Regrets, I Have More Than a Few

I cringe every time I hear someone claim they have no regrets. I wonder, “Are they that flawless a person? Are they deeply in denial? Have they discovered the secret to accepting their mistakes and moving on, and if that’s the case, would they mind sharing it with me?"

I understand that some people reach a point in their lives where they have found happiness, success, enlightenment, and they view their past as a convoluted but necessary path that brought them to that place. My life isn’t perfect—I’m still waiting for greater professional success and personal enlightenment, and I struggle to be a better mother, wife, friend—but for the first time in many years, I’m happy with my little place in the world, and I realize that if I had made different choices, I might not be able to say that. Yet I don’t believe I will ever be able to say I have no regrets.

A list of lingering regrets, incomplete and in no particular order:

• I regret losing interest in my beloved horse, Darby, when I discovered boys.
• I regret forgetting to dance with my father at my (first) wedding.
• I regret hurting people, deliberately or unintentionally. Every single one of them.
• I regret wasting two years of college drinking and chasing boys.
• I regret not spending more time with my brother.
• I regret that awful perm and makeup during the eighties.
• I regret not visiting my grandfather just weeks before he died.
• I regret the hundreds of times I could have said, “I love you,” but didn’t.
• I regret worrying about what other people think of my appearance. (I’m still working on that.)
• I regret all the time and money I spent on clothes and home décor, trying to impress people.
• I regret the times I made an ass of myself when drunk.
• I regret that I have no relationship with my parents, regardless of the circumstances of our estrangement.
• I regret allowing fear to keep me from doing things I wanted to do.
• I regret losing touch with good friends.
• I regret time wasted worrying.
• I regret that unfortunate tumble down the stairs of the Nordstrom shoe department.
• I regret every chance I passed up to show my daughter something wondrous—a full moon at bedtime, Christmas lights when it was cold and late, a concert that might have been crowded.
• I regret letting that financial advisor talk me out of investing in environmentally-friendly mutual funds.
• I regret that I didn’t make my novel available on Kindle.

For the most part, none of these are life-altering, and I guess that’s my point. If I regretted the big ones—a failed marriage, an imperfect career trajectory, turning down an opportunity to live for two years in Jane Goodall’s house in Tanzania to build her Roots & Shoots program (gah!)—I’d have to acknowledge that the things that now bring me the most joy might be missing from my life.

My daughter was born during my first marriage. How can I second guess anything leading up to the moment my egg said howdy-do to my ex’s sperm and gave us a healthy baby girl? Divorce was a wrenching decision and painful process, but it allowed me to meet my current (and final) husband, who makes both my daughter and me happier than I thought possible.

My diverse work experience has provided a range of skills that I hope will one day make it possible for me to earn a better living doing what I enjoy: writing, editing, and futzing around with website design and development.

And the Jane Goodall project? I still kick myself over that one, because I sometimes imagine the adventure of living in Tanzania, the satisfaction of teaching children to be responsible stewards of their own environment, and the sheer awesomeness of working with Jane Goodall. But if those two years had sent my life in a different direction—one that didn’t include my quirky little family and friends and a promising, fulfilling career—I wouldn’t be the same kind of happy I am today, regrets and all.

Women Vs. Women?

Note: a woman in my writing group recently finished an excellent essay on male/female parity in literature, which I hope to see published soon. Reading her article brought to mind something I've been contemplating for a while: competition between women. Here are my thoughts.

An ongoing controversy in publishing tackles the disparity in representation of male and female authors. Women comprise a fraction of published, reviewed, and award-winning authors. Solid data support this, and it is outrageous that women are still fighting this battle to be recognized as literary equivalents of their male peers.

Ruth Franklin’s “Why the Literary Landscape Continues to Disadvantage Women” in The New Republic addresses this and links to similar essays by Meg Wolitzer and Francine Prose. These women have done a thorough job of dissecting the issue. They detail public spats between authors; they expose publishing, reviewing, and awards practices that favor men; and they assign blame.

This blame has been largely directed at men: male authors who consider women’s writing inferior and male literary critics who more frequently and favorably review male authors. Also in the crosshairs are literary figures, both male and female: editors who accept more submissions from men; prize committees who grant more awards to men; and readers who admit they prefer male authors.

Conspicuously missing from the blame game are agents, the gatekeepers of the literary kingdom. I presume this is because the current focus is on established authors. So the current outrage rings hollow, perhaps because the top literary players are battling over their share of a tiny pie while aspiring authors scramble for crumbs. Parity is an important issue at any level, but this fracas seems equivalent to comparing the number of male versus female CEOs at major corporations while ignoring the huge numbers of unemployed. 

Here, I’d like to steer the conversation away from the rarified world of successful authors toward another, underrepresented group: aspiring female authors.

In 1989 I expected to enter a workforce populated by women offering support, advice, even mentoring. It didn’t take long to realize how naïve I was. Most female interviewers, supervisors, and coworkers had little interest in helping anyone. Rather than a network of sisterhood, I found an atmosphere of competition and resentment.

Fresh out of college, I worked for a wine distributor. My supervisor was a man who saw my potential and became a mentor. He taught me about wine. He taught me to cook, enlisting me as his sous chef for dinner parties. He immersed me in the world of food and wine until I was comfortable at the finest restaurants, at ease organizing lavish wine tastings with suppliers flying from Italy and France.

The company’s president also encouraged me. He urged me to identify and streamline outdated administrative processes, which brought resistance from the mostly female staff. He defended me when one asked, “Why is this glorified secretary messing with how we’ve done things for years?” He praised me when I did something smart and told me when I messed up. I always knew where I stood with him.

This provided a stark contrast to the reception I got from many women with whom I worked. I was a hard worker, did my job well, and avoided office politics. Yet I never found a woman who showed any interest in guiding me through the first years of my working life. They were either disinterested or deliberately undermining.

