk about you:

  1. Where’s the farthest you have been from home?
  2. If you could return to another point in your lifetime and start again from there, where would you go?
  3. Have you ever been skinny-dipping?
  4. When’s the last time you lost your temper, and do you regret it now?
  5. Tell me one secret.
  6. Tell me one lie.




Over the weekend I took a look through all the writing projects I’ve started and abandoned over the past couple of years. There are so many. Short stories and first chapters and failed attempts at poetry. Scenes and parts of scenes. Outlines, character sketches, intriguing settings and strange milieus. So many files, so many spiral notebooks. Such a monumental mess.

Part of what’s happened, I think, is that along the way I’ve lost confidence in my own judgment. I’ll get a short way into a new project, then start second-guessing whether the idea is any good, whether it’s worth working on, whether I want to put my back into it or skitter away and try something else. This thought process leads to such a snarl in my head that even glancing at the crap du jour exhausts me and makes me despair of ever finishing anything again. It’s incredibly frustrating, and doesn’t seem to respond to the usual fixes: write something shorter, draft fast and don’t look back, try a different form or genre. I’ve tried all the old strategies yet cannot overcome the hurdle of deciding to write.

Yesterday it occurred to me that it’s been a while since I turned the question around and asked myself what I’d really like to read. I can’t remember the last time I went to a bookstore and found exactly what I was in the mood for, or reached a book’s final chapter with a feeling of unqualified satisfaction. I remember considering such things early on, and approaching the question not as a writer, but as a reader on the hunt for a book that did not exist. It made me feel like a hero, like I was filling a gap on the shelf. And it helped. Those books I wanted to read were the ones that finally got finished and published–though having gone to all the trouble, I can’t say I ever did get around to reading them.

What do you wish you could find at the bookstore?

The Donald Chronicles

A new chapter this week in the Chronicles: people are starting to say out loud that the Republican nominee for President of the United States might actually be crazy. Not crazy as in zany, ha-ha, or crazy like a fox, or politically incorrect or imprudent or what have you, but crazy as in, Holy shit, this country might be about to elect a sociopath.

It’s an opinion that has crept upon us slowly, in part because it sounds so hyperbolic. You tell the other guy his party’s nominee may have some sort of personality disorder, and it’s probably not the nominee whose sanity will be called into question. We’ve tiptoed around the accusation for the past few weeks by calling Trump “temperamentally unsuitable,” by dissembling, by gnawing on his rhetoric without admitting that there might be some pathology behind it, because to do so would be to consign as moot all further opinions on the topic; after all, we believe ourselves to be the temperate ones, the wonks, the kind of people who’d prefer to take some time before reaching conclusions as far-fetched and startling as this. We Dems are supposed to be more careful in our language, more considered. More. . .well, sane.

But fear of overstating the point is not the only reason we’ve all been so quiet on the topic. The silence also represents a real fear of this man and the rabid throngs of followers he gathers around him, people who believe he has seen them, and understands them, people who are gorging on the delicious feast of bigotry and isolationism he has laid upon the table. People whose opinions are immovable, whose loathing for Hillary Clinton knows no beginning or end but simply exists as part of the Republican anatomy, ingrown, a tumor of antipathy so big and so entwined that its removal would surely kill the patient.

Yet this week the news feeds are full of speculation, as if we’ve all at once locked elbows and waded in, daring to say publicly what many of us have been saying privately for some time: This guy might be straight-up crazy. The sense of alarm is being fueled by Trump’s appalling comments toward the Khan family, and the sense that he literally cannot stop himself from saying and doing the things he does. We all know he’s a bully, a misogynist, and a thin-skinned spoiled brat, but lately the conversation has become increasingly uneasy, and the questions around his character less modulated.

So now I’m asking you, the smartest people I know: What the fuck is up with Donald Trump?

French Vegetable Soup

Soup therapy. Is that a thing? Can we agree that it should be? If so, may I suggest this recipe, with the idea that lots of therapeutic chopping followed by a long, slow cooking process is a pretty good cure for whatever ails you–unless you’re trying to make this on a Monday night after work, in which case these qualities will have the exact opposite effect.

Anyway, if the soup doesn’t work, you can always watch a Trump stump speech and play a drinking game around the number of times he says, “Believe me.” You’ll be smashed in two minutes flat.

