Tuesday, December 10, 2019

My Literary Family

Note: Don't worry, my friends, I'll be posting about my upcoming book release and book signing schedule soon.  For now, I hope you enjoy this little nugget that's been napping in my "drafts" for a while. :-)

I began to realize I had a literary family when I was in graduate school.  I knew that I had a passion for Victorian novels, and so I signed up for an independent study with two girlfriends, and we sat in the professor's office drinking tea, petting his dog, and discussing Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, and, among others, Thomas Hardy.  We read Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and I was enraptured.  I loved the language and the way that Hardy made the place of the novel so essential to the emotional lives of the characters.  The setting was in fact a character all its own. The very next semester I undertook an independent study with the same professor, this time focusing singularly on the novels of Thomas Hardy.  The first book we read was Far From the Madding Crowd, and that was it--I announced that Thomas Hardy was my literary husband.  I wanted to spend my life with him, and I vowed that I would.

But life is complicated, y'all.  Because no sooner had I announced my marriage to Thomas Hardy than I was introduced to my literary boyfriend, William Faulkner.  In a Southern Literature class, a class I had signed up for begrudgingly (because my snooty self couldn't imagine that any American could write as beautifully as the Brits), we read Absalom, Absalom!, and I was hooked from page one.  I began devouring Faulkner, purchasing As I Lay Dying straight away and soon returned to a book I had discarded years before after reading only one page--The Sound and the Fury.  I don't know what was different this time around, but I could not get enough of Faulkner and his run on sentences, disregard for standard punctuation, and unashamed baring of the complexity of the human heart.  I realized that I was a woman with two lovers, and I refused to choose.

From there, my literary family grew: my uncle, Mark Twain (because everyone knows that uncle who teaches the little kids dirty jokes and cuss words at family gatherings); my grandfather, Walt Whitman (because he's watching me all the time anyway, and I'm pretty sure he gives me $5 randomly); my aunt, Flannery O'Connor (an aunt with pet peacocks and a dark sense of humor?  Yes, please!); my best friend, Virginia Woolf (we go to marches together); my other literary uncle, Ernest Hemingway (the one who brings a new lady friend to every family event); my Southern grandmother, Katherine Anne Porter (so damn sassy!); my cousins, ee cummings and Tennessee Williams; not to mention my goddess of a grandmother, Toni Morrison or that aunt who tells me all her best stories, Sandra Cisneros...I'll stop there.  I think you get the idea.

I speak about these writers are part of my "literary family" because they have become such an essential part of what's made me, me.  When I read, "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry", it affects me in a deep and lasting way.  I can't rid of it (not that I want to).  Their words have become part of me; I live with them every day.

Whitman wrote that as we go through life, every action connects us with every person who has ever done the same.  For example, if I go out and look at the moon tonight (and it is a rather fetching crescent this evening), I am connected beyond the man-made bonds of time with every person who has ever looked at the moon, and every person who ever will.

When I read the words of these writers, I'm connected with everyone who has every read them, but I'm also connected with the writers themselves.  And that's magical, my friends.  Oscar Wilde (another wild uncle-oh, the puns!) wrote "The Ballad of Reading Gaol"--like, he actually composed those lyrics--so as I read them, I'm experiencing them as he did when he read the poem through the first time, or the second, or the third.

Reading is such a connective experience--it forms bonds we can't even imagine.  I love mentioning a book in passing and someone's ecstatic reply that they read that book as well.  Connected.

We should talk about reading more often.  What are you reading?  What work has most affected you?  What book can you never understand?  What writers are in your literary family?

And you know what?  Now that you've read these words, you're in mine.  Welcome.

Sunday, December 1, 2019

Cozy Spaces

Where I write is essential.

If you've followed me on Instagram for some time, then you've been introduced to several of my favorite writing spaces.

There's a coffee shop in my town that is a writer's haven.  It's independent, charity-centered, and downright cozy--even when filled with strangers.  The handcrafted tables and chairs fill the space with artistry, and the tables are topped with glass panes, beneath which lie mounds of raw coffee beans.  Yum.  The smells of coffee and crepes fill the atmosphere, and when you breathe it in, it's like eating the air.  Ahhhhh....

There are several spot in my home that I find cozy writing spaces.  I've written about my writing chair often, but honestly I can't give it enough love.  That armchair has been with me since college, and allowing myself to sink into it is one way of escaping from my world and entering that of someone else.  I'm enveloped in the fabric, and lost to this day and this time.  It's seen its share of life; there are small tears on the edges and marker-drawn lines along the arms (so I have a little reminder of my kids with me when I write), but the chair has also worn into my shape.  It's simply meant for me.

On a beautiful day, no matter the temperature, I'll write on my back porch.  I joke that my house has three porches: the reading porch (screened in), the sunbathing porch (the deck), and the writing porch (under the pergola).  If it's chilly, I wrap myself in a blanket and head on out.  There's something about nature that gets the words flowing for me.  If I'm frustrated with the writing, a walk or a hike re-centers me. 

I've written at the kitchen table, the library, my work desk, and at a hotel, and sometimes that's just fine.  However, given the choice, I like to write someplace cozy.  I can see that I like to be in places where I'm fully enveloped-whether by an aroma, by cloth, or by nature.  I think it's a security thing--I feel safe there, safe to explore and get outside myself.  Safe to become someone else and to listen to the voices in my mind.  Safe to allow myself to become the vessel, the means.  I am most alive in these cozy spaces.

Friday, November 1, 2019

It's National Novel Writing Month!

Every year I take on NaNoWriMo and its 50,000 word challenge, and every year I don't even make a dent in that goal.

Maybe it's the fact that I have a preschooler and a preteen.

Maybe it's that I work a full time job and tutor on the side.

Maybe it's that you can't "force" creativity.

Maybe it's that I don't get enough sleep at night.

Maybe it's that I am my own writer's block.

I think that last statement might be the correct option.  We are often our own creative blockers.  We let all of the "stuff" of life get into our heads and take up space.  I've written about my anxiety struggles on this blog, and, let me tell you, they are absolutely a creativity blocker!  Lately I've been so preoccupied with the uncertainty around me that I haven't had the space my characters need to breathe, much less to live out their extraordinary lives.  My mind has been filled with unexpected changes at work, with my children's struggles, with the illness of a family member, with to-do lists for my community commitments.  How in the world do I expect to hear my characters if I can't even hear myself for all the jumbled noise?

What I've come to realize is that NaNoWriMo isn't actually a goal.  It's a space.  A space that focuses me for the month of November, at least as best it can when combating my raging anxiety.  This one month of the year is focused on creativity.  So what if I don't get 50,000 words of a novel written?  If I get 1000 words, I've probably written more than I would have without this focus.  Indeed, November is the month when "busyness" really starts ramping up.  What a perfect month to try to focus, to be quiet, to let others speak.

So this November, I encourage you to take part in NaNoWriMo, even in an unofficial capacity.  If you write one haiku every other day during the month of November, you've brought that much creativity into the world.  Good for you.  If you write your 50,000 words, remarkable--you've created new life.  If you write 100 words and get swept up in the swirling world around us--great job!  You found time.  Maybe not the time you wanted, but time nonetheless.

I'll be keeping myself honest here and on www.nanowrimo.org.  My goal?  Write more.  And I have a sneaking suspicion that if I do that, I'll quiet my mind and my life a bit too.

Monday, October 14, 2019

Little Love Poem

little love poem
like a song
blowing through the trees that surround my heart
seeking the sky of my mind
longing to fill my everywhere soul
little love poem
sing in my bones
dance on my fingers
loafe in my heart
little love poem
brighten my eyes
fly on my breath
live within me
always

Sunday, September 29, 2019

Those Who Give Us Life

I've been doing a lot of thinking in recent weeks.  I've made some big life changes, and I've been working to reconnect with people who have influenced and inspired me.  I've learned a lot in 2019, but the most important lesson I've taken to heart is that we must surround ourselves with people who give us life.