I once temped at a huge ad agency. I was an overqualified administrative assistant, but I enjoyed the environment and made friends. One offered to arrange an “informational interview” with a female account supervisor. I didn’t expect to be hired, but I thought the interview would be good practice. I also thought it went well. The interviewer, however, surprised me with feedback that had less to do with my skills or experience than my personality. She said I seemed “aloof” and lacked the “excitement” necessary for advertising. She then reported the interview to my temp agency, which prohibited temps from seeking permanent employment with their temporary employers. I was fired.

Later, when I worked for a small ad agency, my female supervisor and several female coworkers respected me and my work, regardless of contentious moments in our professional lives. These women are still friends, people I count on for job references and freelance opportunities. But why are there so few?

Years later I began writing. Again, I assumed I would encounter authors willing to offer guidance and encouragement. Yet I found the only writers willing to help me were men.

When I finished my first project, a screenplay, I attended the screening of a film penned by a local screenwriter. In Hollywood fashion, I thought he would be a good person to know. I introduced myself, chatted about his previous films, and asked if he coached aspiring screenwriters. We met for lunch and I pitched my script. He liked the idea and offered to read it. When he called and said he loved it, I was ecstatic. It was enough for me, that validation. 

We met several times to discuss the script and consider ways to sell it. He sent it to a producer and I lined up a director. It was an exciting time, and although nothing came of it, I am still struck by the efforts he made to help me.

Several years later I finished a novel, and after endless rejections, I self-published. I was proud of my book, but wasn’t sure how much time, energy, and money I should spend promoting it. I was on Facebook, and many “friends” were writers. One woman was a local author whose books I loved. We struck up a virtual friendship, and I asked if she would read my novel and give me feedback. She agreed, and I mailed it to her. Weeks went by; I told myself she was busy. I sent a message to ensure she received it, and she apologized for taking so long. After a few more weeks I followed up, careful not to sound pushy. Again, she apologized. And then I never heard from her again.

Maybe she never got around to reading it. Maybe she hated it and didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Maybe she thought I was trying to use her, although there was nothing she could do for my novel at that point; I simply wanted advice. What bothered me was the lack of a simple response, the passive-aggressive promise to read my work, followed by… nothing.

The women I know who are willing to help sister writers are close friends, or in my writing group. I’m sure there are successful female authors who happily forward friends’ manuscripts to their agents, who lead workshops or publish books on writing. But there is an important difference between helping a friend or teaching a class, and helping an acquaintance. The former is part of friendship or making money; the latter is an act of altruism. Is it inappropriate for a stranger to send a manuscript to an author, hoping for a shortcut to getting published? Yes, and it’s lazy. Most writers have worked hard to get published, and they are busy. Few published authors make a living writing. They teach, work nine-to-five jobs, or wait tables. 

Writing is a competitive business. But this competition seems counterproductive for female authors who want more women represented in literature. Extrapolate my experiences to the literary world in general, and it’s hardly surprising that female writers are underrepresented if they neglect to help bring fresh female voices into the fold.

Perhaps established female authors should question their roles in the male/female literary imbalance. Do they help aspiring authors? Could they do more? Do they want more women represented in publishing, or do they want more recognition for themselves? Would they be comfortable if new female authors appropriated more of the success now enjoyed by men? These are provocative questions; I don’t know the answers.

The issue is not just about numbers; it’s about female authors getting the respect they deserve. But we discuss parity in terms of numbers, numbers that show there aren’t as many women as men getting published. A good place to start might be reaching out to more aspiring female authors. Women shouldn’t condemn the system unless they are doing everything they can to change it. If we have the power and don’t use it, we will remain victims of our own inaction.

Are Wives Really Nagging Shrews Or Do Husbands Just Think They Are?

This post was inspired by Lisa Hickey's recent piece, "Are Husbands Really Assholes? Or Do Wives Just Think They Are?" on the website The Good Men Project. There has also been a great deal of chatter on the interwebs about gender stereotypes in romantic, hetero relationships, most of which would make me tear out my hair by the fistful if I didn't spend so much money making it pretty .

When I see articles about the dynamics of male/female relationships, I initially find them provocative and insightful. When I delve deeper, however, I sometimes cringe at generalizations presented by authors as facts, rather than what they really are: opinions based on limited anecdotal evidence. They may be informed opinions by smart professionals who do some research, but what I've seen recently reveals that many "sample groups" are too small to be taken seriously. Ultimately, I object to the black and white approach inevitably taken by many of these arguments.

I understand why stereotypes take root; historically, the behavior of some in a group (a particular race, gender, or sexual orientation) has been mistakenly accepted as representative of all members of that group. I believe this is a function of ignorance and/or fear, but whether or not we admit it, we all have biases. Perhaps we were raised in an environment of bigotry and, as much as we would like to believe otherwise, those hateful words and images linger in our subconscious minds. Maybe life experiences lead some to form their own brand spanking new prejudices, and they are fine with that. Those are two extremes on a continuum—a large gray area of bias that we aren't generally comfortable talking about.

So how do we discuss gender stereotypes in romantic relationships in a way that is honest and helpful? First, I think we need to admit they exist. No matter how emotionally evolved we are we perpetuate certain narratives that make navigating relationships less scary. If we depend too frequently on these emotional crutches, however, we end up stuck in a place that may feel safe but actually leads us to believe that yes, all husbands are assholes and all wives are nagging shrews. Does this seem like a good strategy for making a relationship work?

Let's hear from the experts. From Lisa Hickey's piece:

The refrain heard over and over is some variation of "I want to have a good marriage. I love my wife. But sometimes, all I feel is resentment—from my wife, toward my wife, toward the marriage. I believe my wife thinks I am an asshole, and she treats me as such."

In Ms. Hickey's defense, she does her best to give a balanced portrayal of both men's and women's thoughts on the subject, but she doesn't have enough to work with. The above quote refers to a conversation that took place—in person, by phone, and via email—between a handful of contributers to The Good Men Project. Later in the article, Ms. Hickey presents a list of comments described as "a quick, non-scientific survey of self-appointed experts in the perception of husbands as assholes".