  • 1 large onion, chopped
  • 2 tablespoons minced garlic
  • 4 carrots, chopped (about 2 cups)
  • small head green cabbage, chopped
  • splash of white wine
  • 1 large tomato, seeded and chopped
  • salt and pepper
  • 2 teaspoons fennel seeds
  • 1 tablespoon herbs de Provence
  • 2 myrtle or bay leaves
  • olive oil
  • 1 14-oz. can diced fire-roasted tomatoes
  • 4-6 cups vegetable broth
  • 2 14-oz. cans cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
  • red wine vinegar or fresh lemon juice
  • handful of chopped kale or spinach, fresh or frozen
  • Other things that would be good, if you had them around: green beans, diced fennel (I’d add it early and let it caramelize with the onions), Italian parsley, or diced waxy potatoes. You could also stir in some stale bread cubes or crumbs to make this a ribollita, or make some croutons with olive oil and sea salt, and throw those on top.

Heat some olive oil in a pot over medium-low heat. Add onion and a couple pinches of salt and saute for at least 30-40 minutes until well caramelized. Don’t rush it. A lot of the flavor comes from the onion, which adds an earthy sweetness to the broth.

Add garlic and chopped cabbage, another pinch of salt. Let the cabbage wilt down and begin to caramelize. Turn up the heat and deglaze the pan with a splash of white wine, then cook until the liquid is gone. Add the fennel seeds, herbs de Provence, and myrtle leaves, with a generous amount of freshly cracked pepper, followed by the carrots, canned tomatoes and enough broth to cover the vegetables.

Simmer covered for 40 minutes, add beans, cover and cook 20 minutes more. When the carrots are tender, add the kale and let it wilt down. Finish with a good splash of lemon juice or vinegar and adjust the seasonings.

Make sure you have some crusty bread to dunk in it.

Daddy Issues

Holy moly, what a show we’re having in the U.S. We’ve got idiots left and (mostly) right, with a racist, know-nothing carnival barker playing to the rubes and a know-all history maker with decades of both service and scandal behind her, and millions of Americans suddenly acting like our once beloved country is some third-world hellhole that can’t be improved except by installing this sociopathic blowhard who bellows from the podium, “I alone can fix this,” who invites a foreign government to commit espionage against us, whose every inane utterance is tweeted and retweeted by the silliest and most uninformed electorate this country has ever seen.

Here’s the thing: I fully believe we are going to elect Donald Trump. Donald Trump. Just let that sink in. The man has run SIX (count ’em) companies into bankruptcy. After eight years of screaming for Obama’s birth certificate, he refuses to disclose his tax returns. He’s called for deporting 11 million immigrants, for building a wall on our southern border (and not just any wall, but the biggest and baddest wall EVER—in your face, China), for banning Muslims, dissing NATO, and committing war crimes, because he’s the “law and order” candidate. Don’t ask for specifics about how this is to be accomplished. He can’t be bothered. The details are beneath him. The party of small government is willing to make a big exception for their own special sugar daddy. Apparently it’s an impertinence to ask how we’re going to pay for all this, though it seems like a valid question since Daddy says he’s going to institute further tax cuts for the ultra-wealthy and place our muscle-bound military on steroids, among other things. In other words, he’s going to follow the well-established pattern of his career, which is to spend a bunch of money on the wrong things and leave the country as he’s left those six failed businesses: busted and bankrupt, looking as foolish as an orangutan with a combover.

I suppose it’s what we deserve. We’ve allowed the media to segregate us, to push us to the extremes of our viewpoints rather than encouraging a coalescence in the middle. We barely have time to form a question before the answer is shoved down our throats by the gaggle of talking heads who have to fill the air time somehow and whose goal is keep us pissed off enough to come back later for more. And we do. They are feeding our frustration and our fear. We’ve stopped looking at our beautiful country and seeing all that’s right with it. We’ve stopped assessing our politicians fairly, in order to decide whose ideology jibes most closely with ours and who would be good at the job for which we are hiring. That wonky shit is boring and doesn’t sell product. We want a show, goddamn it. We want to be part of that show and scoop up the prize at the end. Most of all we want Daddy to solve our problems for us, so we can go back to our TV dinners and Carrie Underwood videos on YouTube. Right fucking now.