I was a teacher for many years, and that work fueled my heart and fed my soul.  I created so many lasting relationships, both with colleagues and students, and I absolutely loved being at school each day, sharing my love of books, fawning over Faulkner and Tennessee Williams, and striving to make each student feel loved, honored, and appreciated as they are.  That's good work.

And man, was I surrounded by people who gave me life.  My teacher friends affirmed me, supported me, made me feel needed, laughed with me, emotionally ate with me, and cried with me.  Teaching is tough stuff, but if you have the right people around you, you really are part of a community.  I had the most fun I've had in my life with those friends in those years--the most fun.

But life has a way of signalling us, if we're open to receiving the signals, and that's just what happened to me.  Because just as we should surround ourselves with people who give us life, we must also erect boundaries between ourselves and those who do not.  It's a painful process, and it sometimes means we must move on from people and places we love.  Yet faith assures us that our inner genius, as Emerson always referred to our intuition, knows the way.

I am now in an environment where I can be authentically myself, where I am surrounded by people who affirm me, who know my character, who believe in my integrity and my dedication to goodness, who support me as I strive to do my part as a writer, a woman, and a human being.  In addition, I've been able to develop relationships that had been put in a box somewhere.  My teacher friends and I are closer in a different way, as we now have to make an effort to find time for one another--no more just popping next door.  A dear friend from whom I had drifted when I was struggling through this process was dutifully waiting for me on the other side, excited to get lunch during my lunch break (a foreign concept to teachers).  One of my colleagues in writing, a prophetic, powerful writer in her own right, recently shared her project with me, because now we have time to discuss it and to learn more about each other's processes and work.

My family time has shifted, but the quality has only improved as I come home each day stress-free and calm, ready to watch Wild Kratts or Downton Abbey, depending on which child is in the living room.

I have removed from my day to day those people who don't bring me life, and I'm focusing my efforts on those who do.  I pray that I myself am a life-bringer.  That has always been and will always be my goal.  Let us surround ourselves with people who support our goals, believe in us, know our hearts, love us in all our idiosyncrasies and faults, and want to see us thrive.  Then we shall, unashamedly, be our authentic selves.  Then we can really change the world for good.

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Confessions

I'm currently reading I'd Rather Be Reading: The Delights and Dilemmas of the Reading Life, by Anne Bogel, my delightful sister-in-spirit and creator of the blog "Modern Mr. Darcy".  If you read my blog but haven't read hers, then you've made a mistake and you need to head over there immediately.  #lifegoals

One chapter in I'd Rather Be Reading focuses on the books that avid readers are ashamed to admit they haven't read.  That got me thinking: perhaps it's confession time.

The truth is that I haven't purposefully avoided any of these works.  Somehow, despite my high school English classes, college English major courses, and graduate school English major courses, I never encountered them.  In fact, I own many of them...I just haven't picked them up.  Admittedly, there are a few I began but then put down for one reason or another.  Yet there are so many books to read, and only this one life, so when I'm not captivated I'm quick to put the book down and choose another.

In my twenties, I would refuse to "quit" a book.  Haha!  She who thought she had all the time in the world to read!  Now I have two children and I'm nearing forty--my available reading time has quickly diminished!  So I'm a quitter.  But rarely do I intended to walk away from the book, never to return.  I'll come back again and again until I read that book, but in the meantime...

My Shameless List of Books I'm Ashamed I Haven't Read

Grapes of Wrath: Okay, so I've read selections from this one, and I've read almost every other Steinbeck novel.  But the truth is that I've faked having read this book on multiple occasions.  See, I'm already defensive.
Little Women
Persuasion
The Secret Garden
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
Oliver Twist
The Brothers Karamazov
Crime and Punishment
Sherlock Holmes (and I mean...any of it)
The Three Musketeers
Madame Bovary
The Pillars of the Earth
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Roots
Catch 22
1984
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Where the Red Fern Grows: Okay, I admit it.  I lied.  I've avoided this one.
Atlas, Shrugged
Any book in the series other than The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
The Age of Innocence
Lord of the Rings: Caveat--I read the first book and half of the second.  I left off in the middle of a rather long poem, as I recall...

Now that I've unburdened myself, I ask you, dear readers--which shall I read first?

Thursday, August 15, 2019

25 Things You Might Not Know About Me

I was listening to an audiobook recently, and the author talked about a social media phenomenon from a few years ago calling for people to post "25 Things You Don't Know About Me."  Well, I'm a sucker for a good list, so here we go!

1. I was born in Naples, Florida, which has formed me into a total beach snob.
2. I hate beach sand.  Hate it.
3. I once ate a delicious meal in the country of Liechtenstein.
4. I've had a near-death experience.
5. I have seen over fifty bands/singers in concert (including U2 3x, Britney 3x, The Killers 2x).  I love live music!
6. My favorite movie is Beasts of the Southern Wild, but I'm also a sucker for Roman Holiday.
7. If I could eat as much of one food as I wanted with no consequences, it would be chocolate cake with chocolate icing.
8. I have a caffeine intolerance.  My body hates it.  I love it.  Chocolate has caffeine in it.
9. I have traveled to nine countries and sixteen states.
10. I would move to England tomorrow.
11. My personal library has 773 books in it (not including Special Collections).
12. I keep my special books in a china cabinet.
13. I've been to Disney World too many times to count, and my favorite ride is The Haunted Mansion.  Hands down.
14. When I left home for college, I had a complete emotional breakdown and begged to come home.  Now I work there.
15. I am an only child.
16. I'm an introvert (no one believes this, but I promise you, it's true).
17. I love to be on stage.  My favorite of all of the roles I've played is Adam in The Compleat Wrks of Wllm Shkspr: Abridged.
18. When I grow up, I want to be like Michelle Obama, then RBG.
19. When I was a kid, I fished with a cane pole on a homemade raft and used chicken livers as bait. (I grew up on a four hundred acre farm.)
20. I'm fabulous with power tools.
21. I've dealt with anxiety as long as I can remember, but I only realized it senior year of college.  If you see it in someone you love, help them recognize it.
22. I have a record of chasing famous people down the street to get their autograph. #noshame
23. My hair has been brunette, orange, pink, and blonde--but my natural color is light brown and I have a birth mark in my hair--a white streak!
24. The book I've read more times than any other is The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
25. I once dressed up as Paula Abdul for my school's "What I Want to Be When I Grow Up" day.

I thought I should put something really profound, but I'll save that for another list.  Let me know if I should elaborate on any of these facts...I'm a storyteller, after all!

Saturday, August 10, 2019

Oooooooooooooooo......Ghostwriting

Some of you may recall that I've taken on a ghostwriting project.  One of my friends has a remarkable personal story, one of those that you listen to and say, "That sounds like a novel!"  I am honored that she asked me to help her put her story on paper.

But ghostwriting is hard.  When I'm working on a novel, it flows.  I listen to the voices tell me their stories, and I let it pour onto the page (or rather, click click onto the page).  I recently had someone say to me, "I don't put much stock in it when writers say they didn't know what the character was going to say or where the story was going to go.  That's just, whatever."  Spoken like a non-writer.  I don't know where it's going most of the time.  So much of writing is listening.

But ghostwriting is different.  The story doesn't come from within me.  I listen to voices, but they're informed by the stories I've been given.  I don't cultivate the voices; they've already spoken.

Here's the process we're working through.  My friend is writing out her story in a series of journals which I am transcribing and forming into a memoir.  We've sat for hours looking at pictures and talking about the people, places, and events she's written about.  When I sit down to write, I try to read her notes in her voice, and then keep that voice in the words I put to the page.  I write, imagining what she might have felt, posting questions in the margins asking for the colors of clothes, the sights, smells, thoughts.  I put commentary into the "characters'" minds and make a note to ask if that's a reasonable assumption.

This is hard work.

And yet I love it.  I am a storyteller.  I've written on this blog about the power of stories, the necessity of stories.  So using my words to give voice to someone's authentic story?  I'm all in.

I'll say it again.  We need stories now.  We need your stories.  Pick up a pen.  And if you just can't craft it, find someone who can.  Everyone's life has value and meaning, and everyone's life is worth sharing, if you're up for it.  Tell someone your story.  Validate it.  Affirm it in all its messiness.  Speak it. 