Most of the article follows a similar "he said, she said" vein, with Ms. Hickey trying to make sense of it all by drawing a few tentative conclusions. But then there's this:

It still bothers me that there’s no real dialogue around this issue. Men feel resentment, women appear oblivious, and conversation around the topic seems nil.

This is exactly the kind of sweeping generalization that causes a stabbing pain behind my left eye. Women are oblivious? I take exception to this, mostly because it's bullshit, but also because it makes all women sound like witless dolts who don't care about their husbands' feelings. Furthermore, my opinion (based on my own limited anecdotal evidence) is that most couples have plenty of conversations around this topic. They probably don't do it out in the open for everyone to see (I hope), but anyone seriously interested in making a relationship succeed realizes they occasionally need to talk about the relationship. These little chats may not be fun and they may not always be as productive as we'd like, but they do happen.

My biggest problem with this piece is that while dissecting and debunking the "Husbands Are Assholes" myth, Ms. Hickey implicitly perpetuates another stereotype, and this one's a doozy: husbands are hen-pecked into a life of quiet desperation by their nagging, shrewish wives. This sort of thinking makes me want to pick up the nearest object and hurl it at the wall. I'm sure many marriages do fit into this hellish category, and I'm sorry for both the husbands and wives who choose to live this way. But it is a choice, and I sure as hell wouldn't choose to be in a relationship where I'm some doormat's ball and chain.

If all stereotypes are a result of ignorance and/or fear, as I opine above, those involving gender are no exception. Maybe a good place to start a real conversation would be to ask: of what are men and women ignorant concerning real intimacy? What do men and women fear in relationships?

NOTE: See Hugo Schwyzer's follow-up article, "Poor, Poor, Pitiful Men: The Martyr Complex of the American Husband" for a radically different perspective.

An excerpt:

The Guy Code teaches men how to pursue women, how to court, and how to charm; it teaches us nothing about how to be in an actual relationship with a woman once we’ve succeeded in catching her. (If you’re getting an image of a dog who looks bewildered and helpless when he’s finally managed to catch the cat he’s been chasing, you’re not far off the mark.)

There's that stabbing pain again, although I have to admit I enjoyed most of this piece. While Hugo is also prone to generalizations, he never claims his contributions to The Good Men Project are anything but his own informed opinions, and he has academic credentials to back them up. Still, maybe I'll tackle this another day...

Writing about writing.

Yesterday, while tinkering with Mommune, I came to the frightening realization that the "introduction" part of the story I've been motoring through to get to the real guts of the story will need to be about half the book. Since I'm delving into science fiction, which is new territory for me, I need to create a believable new "world" so the rest of the story will make sense. My writing group has gently pointed out that I must establish the setting with more than vague references from each new character I introduce. So I've gone back, several times, and made the references less vague. But that's lazy writing, and it's not working. I need to research, outline, and add several chapters to bring the reader into my world, a world that is clear in my head but has yet to make it onto the page.

That, for me, is the difficult part about writing. Once I have a story in my head, I often forget to write the words that will bring the entire story out of my head and make it accessible to readers. People who remark on Soft Landing almost always say the same thing: great characters, great story, fast pace — but they wanted more. I usually ask, "More what?" and they tell me: more description, more back story, more of a certain character. They don't necessarily want a longer story; they want a more fully-realized story.

Mommune is a much more ambitious project than Soft Landing was. I'm including a much larger cast of characters. The premise of the story draws on social, political, medical, economic and environmental issues. And I'm taking all of that and distilling it to a very personal level for the main characters. So... not only do I need to write a larger story, I need to write each aspect of the larger story more completely, from future world events down to the most personal level.

Unlike a lot of writers, I do not write for the sheer joy it brings, uncaring of whether or not I get published. While I love it, writing is hard work. Perhaps because I have a business degree rather than a graduate degree in creative writing, I tend to be goal-oriented. I savor the rare uninterrupted stretch of time — and by stretch I mean days, not a few hours — I can focus on writing, but I still want to finish the damn book. I claim to strive for a "spare" style in my novels, but that may be my excuse for rushing through a story without doing the hard work that makes so many authors much better writers.

For me, writing is a perfect metaphor for life. I need to summon the patience to do it as thoughtfully as possible. I should focus more on creating and less on finishing. I want to build a world that is as fully-realized as possible. And most important, although writing will always be hard work, I don't ever want to consider it a hardship. It's a privilege, not a chore.


Here's the working cover for Mommune. (Yes, I see the irony of designing the cover before finishing the book, but I needed it for my new author website, which is under construction.)

Oops! I forgot to blog for eight months.

Where to begin? Last we chatted, I was embracing the chaos of living in The Cave. I had resolved to get back to writing. I was experimenting with a "no expectations" relationship. That seems like ages ago, as almost everything in my life has changed. To whit: I failed, on all three fronts.

The live-in-the-moment relationship seemed like a good idea at the time, and it was fun while it lasted. Then the unthinkable happened: love. I won't say we "fell in love," because that makes it sound so easy, or even romantic. No, we fought it, clawing as we were dragged into what we both claimed we didn't want — a serious relationship. It wasn't pretty and it sure as hell wasn't the stuff romantic comedies are made of. (Or was it?) But once we realized there was nothing to be done about it, there we were. I let him into Grace's world, finally, and they began to create their own relationship. Grace adored him immediately. And his patience, kindness, and willingness to work with us through what was a particularly challenging phase in Gigi's life sealed the deal.

My stint in The Cave came to an abrupt end when we experienced the fifth flood in less than a year. My resolve, and quite a few of my beloved books, were unsalvageable. The timing seemed right, so boyfriend and I found a lovely house together and took another giant, scary leap. We crammed all our stuff — belongings, humans, the dog, emotions, fears — into what has become not just a home, but a sanctuary. Grace loves living here with both of us, and is thriving under this new blanket of security and ordinary... family-ness. She can finally have friends over without feeling self-conscious about living in a basement. WE can have friends over and sit comfortably around the dining room table, or hang out in the huge kitchen. Oh — how can I forget this? — we have a dishwasher!