I know this is a rant and I apologize. It seems I am a product of my culture, as self-righteous and petulant as the people I’ve spent 500 words complaining about.

Can’t anybody talk me down?


tumblr_mv2pv3zcml1r60h5mo1_500Saturday night, my husband and I went out for dinner and ended up afterward at a dive bar about half a mile from home. It was karaoke night (actually, every night is karaoke night according to the misspelled sign out front), and there was no shortage of performers. One chick got up and muttered the lyrics to some Taylor Swift revenge song; a balding hipster tried on Wonderwall. The woman operating the computer filled the gaps with standard drinking songs (Linda Ronstadt, Jimmy Buffett), and she did have a terrific voice but sat on her corner stool with the benevolent immobility of a brass Buddha. I don’t think she even got up to pee.

At the other end of the bar, a guy in a Duck Dynasty beard and camo pants was playing pool. I think he might have been a bit of a shark, because I saw him sink a lot of late-game 8-balls, and I may have witnessed some money changing hands. Four people were playing darts, eating onion rings and fries. A pair of 40-something women plowed, as in duty bound, through their lava lamp cocktails, the green and blue lights pulsing feebly, tinting their cheeks and hair. Next to me, a gray-haired guy nursed his whiskey, chewed a red straw, eyed the women at the end of the bar and the singers and the pretty bartender with her slick black hair and lip piercing and the long, long line of her cleavage.

Good times.

Where do you go when you don’t go home?


Last month I took a new job managing a start-up physical therapy clinic. I’ll admit the word “manage” is a little bit tongue-in-cheek at this point, since I’m the only employee for the only provider and a busy day would have us seeing about five patients. I’m sure it won’t take us long to build a full schedule, but for now I often have the place to myself and spend a good bit of time writing, when I’m not gazing out the window at the playground across the parking lot, sucking on dum-dums from the candy bowl I keep at the front desk.

The guy I work for is kind of a trip. He looks like Henry Cavill and is living every frat boy’s dream, burning up the Tinder account, tooling around the Pacific Northwest in his motor home in order not to have to pay for a hotel room when he invariably lures the hottie du jour into his tattooed embrace. Even mid-week he can’t be counted on to have gotten more than a couple hours of sleep, and often crashes in the exam room for a nap between patients. There are three mason jars of his special recipe moonshine on the bookshelf. He has a farm with an actual cow (so he can call himself a cowboy), and a barn fitted with lights where he grows massive amounts of marijuana (so he can provide his office manager the kind of bonus that really matters).


Ride ’em.

In spite or because of all this, I like the guy. He knows he’s ridiculous but couldn’t care less. He makes me laugh—out loud when he’s trying, and quietly, to myself, when he goes so completely hyperbolic that he talks himself into a corner without realizing it. I think he’s beginning to sense what it means to work in close proximity to a writer: you can’t get away with much, because we’re watching closely and remember details you might rather we forget. We write shit down. We’re crafty, by which I mean that all life is fodder and every living character is apt to be morphed into a fictional one. For me, the boss is offering up a rich vein of material, what with all the alpha-male posturing and the pathos of his horrifying childhood. I’d be an idiot not to see the writerly advantages in a job like this one.

Who do you work with, and what is that like?



Derring-do. Photo by Vivian Maier.

Well, hello. I’m very glad you’re here. It’s been nineteen months since I’ve posted (shades of AA), and it saddens me to report that I’ve accomplished fuck-all in the interim. I’ve completed nothing new, have made no breakthroughs, performed no feats of derring-do. No tightropes walked, no kittens rescued from the elms. I’m boring as hell, as you may or may not remember.

Yes, I hear you saying. I remember.

I’ve been trying to think of an appropriate explanation for why I’m back here, compelled to write, interested again in my own thoughts and in trying to express them after months of what I can only describe as disdain for my self-identity as a writer. I suppose there are circumstances I could dredge up and assemble into some kind of narrative, though the reasons hardly matter and are far more trouble than they’re worth. In any case, no act of writing needs to be anything more than what it is: a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.*

What’s the latest thing you wrote and then abandoned?

*Jesus. One post in and I’ve already jettisoned my own words for Macbeth’s.