Your story matters.

Saturday, July 27, 2019

Change

I like to think that I'm good with change.  I love traveling and imagining myself living in my destination.  I'm infamous for calling my husband from, say, Dallas, and announcing, "Pack your bags!  We're moving!"  I enjoy looking at real estate listings and envisioning where I would put our furniture if we bought each house.  Rearranging furniture is my jam, and man-oh-man do I love purging and reorganizing the pantry!

But I'm also a sucker for steadiness.  Every summer, without fail, I reorganize my library.  The fiction titles are alphabetized, and the nonfiction books are arranged according to the Dewey Decimal System.  When I go home to Georgia, it makes my heart ache to see that my room, once covered with my friends' signatures on every wall and ceiling surface, has been repainted.  And when I drive past a well known forest to find the trees cleared, I tear up.

Yet I am currently making some big changes in my life.  I just began a new career, one I never anticipated, but one to which I believe I've been led.  It meant many heartbreaking farewells, including farewell to a career I loved so completely, the only career besides writing that I ever envisioned for myself.  Still, my first days in my new venture have confirmed that when I made the change, I was right.  Emerson once wrote, "Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.  Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events" ("Self-Reliance").  I have been sitting quietly for months, listening.  And here I am.  It's no surprise to me that the day I made the decision to change is the same day I found out that Sweet Divinity is now entering the editing process at its publisher.  This is the beginning of a new era.

So naturally I needed to make more tangible changes to match the changes inside of me.  I've been practicing yoga every morning (and I bought an essential oil diffuser which has added even more sensory experience to my practice), and I created a dedicated writing space.

Our family playroom has been a disaster for months.  It wasn't even usable space anymore.  The room was crammed full of toys, discarded souvenirs, and furniture that didn't seem to fit anywhere else in the house.  Also, for months I've been longing for a dedicated writing space.  It's been too hot to write outside on the back porch, and having a four-year old in the house doesn't allow for much privacy.  Yesterday I found my husband cleaning the playroom and, within twenty-four hours, I had my own space.

The desk at which I write was originally part of my mother's bedroom set.  It's late '60s/early'70s green and off-white, with a green vinyl cushioned stool for a seat.  When I was growing up, the desk and seat served my grandmother in her sewing endeavors.  On this desk she made all of my theatre costumes, summer dresses, and even a formal dress for my senior Sweetheart Dance.  Its central drawer contains literary finger puppets of Virginia Woolf and Zora Neale Hurston, cards printed with inspiring quotes, and your typical desk necessities.  Another drawer holds a notepad, post-its, index cards (because I LOVE writing on index cards!), and daily checklists and planning sheets.  The middle drawer contains my stationary--because I refuse to let the handwritten letter die--not on my watch!  Finally, the bottom drawer holds mementos--mostly artwork created by my kids, but also my Hamilton playbook and Disney Magic Bands.

The top of the desk and the area surrounding it are decorated with items that inspire me.  In addition to the photos and art pieces I've already written about on the blog or on social media are a candle scented to evoke Edgar Allan Poe, a Jane Austen prayer candle, a mug from the Library of Congress, working notebooks for my ghostwriting project, and whale bookends that I've stolen from my son because he can't yet appreciate Moby-Dick (yes, I know Moby Dick was a white whale).  In future days I'll be highlighting these inspiring objects on social media.

If you feel as if you're in a rut, I encourage you to re-imagine your space.  I didn't spend a cent on this project, but I feel renewed and, honestly, more established in my writing.  Even if it's a shelf in your bedroom, I ask you to re-imagine a space today.  Shift some items around, purge what doesn't bring you joy, and bring to the space objects that feed you.  I promise you'll feel renewed.

And a little cat-cow yoga wouldn't hurt either.

Monday, July 22, 2019

Washington DC: The Capital of Words!

A few weeks ago, my husband and I decided to take a last-minute trip to Washington, DC.

Let me begin with a confession: I'm thirty-nine years old, and I had never been to Washington, DC.

It's a funny story, really.

When I was in middle school, I was invited to join the "Gifted and Talented" class at my public school.  I threw a fit.  I didn't find it at all fair that the kids who scored higher on one standardized test were given access to learning opportunities and information that the other students were not.  I refused to be in the class, and I continued to refuse every year of middle school.  Instead, I took the "Enrichment Period" each day, and in it we read books and took part in "enriching" activities (none of which I can recall).  As a result, I never learned the history of the American presidents (until a road trip in college when my now husband, horrified that I didn't know that Pierce was a president, taught me to name them in order), and I didn't get to go on the Washington DC field trip.

Despite the fact that I ended up with a few holes in my education, I maintain my stance.  I still find it markedly unfair that some students are given access to a more thorough education and more educational opportunities than others.  Who knows which student sitting in my enrichment class would have been inspired to public service on that trip?  Who knows which student, by learning about the presidents, would have been inspired to take on a leadership role as an adult?  This inequitable access to education disturbs me to this day because it hasn't gotten any better, and we haven't demanded the change.

And so, when my husband and I decided to go on a last minute (and belated 15th anniversary) trip, we decided it was time to fill this gap in my experience and travel to DC.  (I would also add that I had been to the country of Liechtenstein but not to my nation's capital, which I find hilarious.)

I have to tell you, DC exceeded my expectations.  On our first evening, we walked the monuments, which were grander and more profound than I could have imagined.  In particular, the FDR monument, with its words upon words, spoke directly to me and to my beliefs and longings for our nation.  The Korean War monument took me aback; I don't know why this one doesn't get more attention.  The emotion I felt as we approached was only enhanced by the detail on the soldiers' faces as we got closer.  The Vietnam memorial was also more moving than I had expected--perhaps that is because there was an older man in a worn, brimmed hat and a vest covered with buttons standing still, staring at a particular name.  As I walked past, he reached out and felt the letters with his fingers.  I had to walk away; it was too much.  And the Lincoln Memorial--this is one I've longed to see since I was a child.  Standing behind the engraved spot where Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his "I Have a Dream" speech as his voice echoed over the National Mall was a moment in my life that I will always hold dear.  The power of words was everywhere, carved into every monument, a testament to the endurance of language.

We toured the Air and Space Museum, the American History Museum (where I saw the table on which Elizabeth Cady Stanton wrote the Declaration of Sentiments, the ink pots used by Lincoln to sign the Emancipation Proclamation, and Thomas Jefferson's desk upon which his wrote the Declaration of Independence, to name just a few!), the Natural History Museum (dinosaurs!), The National Archives, and the Capitol.  We even got to sit in as the House of Representatives was in session.

But the highlight for me, to no one's surprise, was the Library of Congress.  I'm not sure that even now, a month later, I have the words for what I saw and felt inside that building.  I stood with Thomas Jefferson's library.  I gazed into the breathtaking reading room.  I read every Jefferson quote emblazoned on the arches and walls.  I want to move into that building and live there forever.  Surely friends will sneak in food and water for me.  It was truly a shrine to knowledge and to reading and to words...it was my perfect place.

I cannot wait to return to Washington DC.  The trip renewed my faith in democracy and in the positive power of government.  My husband chased a congresswoman across the Capitol grounds for a picture, and she cheerfully obliged.  Our intern tour guide at the Capitol told us how his job had shown him the good that happens in Washington, the collaboration we never see.  The words that speak forth from every building tell of equality and justice.  I could not help but be inspired to use my words to make those ideals a reality.  Inspiring words are everywhere, carved into stone never to be scraped away.  Let's keep those words at the forefront of all we do, and let's demand that those who represent us do as well.

Having recently returned from Europe, I'll be honest...I was spending a lot of time daydreaming about how much better it would be to live in one of the beautiful countries I visited.  I needed this trip to remind me of the power of the American spirit and the pain, but also the enduring determination, of the American journey.  The words I saw in DC matter.  Nay, they're essential.  They have made us "America".  Let's listen to them, honor them, and ensure they endure.


Best of 2018

After a brief hiatus, this post, originally posted in December 2018, is back on the blog!

