12 years, 12 lessons (Part 3 of 3)

9. Surrender to addiction.

Forget the Olympics; I could put everything I’ve ever learned in the context of food. I don’t think there is anything in the world I think about more. Even writing those words makes me sad; how much time I have wasted (and still waste) on my best friend and greatest enemy.

As someone who has been far too interested in body shape since I was a young gymnast, watching the Olympics is an absolute feast for the eyes (pun intended). I find myself marveling at the shape of the athlete’s muscles, wondering what it must be like to look like that. It’s unhealthy. It’s superficial. And yet, at 44, I still do it. And damn…those athletes are h-o-t hot. Ha! 

Seriously though, I couldn’t possibly summarize my issues with food into one lesson and I don’t want to give it more attention than that in this space. So I’ll put it this way—I don’t expect my issues with food to ever go away. I used to have hope that they would. Now, I have hope for something else. 

Since I’ve been more open about my own issues, I’ve learned that rare is the person in America who has a healthy relationship with food. A lot of us are trying and failing and trying again. All I can do is try my best every single meal of every single day and, in the many minutes in between each meal. It’s not easy and it never will be. Every now and then, that reality reduces me to tears. But I pick myself up, and I keep trying, reminding myself to be grateful that I have another day to do so. My hope now is that with constant effort, I can find peace with the sweet things that torture me, one day at a time. (And today is Day 15 of a hard no-sugar reset.)  

10. Money means choices, but definitely not happiness.

People like choices; it’s a core principle I live by as an educator and as a human. When I worked as an attorney, my salary (and bonus) were quite lovely. They helped get us a house. But I was a fish trying to climb a tree. 

My sister was also an attorney at a big law firm and we joke that one day we will write a book about our experiences there. We have a working title: I know you're at a funeral but... One of the partners she worked for sent her an email with an "urgent" assignment and it started with those words. Needless to say, she left big law, too (and is now crushing it with the federal government). 

Still, I will always be forever grateful to big law. It showed me a path to being stupidly rich. The path was right there and I know how fortunate I am to have seen it (I also know how hard I worked to be able to see it). At Ropes, I saw what I would need to do to make crazy money, and intellectually, I'm pretty certain I could have done it. But I also saw what that path would include: lack of sleep, unexpected travel, projects I didn't believe in, a money-driven mission, a work culture that was way too serious for me, a sad absence of music in the office, just to make a few. When I walked away and went back to teach, I took a pay cut well over $100,000. And I've never looked back. 

I admit, my safety net is sturdy and the privilege that comes with that is undeniable. But I also know this: life is way too short to do something you hate. For me, no amount of money would ever be worth it. 

11. Find your gift and share it with the world. 

As much as I felt out-of-place in big law, I feel completely in my element now. I remember being on a week of summer vacation in my Ropes days, wanting to bawl my eyes out at the miserable thought of having to go back to my office on Monday. I felt sick to my stomach thinking about it, even on the Tuesday before. 

Now, I work just as many hours if not more. I "work" every weekend and a bit on vacation, but it doesn't even feel like I'm working. I make less, and it's by no means glamorous. But I feel like a fish who finally found the ocean. And the ocean is clean, and fresh, and full of potential. 

I'm pretty sure that I wanted to be a teacher the first day I learned about this thing called school. And I'm pretty sure I wrote my first book the day after I learned how to put a crayon to paper. I have had outside-the-box ideas since I was a kid, and I know now that I only feel truly alive on the days that I learn or create something new. I didn't know any of this twelve years ago, but I'm glad I know it now. 

And so now, I get to choose my work people, and then as a team, we get to teach kids how to find their gifts and share them with the world. Have you ever seen the look in a kid's eye when they start to believe in themselves? I know it sounds cliché, but if you think I'm making it up, then you just have never seen it. 

I have been blessed in the last few months to hired my first full-time employee, someone I consider a good friend even though we only reconnected months ago. Josh gave me a book about Steve Jobs. Jobs once said: 

Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it.

You really will. 