The third failure doesn't have a happy ending. I haven't made as much progress on my novel as I hoped. Despite the encouragement of my writing group, and the luxury of several writing retreats, I remain stuck somewhere between chapters six and seven. I expected to be finished with Mommune by the end of 2010, but I now realize I will be lucky to complete it by the end of this year. Happiness in life, love and family has brought a certain complacency which allows me to neglect what I always counted on to make me happy, regardless of what was going on around me: writing. Since boyfriend is also a writer, we both struggle with the self-discipline needed to get shit done. So we have made a pact: structure our days to accommodate three (maybe four?) hours dedicated to writing.

If that piece of the puzzle falls into place, I will have little left to complain about. Plenty of other things have happened during the last eight months, however. If I choose to continue blogging, what should I talk about? Suggestions welcome!

At the beach during our latest writing retreat.

Cozying up to Chaos.

I used to thrive under pressure. I worked a ten-hour day, ran errands on my lunch hour, picked up dinner before catching the bus home and did some freelance writing on the side. My house was clean and tidy, my pets were well taken care of and I threw dinner parties that involved recipes from Gourmet Magazine. When I left my job for a six-month sabbatical, three people took over my various responsibilities. Even when I started freelancing from home as a software developer, I became so engrossed in my projects that I would forget to eat or even get up to pee until I was in dire pain. And I was never more productive than when I was under a deadline, particularly if I'd put off something until the last minute. Case in point: I took on a fairly large programming job when I was seven months pregnant. It would have been impossible for me to finish it in two months, so I just figured I'd keep cranking it out after Grace was born. Hahahahahah!

I started working on Soft Landing (you know, my NOVEL?) before I had Grace, and tinkered around with it for years. Only when Grace was around two did I find the inspiration to quit messing around and get to work. (Until Grace was two, I was a full-time stay-at-home mom. Grace had a part-time nanny (hi, Sandi!), ostensibly because I was still finishing the aforementioned project, along with tweaking programs for some past clients. When Sandi was there, however, I usually napped or went grocery shopping.) So I was the mother of a toddler, still working, and I managed to write a book in my free time.

These days, it can take me a whole day (while Grace is at pre-school, mind you) to do the things I used to do on my lunch hour or after work. Even then, it's never done. Chaos reigns here in The Cave, and in my oddly dysfunctional brain, I can't convince myself to spend any significant time writing unless everything is in order. Which is absurd, because everything will never be in order. It's a problem. I know it's not a terribly original problem, that even writers who love to write will find countless reasons to not write. But I have a limited window to finish my current novel, and it's getting smaller and smaller.

We live in the midst of unpacked boxes, dirty dishes, unfolded laundry, toys strewn everywhere and tumbleweeds of dog hair floating about. My own personal nemeses are stacks of unopened mail and unpaid bills; missed appointments and unanswered emails; half-finished paperwork and neglected correspondence that taunt me every time I glance at my desk. I know women who manage to keep up with life's chores while working full-time and raising kids. I am no longer one of those women. I try to blame part of it on being a single mom, but that's just weak. I have plenty of time to take care of business; I simply choose to spend (waste?) my time on other things. I've become that flaky woman who always seems to be spinning her wheels, complaining about all there is to do.

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with an old friend and he asked me what I do all day. I was completely stumped. I could have lied and said I write, but it's been so long since I've done any serious writing, I've lost track of the characters in my novel. This is not a good sign. I have days of spectacular productivity, days where I am so disgusted by the state of the apartment that I do everything at once: laundry, dishes, paperwork, grocery shopping, etc. I feel good about it afterwards, but then, rather than taking advantage of my freedom from household tedium to write, I reward myself by hanging out with friends, spending too much time online and, of course, blogging.

I'm realizing that waiting until my life is in order to get serious about writing doesn't encourage me to keep chaos at bay. Because I'm not one of those women anymore. I need to get comfortable with that fact, to learn that I can do what's necessary and let the rest wait. I need to make writing a bigger priority than worrying about unpacked boxes and unfolded laundry. In fact, writing should be at the top of the list, along with keeping Grace alive and nurturing relationships that nourish me and keep me sane. (Okay, almost sane.)

I've joined a writing group. We meet once a week to share our projects and provide/receive feedback. My objective was purely selfish: to light a fire under my ass that will help me finish my novel. But it turns out I've stumbled into a group of writers who are not only smart, fun and funny, they are also intimidatingly good at what they do. I've been inspired by what I've heard of their work, and I've received feedback on my novel that surprised me by its insight and, well, total awesomeness. I got lucky, and I'm going to take advantage of this chance, and challenge, to stay focused on writing and, I hope, make some great friends in the process.

The dishes are washed. The laundry is (mostly) done. Grace is happy and healthy and with her father for the next few days. I'm going to pretend to not notice the boxes stacked around the apartment, and the mess on my desk. (Except for Grace's kindergarten enrollment, which I need to complete and deliver to the school — which starts NEXT WEEK. Last-minute Laurel prevails!) Other than that, I'm going to plant my ass on the couch (which smells faintly of pee due to an ill-timed nap by Gigi), and get to know my characters again. I'm pretty excited about this.

My new mantra: I love to write. I love to write. I love to write.

Communication? What?

I read my last post, and decided that if they exist, The New Rules of dating can bite me. Sure, there is that brief window of optimism when you meet someone new and really enjoy spending time with him. Due to my finely-tuned radar, however, I am now able to see red flags the minute they appear. No matter how charming Mr. Wonderful is on the first few dates, I pay attention to those red flags as they pile up. Because of that, I'm more likely to pull my head out of my ass and realize, "Huh. This guy's kind of a tool." This is a good thing; in the past, I've ignored all the signs pointing me in that direction until I was in way too deep, and one or both of us ended up getting hurt. Waste. Of. Time.