Greetings! Tonight is New Year's Eve, and I've been reflecting on the year, as I'm sure many of you have. To be honest, I often approach the new year with a bit of trepidation. It's a huge question mark. This year, however, I'm actually excited for all that the new year has in store. Sweet Divinity is set for publication in 2019. I'm working on establishing a name in freelance writing. I have tickets to see Fleetwood Mac and Elton John early in the year. I'm turning fabulous forty.

So much to look forward to!

But before I look too far ahead, I'm looking back. I've been excited to see that quite a few people I follow on social media have been sharing their "Best Of" lists, and so I thought I'd add mine to the mix.

I read fifty books this year, and I'd like to share my top ten with you. I enter my books on Goodreads immediately upon reading the final page. The following books received my highest ranking this year. You should know that I'm very picky with my five star ranking. These lucky books are listed beginning with the most recently read.


Blue Iris: Poems and Essays by Mary Oliver
Call Me By Your Name by Andre Aciman
Red Bird by Mary Oliver
Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood by Trevor Noah
The Origin of Others by Toni Morrison
The Marvels by Brian Selznick
We Should All Be Feminists by Chimamanda Adichie
The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas
Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem by Maya Angelou

And this one received four stars but still makes the top ten:
Warlight by Michael Ondaatje

Please share the best book you read this year...I'll add it to my list for 2019!

I wish you all the best in the new year. May it be filled with passion, confidence, and joy.

My Watch List

After a brief hiatus, this post, originally posted in December 2018, has returned to the blog!

Perhaps the question I'm most often asked by young people is, "What do you watch?" In the age of binge-watching and Netflix, this question seems to have taken over the classic, "What are you reading?". I read constantly, and right now I'm in the midst of a self-help frenzy; after all, I somehow timed my family so that I have a tween and a toddler in the house!

I do watch a few shows religiously. I'm not proud of all of them, but I'm not embarrassed either. What we watch says a lot about us; this I believe. And I give you the freedom to judge me based on my watch list.

Outlander: I've come late to the party on this one (much as I did with Downton Abbey and my all-time favorite show: Lost--not Penny's boat!); however, I have been fully immersed for the past few weeks catching up on this gem. I read the book about eight years ago as part of a book club, and I fully admit, I had dreaded reading it, thinking my high brow taste for classic literature would be offended. Wrong. I was captivated by the historic setting, the politics, the romance. And now the same can be said for the Starz adaptation. I love escaping into another world, another time. I love gazing upon the rich landscape, and I adore the characters. I'm certain that this show is going to break my heart every time I sit down to watch. I'm right.

Jane the Virgin: A friend recommended this show to me after I rolled my eyes at her insistence that it was great. The title didn't appeal to me in the least. Yet I soon realized that this show is everything I love in entertainment. The casting is spectacular. It has all the drama of a telenovela (and I'm a dramatic lady). The writing is absolutely fantastic. And best of all? The protagonist is a writer, struggling to publish and to make her way through this unpredictable profession. She's optimistic, romantic, and loving--and her father is one of my favorite characters ever! This show depicts familial love in such a beautiful way. My heart is happy every time I watch.

Star Trek: Beyond: I came to Trek through marriage, but I'm all in. As a child, I watched a little TNG and I saw Star Trek VI in theatres because Christian Slater was in it for two seconds. This iteration of Trek is compelling each and every week. The writing is tight and the filming is technically brilliant. It remembers that what so many of us love about Trek are the character dynamics. And man, does this show have some dynamic characters!

Will and Grace: Fabulous in the 90's and fabulous now.

The Bachelor/Bachelorette/Bachelor in Paradise: I have watched every episode of this franchise, and I have no shame. I am absolutely a reality TV junkie. This series, in particular, feeds my love of romance and my desire to see "happily ever after". It doesn't matter to me if they end up actually getting married. I want to see people find love and happiness. And, full disclosure, I love the drama. And the dates. And world travel. And the clothes. And the beaches. And Ashley and Jared.

Dancing with the Stars: Every time I watch, I consider signing up for ballroom lessons, until I recognize, once again, that I am not at all coordinated. Though I do fantasize about becoming just famous enough to be asked on the show. I would happily don the costumes and make a fool of myself on national television, as long as Mark is my partner.

Queer Eye: Thank you, Netflix. I loved this show in its original iteration, but man, this new version is even better! Not only is the show uplifting, funny, and actually quite helpful (I can now identify a "french tuck"), but it's important and relevant. One of my favorite episodes features Karamo in a conversation about race and police brutality with a southern police officer. That's just one example of many times the show features dialogue amongst people who come from different backgrounds, belief systems, communities, and identity groups. This show is important. Required viewing.

That's about it. No crime dramas, medical dramas, weekly tear-jerkers, or I'm-So-Rich reality shows. That's fine for other people, but I like to want to jump into the shows I watch. I watch to experience a different life or a different world (you see what I did there? a great show from my childhood!). Any recommendations to augment my list?

Sunday, July 7, 2019

The Mat--My Happy Place

I posted a photo on Instagram yesterday captioned, "My Happy Place."  I'm not sure that most people know that I practice yoga every single day...so there's a fun fact for you!

I attended my first yoga class during my senior year of high school.  One of the women in my family and I had hit a rough patch, and so we went to yoga together to try to bring peace between us.  I'll never forget walking in and seeing the instructor for the first time--he looked exactly as I'd imagined every yogi looking: tall and thin with a tie dyed t-shirt, baggy sweatpants, and long, wavy hair to his waist, tied back in a ponytail.  He led us through our poses with his soothing voice and then guided us through final meditation (my seventeen-year old self didn't quite have the maturity for that part yet--at least not as he led us).  Yoga didn't "take", we'll say.  I went to a few classes, but I couldn't commit.

Fast forward ten years, and I found myself back in class.  As I've written, I suffer from an anxiety disorder.  I know it and I claim it, and I decided yoga might be helpful.  Thus, I began taking a restorative yoga class on Sunday afternoons at the local gym.  The teacher, Nicole, was just right for this class.  Her voice was beautiful and sing-songy, and when she chanted--ah!!!  We used our bolsters and blocks to relax into poses, and during final meditation, Nicole would cover us with blankets and put eye pillows filled with lavender over our eyes.  At least once a month I would fall asleep during meditation.  It was heavenly--perfect if you're in need of self-care.

I also took hatha yoga and power yoga classes, though inconsistently.  Then I got pregnant with my daughter and yoga was over (let the record show that I did purchase a "Prenatal Yoga" video, which I completed a couple of times, but I'm being real--I was a pretty huge and immobile pregnant woman early on).

I returned to yoga a few years later, when I was in the deepest place of anxiety I had ever been.  Both my pastor and my doctor recommended yoga and meditation in addition to medication and therapy, and I was excited at the prospect: I had deeply missed my time on the mat.

So now I practice yoga every morning, first thing (unless I've done something silly like over-snoozed, in which case I practice before bed that night).  It begins my day perfectly.  My favorite spot to unroll the mat is in our library, facing the open windows at the front of the house.  Our yard is beautiful and green, and in the fall we have the most beautiful tree in the South.  This view connects me with nature, with my breath, with God, with the earth.  It grounds me.  Yoga reminds me to appreciate my body, my heart, my mind, and my strength.  In fact, most often my mantra is, "I am strong."

Centering myself at the beginning of the day clears my mind, refocuses me on gratitude, and helps me begin with a fresh, anxiety-free slate.  On particularly difficult days, I'll add in a ten minute meditation at the end of my practice.

Now you may be asking, "What does this have to do with words?"  Everything.  The words in yoga are breathtaking.  From "ujjayi" and "chaturanga" to "savasana" and "namaste", the words flow beautifully, guide the breath, and fill me up.

No matter if it's at a yoga studio where everyone's ujjayi breaths sound like Darth Vader descending into the room or if it's at the gym with blankets and eye pillows, I hope you'll give it a try.  Remember that yoga is a practice; no one expects you to hit and hold the poses perfectly.  As with most things in life, we are continuously practicing.