The End

Here we are again. Only a few squares left on the calendar, a couple of pots of coffee, two more rounds of ‘good morning’ at the office and this year will belong to the past. I was thinking of where we were last year. Knocking back shots of tequila, if memory serves, to celebrate the release of my first (well, first bookstore) novel. We were playing Truth or Dare, remember? Me asking inappropriate questions, you trying to get out of answering them. Good times. The year before, I spent New Year’s Eve in the bedroom of our Tigard house, listening to the hoots and firecrackers on the street outside our window. Before that it was Vegas and all the bitter brightness of the city. Remember how badly I wanted out of there? How I whined and snivelled and gnashed my teeth? (And saved and scraped and waited, waited, waited…) Now I’ve escaped for good, have lost myself in the pine trees and fog, found a home and a job I like. Life is looking fine at the moment.

So here we are at the end the year and the end of this blog. I’ve come to realize that what I have to say about writing is what I’ve already said a hundred times: Writing is hard. Really fucking hard. This is not a new piece of information to any of us, and my struggles no longer seem to me worth describing. What I want to do now is write the best books I can. I want to read, and be inspired, and try to produce work that matters to me and is going to last. For that I need all the space between two covers and all the fluff between my ears, and I need to shut the fuck up and start listening.

It’s hard to let go of this space. I mean, I love you guys. You’re the people who started me writing and who’ve encouraged me to keep at it, and it scares me more than a little to think about doing this alone. No more study hall, no communal angst. It’ll be just me and my pages. I don’t know how to feel about that.

My hope is that you’ll keep my email address handy (it’s over there ==>>>) so we can carry on with the conversation we’ve started. I’ll be right here. Still writing, still struggling, still trying every day to understand myself and the world well enough that I might write something worth reading.

I hope you’ll be doing the same. As my friend Tetman says, “We are the bearers of the chalice.”

Let’s fill it up.

Love. Kisses. Bear hugs.



Can I just say how much fun I’m having at our new address? I am like a little girl playing houses. I’ve alphabetized my library, rearranged the furniture, brought in houseplants and candles and squashy pillows for the couch. In contrast to our last rental, where everything seemed to be in the wrong place, this house is laid out exactly right. I have an armchair in the bedroom. A light in the hallway. And closets, dear god, closets for days. The kitchen is Formica-clad and fitted with old appliances but they work like a dream—particularly the dishwasher, which has those concave ’70s push-buttons on the front but produces squeaky clean dishes every time. There’s a huge pantry, two (count ’em!) pull-out cutting boards, plus a lazy susan in the corner cupboard where I can finally organize my ridiculous collection of spices. It’s not a huge kitchen but it’s perfect for a single cook, which is how it breaks down at our house anyway.

Yesterday I veganized Nigella’s sticky gingerbread recipe (two chia-seed eggs, a little added baking powder, almond milk to replace the whole milk and Earth Balance in place of the butter). It came out great, and filled the house with a scrumptious Christmassy aroma. Tonight it’s butternut bisque, plus a lovely green salad and crusty rolls for dinner.

I wish you all could come.

What are your plans for the holidays?


Still here, still stuck. I’ve turned this story every which way and I can see, I think, how to write it. The question now becomes, Do I want to?

The problem with writing is that it takes so long. By the time you’ve worked out all the details of voice and story and structure, you may find yourself bled dry of all your creative energy and the inquisitive spirit that makes a story come alive. You get bogged down, sluggish; having paved your road, you are now too exhausted to walk it. You look at all the pages you wrote in vain, which aren’t usable except as kindling (and even then, you suspect they’d fail to ignite), and you look at the story and think, Oh, fuck it all, I’m sick of this, let me go write a story about butterflies.

This is where I am. I’ve been approaching my writing time as if it’s a trip to the dentist, something to get through instead of the head-trip party time that it should be. In the past two hours I have written three paragraphs, two of which I’ve deleted.

I just don’t know. Maybe this isn’t the one.

How do you tell the difference between laziness and writerly apathy? How do you know whether to finish what you started, or let it go?

Photo by Mary Ellen Mark

Photo by Mary Ellen Mark

Life Drawing

My book and I are at an impasse. I have it in mind to write this fucker from a first person POV, as a retrospective account of a childhood tragedy and the effect it has on the character’s life. The fucker insists that certain events and perspectives be included, some of which couldn’t have been witnessed by the narrator. Not an impossible thing—I could use the sort of structure Gillian Flynn used in Dark Places, in which the first and third person accounts are given in alternating chapters, building to a twin then-and-now climax. But for me, this is not a particularly immersive reading experience. I find the swaps a little jarring, no matter how engaging each narrative is on its own. For this book, I want to get into one character’s head and stay there.