12. Find your people, build a life with them, and value time like the most precious resource on Earth. 

Being a parent and an owner of an education company, I often think about what the most important lessons are that we could teach the younger generations. And it's funny because maybe the most important thing is something we almost never talk about, at least, not explicitly. I think that the vast majority of a person's happiness or misery is based on their decision of a life partner. I'm not saying it's necessarily a spouse, although for many people it is. It could be a parent or a partner or a friend with whom you choose to spend the majority of our days and nights. Whatever way, it's a huge decision.  

It's crazy to me that so many of us choose a life partner so young, before we have any clue about the real world, before our brains are even fully formed. I met Brian when I was 18 years old; we got engaged when I was 24. We knew nothing about nothing. I just had a miraculous stroke of good luck, paired with a decent instinct of who was a nice person and who wasn't. 

Last night while we were watching the Olympics, I found myself Googling Tara Davis-Woodhall and her husband, Hunter Woodhall. Their love in the stands was palpable and their story, real and beautiful. Years ago, I would have stopped Lesson #12 there. Happily ever after. 

But twelve more years of living has taught me that none of us have any clue what happens behind closed doors. We have no idea how a husband treats his wife, how anyone treats anyone, for that matter, when no one else is looking. I happened to build a life with someone who treats me with respect and kindness and compassion when no one is looking. I am one of the lucky ones. And yet, even in the best of cases, living life with other people can be challenging. I have so much respect for people who declare, This isn't working for me. It takes such insight and courage to make such a declaration. 

Of course, I'm never directly going to teach my kids or (obviously) my students about how to find their people. But I can teach them to respect themselves, to value their voice and their worth. I can help teach them how to better understand who they are, what they want in life, and how to behave like their dreams are worthy of others' respect and support. I can try to best learn and then teach how to have difficult conversations, how to assert ourselves with grace and confidence, how to make hard decisions in key moments of life. None of us have these answers. But I hope to help ask the right questions and be there to help them find their answers. That's why time is the most precious resource on Earth. 

12 years, 12 lessons (Part 2 of 3)

5. In the words of (maybe) Walt Whitman via Ted Lasso, “stay curious and not judgmental.”

Since I spent months preparing a 10-minute talk on this point, I won’t belabor it here. But if I’m making a list of important lessons the last 12 years have taught me, this has to be one of them because I really believe that staying curious is a key to peace and happiness.

The Olympics offered several obvious examples of this lesson. Look no further than women’s boxing to see how making wrong assumptions can hurt innocent people and make you look like an ignorant jerk. I really hope I am minimally ignorant each day and on my best days, I hope I’m not ignorant at all.

6. Keep learning, always.

I try to be minimally ignorant by learning new things every day. Sometime in the last 12 years, I noticed a pattern emerge: there are people who keep learning and people who stop learning. (This has nothing to do with school, by the way.) The formal group grows intellectually and emotionally. They seem to have a far better chance at happiness. The latter group gets arrogant and stubborn. They seem to end up pretty unhappy.

How does this relate to sports? Oh, it relates in several ways I can think of, all of which are pretty controversial. During these Olympics, I’ve heard insults hurled about everything from the opening ceremonies to issues of the future of sport when it comes to gender issues. Sure, some of these issues are complicated. They involve values that may circle back to religion and I know religion can get, hum, should I say, prickly. But anger and violence often starts with people who refuse to open their minds to new perspectives, people who seem incredibly fearful of change. It seems like people with more open minds are far less angry and far less afraid, so even if I’m being selfish, it seems like keeping an open mind is the way to go.

7. I’m unapologetically putting my values before my people.

In the last few years, I’ve thought a lot about what loyalty means. Partly, I’ve done this because I live in Canton, and well, Canton’s kind of going through a thing right now. But no matter the reason, I have learned that there are lots of people who are really loyal to those they love. No matter what their loved ones do, they will stand behind them, at least, publicly, so I assume it’s privately, too.

I’ve figured out recently that I’m not like this. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t stand up for people I love, or even stand by them if they did something wrong; I hope I would do both. But I hope I’d support them while staying loyal to my values—things like truth, integrity, and empathy. Like if I love you more than anything and you lie, I’m standing on the side of truth. I won’t give up on you—far from it—but I’m not lying with you. We can work together to sort out the issues, but I’m not sacrificing my values. If I do, I’d be creating chaos in the world. And I don’t want more chaos for the people I love.