If you'd like to get a start at home because you cannot imagine trying to get yourself into downward facing dog in front of strangers, I recommend the YouTube channel "Yoga with Adriene".  She has videos on all of the foundational poses of yoga, and her "30 Days of Yoga" challenge is a great direction from there.  Plus, her catchphrase is "Find What Feels Good", so you know you're with a chill yogi.

For an introduction to meditation, search for guided meditations by Deepak Chopra on YouTube. I found him through Oprah, so there's an endorsement for ya!

Friday, June 21, 2019

Literary Travels, Part IV

The final leg of my trip to Europe provided a return to somewhere I had visited my freshman year of high school (in other words, a couple of decades ago!): Amsterdam.  I have to tell you, visiting Amsterdam as a chaperone versus as a student is an entirely different experience!  But that's another conversation.

During our two days in Amsterdam, we were able to see much of this beautiful city.  We took a canal tour that provided us with history as well as a description of Amsterdam's modern buildings and contemporary way of life.  I found the emphasis on bicycle riding particularly inspiring.  Bicycles are everywhere in this city.  In fact, whereas we were used to seeing car parks as we traveled throughout Europe, in Amsterdam, we saw bicycle parks!

The canals of Amsterdam, the architecture of the buildings, and the emphasis on flowers and greenery are what truly lend charm and beauty to this city.  There's an interplay of natural and man-made elements--a harmony--that is unlike any other major city I have visited.

As you may recall from my earlier posts, I had several comical disappointments on the trip (and I write these words with full, authentic gratitude for the opportunity to travel abroad), beginning with my attempt to finally commune with Thomas Hardy in Poet's Corner.  The trip began this way, and it ended with another "You've Got to Be Kidding Me" moment.

My favorite visual artist is Rembrandt.  Since my first visit to Amsterdam in 1995, I have been entranced by his work, particularly his use of chiaroscuro.  In high school, we studied him in my American Literature class as part of our Scarlet Letter unit (discussing Hawthorne as a painter with words).  I even had a print of what is referred to as "Self Portrait with Disheveled Hair" (my favorite!) hanging on my wall as a teenager.  So imagine my excitement when we walk up to the Rjiksmuseum and see a huge banner proclaiming the "Year of Rembrandt", a year in which every Rembrandt piece the museum holds will be on special display!  Let's just say I was overcome.

So here's the scene:

We enter the museum and I am so giddy I'm like a kid on Christmas morning.  I can barely stand still as we're given instructions and reminded of the time we're due back.  At last, we're released, and I run--literally run--to the special exhibit where I learn I need a special ticket.  No problem; this is absolutely worth the extra money.  I go to the ticket counter where I see "Rembrandt Exhibit Sold Out Today."  Our last day in Amsterdam.

But that's okay.  Ever the optimist, I know that my favorite Rembrandt--"Self Portrait with Disheveled Hair" (I really love that title) is on permanent exhibit, so while this is disappointing, that's the way things go.  And so I follow my terribly confusing map for the next half hour as I desperately seek the Rembrandt permanent exhibit.  I see "The Night Watch", which is great and all, but I'm after the hair!  Finally I find the room, tucked between two larger galleries (I also ran into Van Gogh on the way, which was utterly amazing!).

I enter the gallery, calm my breath (I've eaten way too many pastries on this trip), and leisurely walk about, playing it cool while freaking out inside.

I don't see a single Rembrandt.

I check the map again.  I am definitely in the correct gallery.

And that is when I see the small, freshly printed sign: "The Rembrandt pieces usually on display have been moved to be part of 'The Year of Rembrandt Exhibit'".

Seriously, y'all.  You have to decide: do you cry or do you laugh?

Trick question: you buy goat cheese pie and hot chocolate and throw yourself a pity party at the museum cafe.

But once fed and sugared, I made my way with an understanding friend to the museum library.  This exists!  And it's beautiful!  It looks like the library in Beauty and the Beast with a second floor overlooking the research desks where scholars are reading about the artists whose works are on display inside the museum.  I may not have gotten to gaze upon the brushstrokes of Rembrandt, but there's little in this life that standing in a beautiful library cannot (at least temporarily) fix.

Yet the most outstanding experience in Amsterdam--literary or otherwise--had to be our visit to the Anne Frank House.  I had visited this site in high school as well, and it has certainly expanded since then with a large visitor's center in the building adjacent to the house.

I'm not sure how to convey the power of this place.  It's somewhere you simply must enter for yourself.  Walking up stairs tucked behind a bookcase, the same bookcase door and stairs that Anne and her family entered to take refuge in the secret annex, is a powerful experience.  Gazing upon her postcards, the "stars" with which she adorned her walls and that are still there, though now behind plexi-glass, breaks the heart.  Gazing upon the actual diary, the ink with which she wrote the words that have connected with so many fellow humans over these years, is almost unreal.  I had to walk out when the video of her father began playing.  The idea of this being my child was too much.  I stood outside with a friend (and fellow mom) and wept.

I won't do it justice, so I will not try to describe the visit here.  Yet I urge you to get there and experience it for yourself.  You cannot go inside that building and come out without feeling compelled to do whatever it takes to prevent further atrocity in this world.  We must--we must demand peace and kindness everywhere.

My literary travels complete, I flew home the following day, still processing everything I had seen and experienced.  As we flew away from Europe, I saw a farm of solar turbines in the waters of the Atlantic, turning beautifully in the morning sun.  There was something about that sight that touched me.  Maybe you'll find this silly, but they brought me hope.  Hope that we can do better.  Hope that we can use our experiences to improve life for all of creation.

Words matter.

Keep Christ in Christmas


This post was taken down for a bit, but I'm excited to return it to the blog! It originally appeared in December 2018.

I was recently asked to give a talk at a non-denominational student gathering.  Here is what I presented. I hope it gives you some food for thought. No matter your creed, faith, or personal beliefs, I wish you the happiest of holidays!  May we all see in one another beautiful beings embodying inherent worth and dignity.

Good morning.  I’m so honored to be here with you today.  I’ve been to many Agape gatherings in previous years, and I’ve always been impressed with the atmosphere you’ve created here.  An atmosphere of love, acceptance, and fellowship. An atmosphere of unity. As a Lutheran, I’ve also appreciated your willingness to invite protestant preachers and teachers, to hear their witness to the love of Christ.  It helps us see what we all have in common.

I’ve given a lot of thought to what I should talk about today.  I don’t have much opportunity to talk about my faith journey in my everyday life, and yet it is such an essential part of who I am. .

There’s so much I’d like to say to you, but since we’re in my favorite season, Advent, I thought I would talk a little bit about what’s heavy on my heart this Advent, and give you some suggestions of how you and I can make these Advent and Christmas seasons more Christ-centered.

I’m struggling this Advent.  It’s my favorite time of year, but this year I’m having a difficult time getting into the spirit of things.  Like I said, I love Advent. I love going to church every Sunday and seeing the Advent candles lit (and I love the song we sing while we light them). I love the Christmas pageant my kids participate in at church.  I love the service of Lessons and Carols I was at this past Wednesday. And, in a broader context, I love driving around and looking at Christmas lights. I love wrapping gifts. I love baking and giving treats away in bags signed, “From the Christmas Elves”.  I love Charlie Brown Christmas.  I love Linus telling the Christmas story, even though I thought it was long and boring as a child.  I love decorating. I love Christmas Eve service and singing “Silent Night” by candlelight.

But I’m struggling this year.  And here’s why.

Everywhere I turn I see signs proclaiming “Keep Christ in Christmas”.  I turn on the news to see people getting all uptight about people greeting one another with “Happy Holidays” or angrily proclaiming that the Starbucks cup isn’t “Christmasy” enough. And then the very next story, on the very same news channel, is about the dangers of immigrants and asylum seekers followed by people arguing about what we’re supposed to do to keep other people away from us.

And this bothers me.  It doesn’t necessarily bother me for political reasons.  It bothers me because how we treat others is a Christian issue.  And if we’re so concerned with “Keeping Christ in Christmas”, then we need to realize that WE are the way to keep Christ in Christmas.  As many of you know, I have a motto by which I live. "Words matter". So when we say “Keep Christ in Christmas”, we need to mean it. And not just by making sure we aren’t consumed by materialism, but by being Christ to those around us.  "Keep Christ in Christmas" should be an instruction, a directive, of how we treat one another not only at Christmastime, but all year long.