The words that really jumped out at me from that last post were, "I'm not up for a real relationship." What? Really? Yes, really, and not because of any wounds from past relationships. The time and emotional energy involved in maintaining a serious relationship are not luxuries I can afford right now. I've set up this sort of... unusual life that I'm leading so that I can focus on Grace and writing without constantly having to worry about money. These living arrangements are temporary. So why complicate things with a distraction I can deliberately choose to avoid? I didn't anticipate, however, that even casual dating would bring out the same jealousy, insecurity and uncertainty of a longer-term relationship, minus the shared history, friendship and real connection that almost make the unpleasantness worth it.

There seems to be a pervasive belief that, like a shark, if a relationship stops moving forward, it will die. I know I've fallen prey to this misconception in the past. As I said in a previous post, I believe more women than men focus on where a relationship is going, and maybe even tend to rush things. Most men seem to prefer not to think about it; maybe they want to simply enjoy what they have without worrying about the future, or maybe men believe that ALL CHANGE IS BAD. Could there be a middle ground?

My last relationship ended (prior to my foray into casual dating) because of what appeared to be a widening chasm in our expectations for The Future. He assumed I wanted a more serious relationship, whereas he did not. My knee-jerk reaction to this resistance was predictable: I felt rejected, hurt and a little (!) angry. We talked about it, but that's where the communication breakdown began. Neither one of us actually heard what the other was saying. BIG part of communication: listening. My weak protests of not wanting anything more may have seemed disingenuous, because I never thought about our future; it was too difficult to imagine incorporating him into my life, and Grace's. I hadn't yet decided what I wanted or didn't want.

Now I have. So, long story long, we're giving it another try, albeit in a very different way. We're enjoying the parts of our relationship that were fun (most of them), and not obsessing over where it's headed. I'll focus on my issues instead of worrying about him freaking out, and he won't assume I want more from him than I do. My issues have a lot to do with insecurity and jealousy, and I can't really work on those without first feeling them. I'd just as soon work on them with someone I know and trust. (What? Trust? Then why the insecurity and jealousy? I know, I know. I guess that's why they're called issues.) His issues are his problem. This is new territory. Far from choosing the path of least resistance, I've chosen to do something rather difficult: make my own feelings my first priority. I'd like to sit with those feelings of insecurity and jealousy and try to figure out where they come from.

So far, so good. We're having fun again, and there's no cloud hanging over us about what's going on in the other's head. No reading between the lines or making assumptions based on fear. I can appreciate the good between us, without expending so much emotional energy that my time and focus are taken away from Grace and writing.

What could possibly go wrong?

Cave dweller.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that not too many people get what I'm doing right now. Most family and friends are, after all, under the impression that I had everything I wanted, and lost it all through a series of mishaps and bad decisions. I went through that self-pity party myself. I now, however, feel the need to clear up something important to me: I am doing exactly what I want. Yes, I live in a basement; no, I don't have a job; yes, it's a challenge being a divorced, downwardly mobile single mother. But I've arranged my life very deliberately so that I can focus on endeavors other than dinner parties and buying shit I don't need. I have created this window of time in my life where I can be a mom and a writer, in that order. I'm also a friend, a sister, a daughter, a lover and, most of the time, a card-carrying whack job.

I've spent too much of my life trying to fit in. To blend, to not draw attention to myself, to be appropriate. Problem with that is that I was so good at it, I ended up feeling invisible, and wondering why nobody really knew me. Growing up in rural Washington as an east coast transplant gave me a very tangible goal: DON'T BE WEIRD. Learn the country lingo, dress the part and don't let on that my family was at all different than everyone else's. (In that we hadn't lived there for generations, among other things.)

This was fantastic practice for when I went off to college in St. Louis, and found myself surrounded by kids from the east coast. Rather than feeling reunited with my people, I was so thoroughly countrified that, once again, I was a fish out of water. College, for me, was a giant game to which everyone else knew the rules. I was lost, and terrified of being considered weird. So I switched gears and did the best I could to emulate my peers, but I'm not sure I ever really fooled anyone. I certainly didn't enjoy those four years of putting up walls and then waiting for at least one person to tear them down. (One did make the effort; all I can say to him is, "I'm sorry.")

When I moved to Chicago, I felt at home. Something about the anonymity of a large city made it easier for me to move about undetected. Perfect. But then I made a bunch of friends, and had to go through the process of trying to be close without anyone figuring out how weird I really was. I got really good at this; some of my neuroses I was able to pass off as quirky, which provided a release valve. A few toxic friendships torpedoed my self esteem, though, and I still carry around parts of that scared, twenty-something girl who was never pretty enough, successful enough or cool enough. At least I was funny; funny was my thing. But the rest of it eluded me, until...

...I moved to Portland. Here, I finally got comfortable with myself. Not so comfortable that I didn't hate visits to Chicago, but I found my niche pursuing the American Dream with a vengeance. (This blog is about how that didn't work out so well for me, however, as both of my readers will attest.)

I'm more comfortable with myself than I ever have been. Getting in touch with my inner weirdo has proved much more enjoyable than I expected. Much the way I've always imagined a schizophrenic feels when they go off their meds and just listen to the voices in their heads for a change, it's a huge relief. For me, it's been a healthy relief. It's allowed me to write without worrying about what people/readers will think. (Let's face it, most writers are anything but normal.) It's brought friendships that are real and messy and intimate and all that other stuff I avoided for so long, because I've surrounded myself with people I find interesting, and who don't think I'm all that weird. I now find that for me, normal = B-O-R-I-N-G.

I live in a cave. I'm a little weird. And it's okay.

Misc. drivel...

Things I like to do alone:
- go to a movie in the theatre
- write
- eat breakfast or lunch at a greasy spoon
- clean
- do laundry
- look at art
- nap
- go to the dog park with Brady
- take road trips
- shop for necessities
- sleep

Things I like to do with someone else:
- jog
- read in bed
- travel
- talk about miscellaneous drivel
- garden
- cook
- make big decisions
- shop for recreation (almost never happens)
- go out for drinks/dinner
- take Grace somewhere fun
- sleep

Shout out.