8. Sleep is really important. 

That's it. I really didn't know that 12 years ago. And now, I do, so I need to go to bed. 

12 years, 12 lessons (Part 1 of 3)

I found my tumor during the 2012 Summer Olympics. I felt the small lump in my left breast while Brian and I were watching Team USA and while Teddy and Annabel were asleep upstairs, four and one years old, respectively. August 8, 2012. You have cancer. 

Today, almost exactly 12 years later, the caffeine and the peace of a cute coffee shop are fueling me to reflect. What have I learned in the 12 years since? I don't really know, but I'd like to figure it out so I'm going to write because it's the way I think best. And it feels only fitting that I do so in the context of the Olympics. (Don't worry -- I will not use "win-lose" or "victory-defeat" type metaphors to cancer; those make me angry.)

So here's what I've learned in the last 12 years. I'll do four today, four tomorrow, and four on August 8th. 

1. If you have people cheering you on, you have everything. 

One of my favorite parts of watching the Olympics is watching the families and friends in the stands; I can't get enough of them. I'm sure the relationships aren't perfect -- what relationships are? -- but when it comes down to those defining moments, these people have shown up. They've flown from all around the world to cheer for their athletes -- to acknowledge their loved one's dreams -- dreams that they now share. If you have people cheering you on in life as you reach for your dreams, then you have everything. Ev-ery-thing.

2. It's good to know when and how to tell people to F- off.

Since the first one was sweet, the next one is salty. I love that Simone Biles called out Mikayla Skinner for her obnoxious, jealous comments about the 2024 women gymnasts. It turns out that I don't believe in the old adage, If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. No thanks. For me, it's far better to be strong and honest, especially because "being nice" is subjective. Maybe Simone's comeback to Skinner wasn't "nice" to Skinner but I'm sure it felt awesome to her most-certainly-not-lazy teammates. I am inspired by people who aren't afraid to stand up to jerks. I prefer strong and honest to nice. The latter is fake. The former are real. Thank you, Simone, for showing us that we can call people out on their bull$hit and show class at the very same time. 

3. We can never forget the gigantic world context of our lives.

Obviously, a social media back-and-forth between gymnasts is nothing relative to the world scene. I won't even pretend to understand the complexity (and indeed, the tragedy) of the politics behind so many Olympic moments. Israel and Palestine, Russia and Ukraine, North and South Korea, China-Taiwan, Sudan and South Korea, and I'm sure others I don't even know about. I've read some of the stories: athletes killed before they even made it to Paris, refugees fleeing their countries to train, families ripped apart by war. A few stories I didn't even have the stomach to finish reading. 

Part of the magic of the Olympics is that through them, we celebrate a world coming together despite all of this darkness. But wow -- the privilege some of us have in being able to do that. I try, every day, to remember the bigger picture of my life. I am so small, so insignificant, really. There will always be an infinitely larger universe in which my being is microscopic. That reality no longer terrifies me, but in a way, it empowers me. The question is, how can I help? I will keep trying to answer that. 

4. I could go all the way to Paris and lose and that's okay.

I used to think Olympic gymnasts were nuts. These people dedicate their whole lives to a moment that may never come to be. They tattoo themselves with Olympic rings and they pursue a dream that may never happen. They may get disqualified for flipping a swim turn just a bit too early. They may get sick from the dirty water and have to withdraw. Or they may just have a bad day. Then what? They go back home with the memory of complete failure? See, nuts!

The thing is, I don't think this way anymore. Three Olympic Games later, I am far less afraid of stating my dreams and failing at them. Actually, let me revise that...I'm still terrified of failure, but I'll dream and do anyways. I don't think this evolved mentality came from having cancer, but cancer played (and plays) a role, for sure. Then again, we should all have an urgency about our dreams, shouldn't we? 

I will

Dear Mom, 

No one reads this blog anymore, which I consider a true gift because it means that cancer is no longer at the center of my being. While I may "publish" this blog, I consider this a private communication. The only people who read it will be those who still think of me (or people who once followed and wonder, "Is that girl still alive?" Ha!) Well, I am still alive. Still very, very alive. So I wanted to write you to you here because this blog was where writing really started for me.