This seems like an easy issue to resolve. I have a dozen beautiful examples of the sort of structure that might work: The Sense of an Ending, The Woman Upstairs, Life Drawing, etc. But I can’t quite figure out how to pull it off. Moving forward and back in time is a difficult thing to do gracefully, especially when you are trying to build suspense; the distance seems to diffuse it, and there is a tendency to wander from the point. One minute the character is facing down a schoolyard bully, the next she’s a thirty-year-old junkie just released from prison. Cue the whiplash sound effect.

Maybe I’m trying to do too much, casting too wide a net. I haven’t stopped to ask myself, What’s the story? What belongs, what’s extraneous, how do I pry my preconceived ideas off this work and make it something new?

How do you decide on a point of view? Does it bother you when the narrative switches from first to third throughout?


This morning I looked at my manuscript for the first time in almost a week. It’s still there, still sucks, and no one has finished it for me while I wasn’t looking. The doubts I had about structure are bubbling to the surface and I think I hate the sound of my voice. Also, I interrupt my sentences constantly and have developed a love affair with the word “peer.” Everybody’s peering at this or that. God forbid they should simply look. Other pet peeves include overuse of the colon, semicolon, and em dash, oddly placed dialogue tags, and awkward segueways from one section to the next, as if I’m certain the reader will understand exactly what I mean when I leap from the mother’s death scene to the scratchy B side of a Fleetwood Mac 45.

What a fucking mess.

What annoys you about your writing or the latest WIP?


Yesterday after work I went to our new house. A key had been left under the mat, so I let myself in and spent a good hour poking around, opening drawers, giving little Izzy a chance to sniff the corners and get her bearings. The homeowner had left a lovely, warm welcome letter and all sorts of tidbits about how to work the alarm system, water heater, furnace, and sprinklers. She gave us a primer on the neighbors, who all sound wonderful, and said that the fellow who built the house in 1971 knew where every nail was. She suggested that we air-fluff the valances, keep the pine needles out of the gutters, and open the flue before starting a fire—very good advice, and gratefully received. I also found a photograph of the first female physician in the state of Kansas, who once owned the partners’ desk we bought and is pictured seated at the very desk, corseted and upright and surrounded by reference books. A tough act to follow, but I’ll do my very best.

Because of the move, there won’t be a big, fancy meal on our table today. My dishes are going into boxes and we’ll be eating out. But I can’t remember ever feeling as thankful as I do this morning, or as optimistic for the future.

Have a happy day, my friends. Enjoy a drumstick for me.


The backyard, soon to be home to my herb garden and some flowering ivy.

The backyard, soon to be home to my herb garden and some flowering ivy.

The Undoing

Hello? Are you still there? I’ve been trying hard this past month to get some pages under my pen, and I think I’m doing okay. I sure as shit can’t write at the speed of NaNo, but I’ve settled into a groove and am pointed in more or less the right direction. The characters are taking their first full breaths. The story has a shape. All that’s left now is to keep putting in the hours.

My previous book, Blackbird, is undergoing a transformation. MIRA has moved back the pub date a whole year to January 2016. I don’t pretend to understand the reasons for such a dramatic reassignment and of course it’s hard to be patient with the iceberg speed of publishing, but there are plenty of great things happening to mitigate the angst. First, a new title: The Undoing. We all agree it does a much better job of describing the backward-moving timeline and the characters’ collective self-destruction. It’s dark, doomed, a little creepy. And I think it’s got sexy kind of vibe, a hint of, Let me help you with those laces, darling… With the right cover (a new one is currently in the works), it could be pretty wonderful. More wonderful still are the blurbs, which have galvanized this whole repackaging and the renewed enthusiasm from MIRA. Bless you, blurbers, one and all. I wish I could buy you a drink.

So that’s the skinny. We sign for the new house next week and are moving over Thanksgiving weekend. (Yesss!!!)

What’s new with you? Are you writing? Coming up with titles? Too busy to respond? I get it. But I’ve missed you. 

Photo by Ellen Von Unwerth