I always love comments on my blog — even the nasty ones! Yesterday's batch truly made my day, however, and I wanted to say a heartfelt thank you, to friends and strangers. At times I can't imagine my ruminations could be of interest to anyone but my parents (actually, I'm pretty sure they stopped reading this a long time ago because of all the swearing). So why blog? I blog out of a need to write; I blog because it brings some order to the chaos in my brain; and yes, I blog to promote my book. The unexpected side effect has been the connection I feel when someone gets what I'm saying. So again, thank you!

Perspective, with a side of humility.

You know those emails that beg you to appreciate life by depicting starving children and war-torn countries? Usually, I find them patronizing and heavy-handed, and delete them without much thought. (Which is out of character for me, because I have made an art form of finding people worse off than I.) But I received one the other day that crawled under my skin, the images making their way to my heart and refusing to go away. Perhaps because my last post was so poor-me, or maybe because Grace has been crankier than usual, or possibly because I was still feeling sick and tired. For whatever reason, the message hit its target and resonated with me, and forced me to realized that my glass is WAY more than half full. (I know — who am I and what have I done with Laurel's body?)

My next post was going to be a rant about those who complain: about having to spend hundreds of dollars on unnecessary crap for their kids because Grandma and Grandpa won't pony up the cash, about having a fender bender in their gas-guzzling SUV and having to shell out $$$ for a deductible AND a rental, about being strapped by the mortgage on their vacation home, about not being able to find exactly the right pair of shoes for a party. (I have done several of the above.) But my heart isn't in it, because I realize it's all a matter of perspective. We all struggle; who decides what is a legitimate gripe and what is not?

One of the things I love about Portland is its lack of snobbery. When I lived in Chicago, almost all of my friends were college graduates who worked in advertising (yawn). When I moved to Portland, I realized that people here do what they need to do to make a living and spend the rest of their time pursuing passions: wind-surfing, mountain climbing, horseback riding, bicycling, animals and yes, writing. What a relief it was to just be myself and have a diverse group of friends who didn't judge one another based on their income. (Don't get me wrong, there is a faction in Portland that lives to go out at night and be fabulous; they are easy to avoid by not going to the Pearl District at night, particularly on weekends or the first Thursday of every month.)

The friend tree has had a few prunings over the years, most recently those who are social climbers and are unable to empathize with someone downwardly mobile (that would be me). And by social climber, I don't mean someone with money. One of my favorite people in the world has more money than all of my friends put together, but keeps it real. In fact, she says, "I love you" more than anyone I know, and means it. But friends who are more interested in the right neighborhoods and schools and social circles disappoint me, and bore me. I was a rung on the ladder, and am therefore no longer needed. (I'm not losing sleep over this.)

I have a home. I have a strange and wonderful nuclear family. I have friends who know what it means to struggle, and who have been so supportive over the last year, I don't know how I will ever repay them. I have enough savings to pay rent and fill my fridge with food (organic or not). And I have a passion, one so strong it makes me sorry for those who don't. It's time to get back to writing, to leave behind the inconsequential speed bumps that have slowed my progress, and keep my eye on the final destination.

Ultimately, it's time to focus on helping others again, something I used to do without a second thought but have failed to do even as others were helping me. If you have a moment, please visit this website, and if you are fortunate enough that you can help, please do so. Lisa has been my inspiration for months now (which would surely make her barf if the chemo hasn't already), and I can't imagine remaining so positively... positive in her situation. Also, when she's healthy, I plan to impose on her with a visit and a horseback ride, so the sooner, the better.

Oh — and for the record, I love you. All of you.

Frame of mind.

I've been thinking a lot lately about stress vs. anxiety, unhappiness vs. depression, goals vs. dreams, abundance vs. wealth and, of course, Tylenol vs. Motrin. I've also been shuffling around the house in my underwear quite a bit, so I don't claim to be thinking clearly, but I can't help but wonder what determines my state of mind — whether it has to do with how I'm hardwired or with what's actually going on in my life.

When a friend gave me a pep talk the other day about my attitude, I took it to heart and tried to look past my chronic anxiety and assess what's going on around me and in my head. Being analytical, I decided the best way to illustrate how I spend my time and emotional energy (lately) was with a pie chart. My conclusion is that it's not pretty, but it could be worse. I do have real stressors in my life demanding attention and draining my body and mind. I've tried to be proactive rather than reactive, but it's not really my nature to take things in stride and keep emotions in check. For example, I could label one slice "finances" and allow that to include my eleven-month stretch of unemployment and the seven-month delay in the house sale, realizing that when one or both of the aforementioned are resolved, the financial strain will lighten a bit. But my brain doesn't work that way. I compartmentalize, possibly so that I can direct my frustration towards specifics: the idiot neighbor, the person who didn't hire me , even the H1N1 virus that has made daily life so difficult for two weeks now.

Fortunately, this allows me to see that, while I may have been down lately, it's because I'm overwhelmed by life's complications, not because I'm depressed or weak. And while I'm wound tightly on my best days, there are valid reasons that stress has been taking its toll on me, physically and emotionally. On the other hand, I look at that tiny little slice of things that bring me joy, and I realize that I have been waiting for the problems to disappear before I get back to living my life. That's not a great recipe for happiness, particularly if I want to make progress toward realistic goals and strive to enjoy a sense of abundance rather than deprivation.

The joblessness sucks; it's been almost a year. I've never before had to stand in the grocery store and decide whether or not I can afford healthy food instead of cheap crap. This is one sacrifice I'm not willing to make, at least when it comes to Grace, so I make concessions elsewhere. I've learned to live with less, and I'm grateful for that. Slowly, it's becoming easier to focus on what we have rather than what we don't; to realize it's possible to have more fun doing things that don't cost money; to enjoy visiting friends in their homes or ours instead of going out to dinner. Why is it so complicated to learn to live simply?

Sometime soon, I hope to have a pie chart that looks more like this. This seems like a nice, normal life. I should probably leave a little "misc." slice for the unexpected, since I suspect raising a daughter will provide plenty of of unforeseen challenges opportunities. Also, I could get ambitious and include travel, volunteer work, book tours and that Pulitzer Prize, of course. But for now, four slices of pie is more than enough, as long as I have the right people with whom to share it.