Three years ago around this time, you gave me the opportunity of a lifetime. You told me that you believed in my idea for a book enough that you'd support my dream to take a year off of teaching and write it. I will never ever have the words to express my gratitude for that but I'm going to give it a little try right now. 

One of the reasons I love being a teacher so much is that I honestly believe a teacher has the power to help their students build their dreams. On a day to day basis, the work doesn't look like it involves dream-building at all (like not even in the slightest) but I still know it's true. A teacher can help a student believe in themself, help them think (even if it's deep in their subconscious) I can do that. I can learn that. I can be that. I can. Then the really great teachers can help students learn and execute the how. 

When students believe they can, it's because they have found one of life's most precious gifts: hope. Hope makes us believe that we can take the infinite pieces of being human that the universe hands us -- in whatever shape, color, and size and in whichever degree of pain, pleasure, and practicality -- and build our one life. If we get lucky, we have time to do it. 

Today I figured out something: the beauty of I can is surpassed by just one other belief. It's not I did (didn't Gatsby teach us anything?), but rather I will. 

Mom, you and Dad have always been my greatest teachers. You both have always made me believe I can. There is nothing more in the world I hope to give my kids than that belief.

Today I realized what's next, and it's on me. It's the I will. 

I wrote that draft -- that embarrassingly-bad-piece-of-total-crap 430-page draft. And it's sat there for over a year. I've been too afraid to look at it again. Too scared of how much work it's going to take to make it real. To make final decisions about what a character does and says. To add, delete, punctuate. I'm terrified to put my name on it and show it to the world and somehow try to believe that it's worth someone's time to read it. Don't get me wrong -- I have not overcome those fears, not even close. And I'm not really inspired nor excited about the prospect of finishing this thing. It's just that it's time. 

Maybe that's part of the process of writing a novel or achieving any dream -- just deciding, it's time. And then getting lucky enough to have the time. 

On Monday you'll come with me for my chest scan. That's always scary, no matter how routine it may be. Thank you for being there from the first scan almost twelve years ago to this one. Thank you for convincing me I can. And thank you even more for making it possible for me to actually do it -- showing me the how. Being part of it, in all it's lazy, imperfect, very-unfun reality. 

And now, it's time for me to check this damn dream off the dream list and get it done. So, mark my words. I will. By the summer of 2025 I will send this damn draft out to 10 agents. Even if it's so bad that they don't even read past page one. 

I will. 

Thank you for that. 

Love you always, 

Me

One Reason Writing Fiction Is So Damn Hard

Because every single moment you do it, you face your own thoughts. And somehow, you have to make sense of those thoughts.

I continue to wake up every morning to write and I continue to think it is one of the most challenging things I have ever done. Maybe that's how you know you're supposed to do something--it feels like torture and yet, every single day, something calls you back to do it. 

Silence and Nuance

I've been observing something interesting in American culture: the tendency to create two sides to every issue. Often I am asked to choose one side or another on issues that I don't see as so easily bifurcated that way. I have to hate something or love it, support it 100% or vilify it completely. Or, I need to ignore it altogether. 

It's such an American thing, in a way: to commit to something with great passion and unequivocal dedication. It's a great strength, but, ironically, it's also a great weakness. 

I wish that things weren't so blue or red, black or white, good or bad. Almost always the issues are so much more nuanced than that. While I want to talk through nuance, I often feel like there is neither time nor place to do so. Plus, I often lack the skills, patience, and emotional toughness for it. I had to leave social media altogether; it's no place for constructive debate. 

I wish that I could express that I am an advocate for systems that I simultaneously question. In fact, it's in my questioning of those systems that I manifest my support for them. In other words, because I care, I ask questions and in asking those questions, I hope to strengthen those systems, not destroy them. I do not hate a leader because I want him to do better, just as I do not hate myself when I need to improve. Likewise, I do not hate the police because I want to ensure their accountability, just as I do not think my principal hates me because she wants to ensure mine. 

We start to crack as a democratic society not when we ask questions of our leaders, but rather, when we don't. And we begin to fall as a democracy when we know something isn't right but we assume someone else will fix it. Who is that someone? What if they don't show up? 