When I was in high school, it was really popular to wear “WWJD” bracelets--What Would Jesus Do?  And as much as that became a trend, the message is correct.

Being Christ to others--Keeping Christ in Christmas.  That means seeing everyone around us with the inherent human dignity that they embody as children of God. That means speaking of and to our LGBTQIA+ brothers and sisters with dignity. That means not using words like “Gay” and “Retarded” as derogatory terms.  Words that describe something essential to the identity of others should NEVER be used to tear people down. Keeping Christ in Christmas means seeing the beauty of faith in people who have different religious beliefs than ours. It means asking questions and learning from people whose stories differ from our own.

What would Jesus do?  Jesus was the best listener.  He would sit amongst those who were different, those who would scare many of us or make us uncomfortable, and he would listen and then extend love to each and every one of them.  I see the way people are treated in this country and in this school as a serious issue for Christians, because we are called to love everyone.

The Book of John reads:
"As the Father has loved me, so I have I loved you. Abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love. These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full. “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you."

We need to look at asylum seekers with Christian eyes.  Where would Jesus be? Would He be to the side, his back turned, overgeneralizing and looking at a group as a threat?  No. He would be amongst them, seeing the humanity in every man, woman, and child. He would be listening. He would be loving.  He would be a protector, to be sure. But He would not dismiss people out of hand.

If Jesus were in the hallway of this school, and He heard someone use a slur against another student or in reference to a student who wasn’t present, would He walk past?  No. He would intervene immediately. And probably flip over a table.

You see, Jesus isn’t a bystander.  Jesus is political. Jesus is engaged.  Jesus is passionate. And Jesus is a listener.

Okay, Mrs. Koon, this is a pretty tall order.  What are you suggesting we do?

I’ll tell you.

I’m suggesting that you decide that this Advent, you will look at every person you encounter as the child of God that they are.  I’m suggesting that you acknowledge the inherent dignity of every single person. Every single creation of God.

I’m suggesting that you leave a note in the locker of someone whom you often see alone.  A note that says, “You are a beautiful child of God. Merry Christmas.”

I’m suggesting that the next time you hear someone call someone else or something “gay” or “retarded”, you intervene.  Tell them that they cannot use that language. Be Christ turning over the tables. Be brave through your faith.

I’m suggesting you reach out to those in need.  Jesus was a migrant, an asylum seeker, a baby in need. Reach out to those who are also sleeping in cardboard boxes and shanties.  Reach out with prayer. Or, at the very least, look at their faces and see the dignity within. See the person in front of you, created by God.

I’m suggesting that you tell members of our school community who feel isolated because they are a minority--through race, sexual identity, socioeconomic status, or religious belief--that they are loved and appreciated. That they have inherent worth.

I’m suggesting that we all take responsibility for our words.

I see signs of Christ’s love everywhere.  I see it when a student hugs a crying classmate in the hall.  I see it when a student writes a thoughtful message on a clothespin and clips it to the backpack of a student who is completely unaware.  I see it when teachers share the "ah-ha" moments of students in class. I see it when I hear people ringing bells next to Salvation Army kettles.  I see it when my son looks at me and says, with no prompting, “Mommy, I just love you.” I see it when students sit in my class arguing for justice and reconciliation in the world.  I see it when a student reaches out to someone they don’t know and says, “It’ll get better.”

I’m suggesting that this Christmas we move beyond words.  I’m suggesting that this Christmas we don’t just say “Keep Christ in Christmas”.  I’m suggesting that we BE Christ in Christmas and in this world. I’m suggesting that we take it upon ourselves through our words and actions, to be the ones who keep Christ in Christmas.  Not on a banner, a bumper sticker, or a billboard, but through our actions and our words. Be Christ for others. Create the Kingdom of God on Earth. Keep Christ in Christmas. Be Christ to all of God’s children.

I want to close by praying over all of you.  I love praying over people, and I don’t get to do it as often as I would like.

Lord, I pray that you would bless these students.  Bless their tongues that they may speak words that spread your love, bless their hands that they may reach out and hold the hands of those in need of your touch.  Bless their eyes that they may see You in all people. Bless their hearts, that they may be open to seeing ALL people, every single one, as a child of God, no matter the person’s race, age, gender, sexual identity, physical and mental ability, socioeconomic status, political party, nationality, religious faith.  May we not pass the judgement on others that we so fear being passed on us. Bless them that they may have the courage to speak out against the words and actions that harm our precious brothers and sisters. I give you thanks, Lord, for the opportunity to be your face in the world. I give you thanks for these beautiful students. May we be, above all, the face of Your love.

Amen.

Tuesday, June 11, 2019

Literary Travels, Part III

On my recent European trip, the grandest surprise had to be Belgium.  I'd heard from multiple people that Belgium was a beautiful, amazing country, and yet, I'm ashamed to say, before this trip, I would never had said that Belgium was on my bucket list.

I can now say that returning to Belgium is near the top of that list.

First: The Food.  And if you know me at all, you could have guessed that this element would be first.  I love food.  I love exploring culturally and ethnically diverse foods, gawking at beautiful foods, cherishing fresh foods, and, in general, eating.  My first meal in Belgium consisted of hot chocolate, croquettes, and frites.  This may not seems like an overly exciting meal, but, by golly, it was my favorite meal of the trip.  The hot chocolate was delivered in pieces; by that I mean that the warm milk arrived in a clear, insulated cup and was accompanied by a ramekin of dark chocolate chips, a ramekin of whipped cream, and a spoon.  I poured the chips in and watched them melt, swirling about the milk until it was a creamy brown.  I dolloped the fresh whipped cream on top and then stirred, thickening my drink.  And then I tasted the greatest hot chocolate of my life.  It was a hot day and I was outside--no worries.  I savored every sip.

The croquettes were cheese (real, European cheese), perfectly crispy, and served with a sweet and tangy, semi-creamy dip that I could have eaten with a spoon.  And the frites--OH, the frites!

That evening I enjoyed a freshly made waffle slathered with nutella and chopped bananas at a "Waffleteria" (that's real, y'all!), true Belgian chocolates, and Belgian beef stew.  And for breakfast I went downstairs in the hotel to find a cheese station, a meat station, a bread station, a fruit station, and--best of all--an orange juice machine that squeezed the oranges before my eyes!  I'll tell you this, Europe does breakfast right!

The Literature: Before you read on, I suggest you read the poem "In Flanders Fields" by John McCrae.  For it was in Belgium that we visited these fields.  We first went through a museum that included a recreation of both trenches and dugouts.  Then we took a stroll along a path cutting through the fields where bloody warfare took place during World War I.  It was a beautiful day.  Butterflies cut across the path, tractors plowed fields now producing livelihood, and homes with swing sets in the backyard stood just across the grass that spread from either side of us.  It was a solemn walk, and I was struck by the beauty of this place in contrast to the images we had seen in the museum.  It's difficult to make that walk, to see the remnants of dugout entrances and solidified bags still standing at the sites of trenches, and not feel that war must be ended everywhere.  We ended at Tyne Cot Cemetery where rows of white markers were dotted with red poppies.

That evening, in Ypres, we attended the Last Post Ceremony at the Menin Gate.  This ceremony began in 1928, and has been taking place every night since (with exception during the second world war).  Words cannot describe the solemnity of this occasion.  It was certainly one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

Bruges: Finally, visiting Bruges for a lunch break was a highlight of my time in Belgium.  This beautiful, medieval city is a place to which I will certainly return.  The city is surrounded by a wall and is sometimes referred to as the "Venice of the North" because of its many canals.  The highlights for me were the Church of our Lady, where we saw an authentic Michelangelo, The Basilica of the Holy Blood, which contains the relic of the Holy Blood, and the Markt with its beautifully painted buildings and impressive belfry.  I enjoyed stolling the streets, looking at the windows which housed intricate miniatures, Christmas decorations, and needlepoint pillows and handkerchiefs.  It was on this stroll that I consumed a "Waffle on a Stick" because--obviously!  But the best part of our visit was sitting with my friends, eating frites at a table in the Markt.  This is a city I want to return to and dwell in.  The medieval architecture still intact, the sights of Bruges are unlike anywhere I have been.