Changes.

I went through my emails the other day, filing those that seemed worth keeping and trashing the rest. Most of the keepers went into one of four folders: accident, divorce, house sale and job search. It occurred to me that most people probably don't have those categories, or at least not all four at once. (On a positive note, I do not have one labeled "brain tumor," so I've got that going for me.) My point is that there is an unusual amount of conflict in my life right now.

I've been encouraged to keep my blog(s) as impersonal and, well, boring, as possible, lest they be used against me to prove that I AM NOT A PERFECT PERSON. For the record, the whole point of this particular blog is that I'm not a perfect person, and it's been a relief to be able to write about my struggles. So I think this sucks.

If you happen to wonder what's happened to all the interesting stuff I used to explore here, now you know. I'll miss the sense of community and catharsis that came with sharing the bad times with the good, but I'll try to keep things entertaining and light without being too terribly boring. No more posts labeled "insanity" I suppose.

For you fashionistas out there...

Last week I read "The Gospel According to Coco Chanel" by Karen Karbo (in one sitting), and realized the sad state of affairs to which I have sunk, wardrobe-wise. My basic uniform is jeans and a T-shirt; if it's cold, jeans and a sweater. (The selection criteria are simple: Does it smell bad? Is it stained? Does it fit?) I have a closet full of ridiculously girly clothes that seemed like a good idea at the time, but even when I want to look especially presentable, I just trade out the jeans for black pants. Needless to say, Coco Chanel's style appeals to me, for the simple fact that it's simple.

Last summer I went to The Mercantile with a girlfriend who can afford to buy clothes there, and is on a first-name basis with the staff. The saleswoman helping us (okay, her) was older, maybe sixty, with lovely silver hair and what I judged to be the perfect outfit: an exquisitely tailored, crisp, white oxford, untucked, over slim black pants and fabulous loafers. I told her that if I had her build (tall and lean) I would wear a variation of that outfit every day. (My body does NOT resemble that of Mademoiselle Chanel's ideal model, herself: flat-chested and boyishly lean.) The saleswoman laughed off my compliment, or more likely laughed at the fact that her "simple" ensemble cost more than my monthly mortgage payment. She left an impression, however, one that was brought to mind the other night as I read Karen Karbo's wonderfully enjoyable account of the life and sensibilities of Coco Chanel.

A few days later I was to meet with a woman charged with the daunting task of treating the anxiety that has frequently paralyzed me since my car accident in July. I dressed that day with my renewed appreciation for simplicity: crisp white oxford, untucked, over jeans and loafers. (The stupid black pants didn't fit.) Since the woman's business card included the words "life coach" and "hypnotherapist," I assumed she would be a hooey-wooey type, complete with flowing skirt, beads and, possibly, incense. Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by the (almost) spitting image of the saleswoman from The Mercantile: crisp, white tuxedo shirt, untucked, over slim black pants and fabulous loafers. I thought to myself, "Huh, I think I'm gonna dig this lady." And I did. Not only was her outfit no-nonsense, but so was her approach to healing. No digging around in the past or looking deep within; rather, she encouraged me to look forward and start behaving like the person I want to be. Pretty cool, and I believe quite consistent with Coco Chanel's own philosophy. Strangely synchronistic, and very reassuring for my mental health, not to mention the future of my personal style.

I blog, therefore I am?

I started my first blog out of laziness. I was tired of emailing photos of Grace to everyone who was interested in watching her grow, so I figured it made more sense to post pictures in one central location that anyone could access. Then, because I'm a writer and parenting was so challenging fascinating to me, I added commentary and began addressing other amusing aspects of family life. It was a funny blog and, validation junkie that I am, all the positive feedback was like a drug to me.

I'm not sure why I started this blog when John and I split up. There's nothing particularly funny about divorce, and I knew I was walking a fine line between venting and oversharing. Surprisingly, however, traffic to this site outnumbered the original "Grace Under Pressure" two to one, leading me to conclude that everyone loves a train wreck. So I've tried to keep it honest and somewhat entertaining, without being too maudlin or stepping on anyone's privacy. It never occurred to me that complete strangers would find my ruminations interesting, but I've made friends through blogging that I wouldn't have otherwise, and I cherish them as much as my friends that I see and talk to. Unexpectedly, both blogging and facebook have helped me feel connected during what I hope will be one of the most challenging years of my life.

This week I spent a few days in bed with Grace, both of us miserably sick and grumpy. Every now and then we'd wake up, stare at each other and groan, then go back to sleep. When I needed to, though, I got up and sat in front of my computer, reaching out to friends without having to leave the house or even pick up the phone. (Or shower, or brush my teeth.) I found comfort in knowing I could do that, that if I needed support it would be there, regardless of whether it was my brother and Michael dropping by with supplies, or a virtual, long-distance hug from someone I've never met in person.

I have lots of loose ends to tie up in my life, but now that I see a light at the end of the tunnel, I'm hoping the scales will soon tilt, and that my posts will become more entertaining and less depressing. (But not too cheerful; I know my audience.) Also, I've given the site a little makeover, and I'm adding free ads as a way of saying thanks to friends who have been particularly there, or things I think are nifty.

All of this is my long-winded way of saying, "Thanks, internet. You've been a good sport."

Comic relief.

My parents sent this to me when I was in college, and I've kept it this long because it always makes me laugh. (Click to enlarge.)

Before and after.

I'm not really springing back into action post-accident. In fact, I am not at all myself, and my normal self isn't exactly an energetic little ray of sunshine to begin with. According to the Portland ER doc who saw me when I woke up disoriented, dizzy and unable to string a sentence together, this is common with head injuries, but as far as I'm concerned, it just sucks. On days when I take care of Grace, I struggle to find the energy to keep up with her, physically and mentally. She knows something's wrong. Brady knows something's wrong. Even the guy who gave me the rental car must have figured something was wrong, because it took him a full ten minutes to convince me that I wouldn't have to pay anything. I just couldn't comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, because I knew as soon as we stopped talking, I would have to climb behind the wheel of a car (an ivory PT Cruiser!) and drive home. I was actually shaking, and not with gleeful anticipation.

My life seems like a series of befores and afters. Before and after John and I split up; before and after last summer's health issues; before and after losing my job; before and after meeting Michael; before and after the ongoing legal issues with the house; before and after Grace was potty trained (yay, Grace!); before and after Max died; before and after the accident.

Could be the concussion, could be the chemical imbalance in my brain prevailing over my meds, could be that this last year has just been unusually stressful, but I'm having a really difficult time regaining my sense of who I am and what I should be doing. Taking care of Grace is draining, but I know what's expected of me; when she's not here, I'm adrift. Normally, I would write. In fact, I'm dying to get back to my novel. The hurdle? My laptop died, and when I sit down at my desktop computer to write, I feel like I'm working, and I don't want to feel that way about the one thing I love to do. I have nothing against working (my lack of employment notwithstanding); I just want to continue to experience writing as something that brings me joy and fulfillment and keeps me in the moment, endlessly. That may sound spoiled, but I'm funny that way. So tomorrow I will focus on one step at a time: get up, shower, bring desktop computer to The Mac Store, trade in for a laptop. The most challenging leg of this adventure will be the part where I have to shower. It still hurts, and I have to confront my cuts and bruises in the mirror.

On a positive note, think of all the water I'm saving by showering every other day. Also, I'm stationary quite a bit more since I've lost my mojo, which Brady loves. This dog wants nothing more than a warm body to lie on, and the occasional decomposing animal to eat. What would I do without my little family?

Wild ride.

I'm back on that wackadoo emotional rollercoaster, where one minute I'm feeling connected and in the moment, and the next thing I know I've fallen into a funk and can't get up. I thought I had become fairly adept at rolling with the punches, focusing on the positive and trying to believe that everything is happening for a reason. Perhaps I was premature with my smug self-congratulations.

Grace still keeps me on my toes, but she seems to have turned a corner where expressing her frustrations is concerned. This is great, because now I know what's bothering her, and if it's that Brady is in her spot on the sofa, I can deal. But if it's that she's sad because she misses Daddy when she's here and misses Mommy when she's there, well, that's heartbreaking. And another post entirely. (Next up: my thoughts on divorce. In a word? Shitty.)

Back to good things. I got a sweet review on mamalit.com, which gave me a much needed boost (but has done diddly for sales). I also got a lovely email from a woman who read Soft Landing and took the time to sit down and tell me why. THAT made my day, mostly because of the act of kindness, but also because she came to read Soft Landing in exactly the way I imagined. She read a comment I left on another blog, which prompted her to check out my blog, which resulted in her ordering my book. If that happened a hundred times a day, I'd be set!

I've also finished the first three chapters of my next book, and I can't express the feeling I get when I'm writing and I'm in a groove and I know the words are coming together beautifully. It's a high, and sometimes I get going and before I know it the day is gone. Other times, I can't even open my laptop, because I'm afraid I won't find any words at all. I don't like to write when I feel uninspired; but, just as momentum can keep me going for hours when I'm loving it, inertia can paralyze me for days if I don't force myself to sit down and WRITE ANYTHING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST WRITE.

Back and forth, back and forth. I'll spend time with a friend and feel so lucky to have such wonderful people in my life, and the next day I'll pick up the phone to call someone but I can't imagine a single person will want to talk to me. I spent all day today working in the yard, happy as a clam and full of optimism about the time we'll spend here. Then I came in, showered, ate dinner and totally hit a wall. (Blood sugar could have been the culprit there.) So here I am, babbling away and not really feeling anything but sore at the moment. Bedtime, and, I hope, happy dreams.

How do you choose what to read?

I infrequently read nonfiction, but I picked up A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle to inspire me this Memorial Day weekend. It felt appropriate, since we needn't reach any further back than yesterday to find three U.S. soldiers killed in combat. I honor those soldiers as much as veterans from WWI or Vietnam, but I can't help feeling we haven't learned nearly enough, as a nation or globally, to make the shift away from violence as a means of settling disputes. Yes, I know this is naive. But I'll be naive rather than cynical; hopeful rather than resigned; peaceful rather than combative for as long as I can remain so.

The fact that I own A New Earth started me thinking about how I decide what to read. I realized that I rely on a handful of friends who read voraciously and recommend books passionately. Book reviews don't move me to action and I don't pay attention to bestseller lists, although I generally know what "everyone is reading" the way some people know what everyone is wearing or where everyone is dining. But I will buy and read a book if Leslie, Justine, Jodi or Vicky clutch a hand to their heart and say, "You have to read this!" I have half a dozen or so beloved authors I follow, and I will sometimes make an impulsive purchase if I'm in a bookstore and something catches my eye. For the most part, however, my reading list is informed by my girls.

Word of mouth works for me as a reader. But as an author? Creating "buzz" is something that may forever elude me. And I wonder how the rest of you choose which books to cozy up with at night?

Back to work.

No, I haven't gotten a job, but author Cheryl Strayed quoted an L.A. Times essay on facebook, which made me realize it's time to dust off the laptop and get back to writing. The quote? "Failure is commonplace in the career of a writer, and a second novel is the beginning of a writer's career." That sounds about right. I love Soft Landing, but that second novel isn't going to write itself while I sit around wringing my hands about disappointing sales. I can keep loving my first baby while nurturing my second. I need to get back to that creative place where I find myself totally absorbed turning ideas into beautiful words. That's when I'm happiest.

If Soft Landing finds an audience, fantastic. But I've pushed so hard, for so much longer than it took me to write the book. I want to remember the writing, which was such a joy, instead of the selling, which has left me feeling empty. The positive feedback I've gotten has meant so much to me, but it doesn't bring the same satisfaction as finishing a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter. So on to child number two, and that crazy balancing act that comes with writing, parenting, working (one hopes) and just living.