Belgium--you were more than I could have expected.

https://poets.org/poem/flanders-fields
http://www.greatwar.co.uk/events/menin-gate-last-post-ceremony.htm

Thursday, June 6, 2019

Beach Reads 2019!

A few days ago, I participated in my "Summer is Here!" ritual: walking the stacks of the library, judging books by their covers.  If you haven't read my post on this ritual, you can find it back in June of 2018.  It's my favorite day of the year, and , yes, that means I like it even better than my birthday.  Here's my Summer 2019 stack, along with my thoughts (often quite superficial) upon choosing each book:

Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard by Kiran Desai: The bright cover caught my eye, but so did the name of the author.  I am embarrassed to say that I've never read a book by Desai, though one of my AP Lit students' least favorite prompts is from The Inheritance of Loss, which I've picked up on several occasions only to realize that the timing wasn't right.  That said, I chose this one, no joke, because I love guavas and "hullabaloo" is one of my favorite words.  Go ahead--judge me.

Jack the Ripper: Case Closed by Gyles Brandreth: The most recent book in the Oscar Wilde Mysteries, a series I spend time in every summer.  I absolutely adore these books because I adore Wilde.  What a man!  What a life!  What extravagance!  You may recall my recent near-faint experience when I passed by the Savoy on a bus, so my excitement about this book shouldn't surprise anyone.  The American title is Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper, but it's only available in hardback, and I prefer a nice paperback at the beach, so, to my chagrin, this book will not match the others in the Gyles Brandreth section of my library.  (I purchased this book since the library did not have it--a travesty!)  I also have a peculiar fascination with all things Jack the Ripper, so the marriage of the two in this book certainly has my expectations at an insanely high level.

The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon by Alexander McCall Smith: If you follow this blog, then you know that each summer the first book I read at the beach is the next in McCall Smith's "No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" series.  To me, his books mean "summer".  If you've not begun this series, I encourage you to do so.  Both men and women love the main character, Mma Ramotswe, along with the mysteries and the cultural aspects of the books. 

Possessing the Secret of Joy by Alice Walker: I realize this one doesn't seem like a "beach book".  The subject matter is heavy, but important, but when I'm at the beach, I find I can think clearly and better deal with the issues that are troubling me.  I admire Walker more than I can say; I truly believe she's one of our greatest living writers.  I will read anything she writes, be it novel, poem, or lecture.  And you should too.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera: Perhaps my most superficial choice.  The title is beautiful.  The cover features a bowler hat floating above a sepia toned lane.  I know I've heard of this book.  Now's the time.

If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin: I always read a book before seeing the movie, and I'm ashamed to say I didn't know about this book before the movie adaptation began receiving such great acclaim.  My lack of knowledge shows exactly why voices that have been denied a place in the literary canon need to be brought to the forefront.  I'm excited to read this one as I'm new to Baldwin (also an embarrassing admission), though I Am Not Your Negro is one of the most poignant, important films I've seen.  I'm looking forward to reading Baldwin's words on the page.

Dear Mr. Knightley by Katherine Reay: The pink cover with swirly, black script caught my eye.  The reference to Austen and the epistolary form are right up my alley.  That's all it took.

Swallowing Mercury by Wioletta Greg: Shortlisted for the Booker Prize.  Written by an award-winning poet.  Beautiful cover.  Yes, please.

Curtain by Agatha Christie: No one should ever need to explain why they're reading an Agatha Christie novel.  A few years ago, I chose to have "The Summer of Agatha Christie", and I tore through her novels.  Thankfully, there are still a few left to read.  If you've never picked up a Christie novel, I am incredibly sad for you.  You need to right this wrong, immediately.

At the Water's Edge by Sarah Gruen: I adored Water for Elephants.  I love novels set in times and places I have only ever imagined.  I also adore a book that incorporates vintage photographs (just one reason I also love Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children).  I'm excited to read another book by the author.  I didn't even need to read the inside flap.  She had me at Water for Elephants.

This is my starter list for summer.  What should I read once I finish this stack?  Leave your recommendations in the comments here or on my Instagram post!  

Tuesday, June 4, 2019

Literary Travels, Part II

Pardon the delay...the end of the school year happened.

One of my life goals was to cross the British Channel, and so after our sojourn to England, our tour group boarded a ferry to do just that.

We embarked in Portsmouth, which has a rich literary heritage.  In a pub called "The Slug and Lettuce" (I kid you not), photographs of Rudyard Kipling and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle don the walls, and here I learned that Conan Doyle actually wrote "A Study in Scarlet" while living in Portsmouth.  Thus, this seaside town is the birthplace of Sherlock Holmes. 

Now on to the Channel crossing, but let me begin by taking a moment to tell you just how much I underestimated the term "ferry".  We were to take a "ferry"across the English Channel.  Now, where I come from, in South Carolina, a "ferry" is a small, sometimes double-decker boat that has little benches inside and a narrow, railed deck wrapping about the "cabin".  We usually have a cocktail and cross the harbor on our "ferry" at sunset, looking for dolphins.

This was not like our South Carolina ferries.  For starters, when I walked out of the terminal, I saw what amounted to a cruise ship and proceeded to wheel my suitcase up a series of ramps to reach the gangway.  We gathered in the movie theatre for our embarkation instructions, were notified of the disco upstairs as well as the cafeteria, and were then sent to our staterooms, rooms so tiny, our suitcases wouldn't fit on the floor, but with bunks, which is very literary indeed!

Being the person I am, I immediately ran to the back of the ferry to catch a glimpse of Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, Victoria and Albert's vacation home.  It was nearly eleven at night, so I didn't get the view I had hoped for, but I saw the dim outline of the island and the faint glow of a light.  And then I took about ten pictures--of what amounted to darkness.  No matter.  My heart was full.  My roommate and fellow English teacher took the opportunity to read Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach": "The sea is calm tonight./The tide is full, the moon lies fair/Upon the straits" (1-3).

The next day began with a visit to Arromanches, Normandy, and Omaha Beach.  There's no sense trying to describe the feeling of these places.  I stood on the beach on a beautiful April day, looking inland, towards the hills, and I was overwhelmed.  That's all I can say.  Sometimes the absence of words matters as well.

We stopped in the picturesque town of Bayeux and had crepes and frites at a creekside restaurant before visiting the famed Bayeux Tapestry, a literary landmark in its own right.  The ability to tell stories through images is astounding to me.  Every detail was specifically determined, and it was a wonder to imagine the fingers that made each stitch, thousands of stitches used to tell the story of the Battle of Hastings.  More than reading reprinted ink words on a page, the human touch on the story had a significant impact on me.

We spent the night in Caen (where I broke down a bought a cheeseburger after an unfortunate salmon incident) and that was the night that Notre Dame was overtaken by flames.  I recall standing in a restaurant, waiting on my to-go order, and watching the tragedy play out on two giant flat screen televisions.  The restaurant was remarkably quiet, and our server was visibly distraught, at one point apologizing through her tears because she was so distracted.  It is surreal being in a place where a national tragedy is happening, and yet being not of that nation.  There were no words to comfort our French neighbors, but the images of people singing and praying and holding one another revealed the strength and endurance of the French people.

My literary travels continued the next day when we stopped for lunch at Montreuil-sur-mer.  This was an unscheduled stop, but a happy one, as it is the town where Victor Hugo often visited and which he immortalized as the town of which Jean Valjean is mayor in Les Miserables.  I naturally overreacted about this in an embarrassing display that may have included a quiet rendition of "Look Down". Laurence Sterne also describes this beautiful locale in A Sentimental Journey.  Afterwards, we went to La Coupole, a site of which I was completely unaware before the trip.  La Coupole was a Nazi bunker complex where V-2 rockets were to be launched at London.  It's built into the side of a quarry and, as one fellow chaperone put it, looks like the Death Star embedded in the side of a mountain.  This was another place that words cannot describe.  A sign upon entry reads, "La Coupole was a place of suffering.  Today, it is a place of remembrance.  Europeans of nowadays, you who live on a continent at peace, please visit in SILENCE." 

Our time in France ended with an overnight stay in my new favorite city in France: St. Omer.  I vow to return there one day, pen and paper in hand.  If you want a place to be inspired to write, St. Omer will certainly fulfill your need.  We stayed in a hotel just off the central square, where restaurants, pubs, churches, and markets mingle.  I purchased pastries from a local chocolatier and fresh blueberries from the open air market.  I could see myself residing there, giving up my vehicle for a place where I could walk wherever I needed to go, writing in the creperies and coffee shops. 

Hemingway was always fond of France for writing.  He was certainly onto something.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43588/dover-beach
https://www.bayeuxmuseum.com/en/the-bayeux-tapestry/
https://www.lacoupole-france.co.uk/

Monday, April 29, 2019

Literary Travels, Part I

I recently chaperoned a school trip to Europe. The theme of the trip was WWI/WWII Battlefields, and I learned so much in the way I most enjoy learning: experientially.  It was, of course, a trip of stories, and I am grateful that this experience is part of mine.

Our first stop was London, England, a destination I'd traveled to once before and so was comfortable making time to see the literary sites I've longed to visit, even if it meant missing a few of the traditional highlights.

Before we left for the trip, the one place I was most excited to visit was Westminster Abbey.  On a past trip, I had stood outside the Abbey, and I so longed to go inside, in particular to see Poets' Corner.  If you've read enough of my blog, then you will know that Thomas Hardy is my literary husband.  From the moment I met Tess Durbeyfield, I was hooked.  I even completed an independent study in the works of Thomas Hardy whilst in graduate school, a course for which my only grade was an extensive research paper and oral defense on the relationship between women and the clergy in his novels.  Hardy's ashes (minus his heart, which is buried with his family) are interred at Poets' Corner, so it has been a dream of mine to stand in his presence.

You can imagine my absolute ecstasy as I walked through Westminster Abbey, standing in the presence of kings and queens, gazing upon the Coronation Chair, making my way to Poets' Corner.  I placed my hands on Chaucer's tomb, gazed at the memorial plaque to the Bronte sisters, and chuckled when I saw Oscar Wilde's name nearly out of sight (more on him later).

And yet, I could not find Thomas Hardy.  I walked in circles, scoffing at Ted Hughes (I have feelings on that one), pitying T.S. Eliot, admiring the acknowledgment of Jane Austen's genius.  No Thomas Hardy.  Finally I took a peek at my cell phone (no photos allowed--and I'm a bit of a rule follower, so I was keeping it tucked away) and Googled Thomas's location.  There it was in the photo--right next to Charles Dickens.

I spun around, found Dickens, and...ah, yes, of course.  Thomas Hardy's marble stone was covered with a piece of carpet and surrounded by orange caution cones connected by yellow tape.

His marble has recently been replaced.  The carpet, I learned from a docent who, before I could inquire, informed me that no, he could not move it, would be off in two weeks.

And so I stared at that carpet square--oh, how I stared--trying to have my moment with Thomas.  It didn't quite do it for me.

Though I didn't check this item off of my bucket list, I still had a lovely time in London.  I enjoyed a magical afternoon tea at Covent Garden, snapped pictures of The Savoy (with a dream of having tea here just as my darling Oscar Wilde did), saw the Crown Jewels, and toured the Churchill War Rooms.  London never truly disappoints.  Besides, now I have a pressing reason to return.  Perhaps third time's the charm?

Next stop: France

Saturday, March 23, 2019

Reflection

Writing has been difficult lately.  When I write, I feel free; I know that life is pouring out of me, that someone's story is becoming known.  It's liberating, as if I've been holding the story inside of me to the point of bursting and then there is a sweet release.  Hemingway once wrote that after he finished writing, he felt an emptiness.  I know that feeling.  When I completed Sweet Divinity, I wept because I loved living with Amanda Jane--and now her story was on the paper and no longer solely in me.

But lately I've felt a different kind of empty.  It's a terrible feeling for a writer to feel alone, as if there are no characters living inside, no stories tucked down deep in the pit of her.  That's how I've felt since January.  There's been no liberation, no freedom, no feeling of release.  Emptiness.  I've been alone.  And I'm not sure I've truly been alone as a writer in all my thirty-nine years.  I remember writing stories from the time I could grip a pencil.  A recording exists of a single-digits me retelling the story of Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH.  As I've written on this blog, I am a vessel, a willing vessel, for stories.  And so this period of emptiness has been a trial.

I know what brought about this empty era, and like many trials of life, this one cannot be put aside or deflected: it must be lived through.  But I firmly believe that when you live through struggle, when you finally emerge on the other side, you come through with a story. 

And so will I.

In the meantime, I've decided to force myself to write.  I'm a little late to take on this discipline for Lent, but perhaps I'll begin my forty days today.  I've never gone in for the advice of "Write one thousand words every day" or "Don't eat.  Don't brush your teeth.  Get up and write."  But I'm wondering if those words are the advice of empty feeling writers.

I have come to realize that I am not empty.  It feels that way, sure, but it is not reality.  There is no dearth of story inside of me.  The stories are present within me; they are simply silenced.  I cannot let them remain untold.  It is my vocation as a writer to give these stories voice.

And so today I take on the challenge.  I am not empty.  I am very, very full.  My voice is important.  Words matter.  This I believe.

I believe in myself.

I am a writer.

Friday, February 15, 2019

Hello There!

Hello there!

I've been away from the blog for a bit now.  I've been working on some side projects and exploring some new interests...and I have been reading up a storm!  At the same time, I've been reflecting on myself as a writer and waiting patiently to see where inspiration will take me.

Great news for 2019: Sweet Divinity is confirmed for publication this year!  I'll be updating the blog with my journey through publishing now that I've made my way through the queue and on to the actual process of publication.  In the meantime, I'm exploring some stories that have been marinating in my mind, ready to make the keyboard hot with my follow-up novel!

In reflecting on the year that was 2018, there were certainly a few stand out moments for me.  I finally got to see Hamilton, and it surpassed my extremely high expectations in every way.  I am a person who likes to experience live theatre purely, so I made it a mission to avoid too much of the Hamilton soundtrack before I saw the musical for myself.  This decision ended up being a great one; I loved experiencing the genius of the music and lyrics for the first time, live.  Also, the staging of the show was some of the best I've seen.  And the touring cast was astounding.  What an experience.

I signed my contract in 2018, after years of seeking a publisher for my dear Sweet Divinity, and it was an amazing moment in my life.  It changed so much for me.  I felt affirmed in my writing and, much like the change that follows the birth of a child, I shifted many of my priorities to taking care of this novel and of my writing career.  Thus, I began freelancing and seeking more opportunities to write.

I read fifty books in 2018, a mix of fiction, biography, general nonfiction, memoir, young adult, poetry and drama.  I've already read five books this year, and my favorite so far has been Becoming, by Michelle Obama.  I already admired her in so many ways, but after reading her personal story, I admire her persistence, candor, and servant's heart even more.

I've also made it a point to see as many of the Oscar Best Picture films as possible, and I'm lacking only two: Vice and A Star is Born (I've been waiting for DVD with this one so that I can cry in the comfort of my home!).  I'm hoping to post my Oscar picks in the next week, but (fingers crossed) before I do, I want to get these two films in.  It's an odd collection of films this year, and I'm pretty sure I have my Best Picture prediction chosen, but I'll hold off a little longer and see if I can make a fully educated projection!

I have several personal goals this year.  Above all, I plan to write more.  I also plan to finish another novel and get a few thousand more words into Reliance.  I plan to travel and market Sweet Divinity.  I also vow to spend more time with myself.  More yoga.  More meditation.  More reading.  More listening.  More time in nature.

I hope 2019 is a beautiful year for you as well.  As my amazing sister-in-law loved to say: "Make it an epic life!"  Let's do this thing.