This world is hard, for so many, in countless different ways. I am not saying we will agree on issues because we haven't, don't, and never will. But we can, at the very least, stop creating two sides to nuanced issues. We can ask questions and answer them without the assumption of malice or hate or the intent to destroy. We can change our minds. We can talk, and make mistakes, and learn from them. We can be civil even when we stand apart. Because it's not the talking that gets us all in trouble. It's the silence. 

Good or bad? Hard to say.

Loved this SO much!  

Books

Random Messy Thought for the Day: 

How many books are you reading right now? 

Are you someone who doesn't have time to read anything, so the answer would be, None? 

Are you someone who has lots of books started for different moods? A pile by your bed? 

Or do you have one book that you focus on until you finish it cover-to-cover? 

Maybe you're an audiobook person? 

Maybe something else I haven't even thought of?

Whatever the answer, I feel like there is a personality test somewhere in here...

My answer: I have about 15 books started, maybe more. I've spent my life feeling guilty that I'm not a one-book-at-a-time-cover-to-cover person. But I don't feel guilty about it anymore. I like the kind of reader I am. Whatever your reading style, I hope you like yours, too. 

Be Curious

"Be curious, not judgmental." A key to great teaching, better relationships, and (I think) real happiness. 

Dear Teacher

 I loved this. Good luck to all the teachers starting school! 

Judy's Poem

This year, I started teaching a writing group at a nursing home. The first day of our group, I sat down with a table full of elderly women who had parked their walkers nearby. I started off light:

        Me: I had no idea this would be a group of all women! Where did all of the men go?

        93-year-old woman: They're all dead. We outlived them. 

Laughter ensued. 

Yesterday, I had our April meeting. A woman I will call "Judy" showed up again, mostly because I bumped into her on the way to the meeting room and asked her if she was coming. She clearly hadn't intended to but she pushed her little walker in front of me and off we went. 

Judy is in her eighties; her short-term memory is weak. But she told me a story yesterday that I want to write down so that I never forget it. 

Judy was in her senior year of college. (She attended night school and worked all day because she could only take business management courses if she attended at night. Women were not welcome into the business classes during the day.) Her mother was very ill and Judy knew that her mother wouldn't live to see her graduate from college. 

Judy went to visit her mother. She had written a poem for her mom -- she remembers bits and pieces of the poem still to this day -- and she wanted to share it with her mother before she died. However, Judy's two sisters refused to let her share the poem with her mother. They told Judy that if she shared the poem, their mother would know that she was dying and that they knew it, too. Judy's sisters wanted their mother to be ignorant of this fact. Judy wanted to face it head on. 

Judy told me that at some point, she snuck past her sisters and read her mother the poem. Her mother loved it. Judy's smile radiated as she told me about how much her mother loved that poem. 

I have been thinking about Judy's story ever since. As I continue to write my novel about the complexities of truth -- the challenges involved in revealing it, and the wave of pain-healing-pain-healing it can activate -- I was particularly moved by Judy's story. 

I don't fault her sisters for wanting to protect someone they love, for wanting to hide the painful truth and spare their mother additional pain. I trust that Judy's sisters believed that sometimes, hiding the truth is better for everyone. But I'm like Judy, and have been long before cancer made me face my own mortality. I believe that we all have to start with the truth, as painful as it may be.

I'd imagine that it was devastatingly hard for Judy's mother to know that Judy was aware of her impending loss. A mother's knowledge of her child's pain; damn, it's hard. But the pretending -- the lies that her other daughters told her -- I'd bet that they never really made their mother feel any better. And that's why I admire Judy so much. She faced the truth and shared her love by sneaking in to read that poem. The love-filled pain felt by mother and daughter must have been indescribable, and, at the time, it may have been easier for Judy's sisters to avoid parts of it. But as Judy told me this story, as she recounted how much that poem meant to her mother and even recited parts of her poem to me, I didn't see pain. I saw pride and love. Such pure pride and such pure love. 

Love can take on many different forms, and protecting those we love from life's many challenges -- especially the reality of our own mortality -- is certainly one form. But so is Judy's type of love -- the type of love that says, as hard as the truth is, I'm going to face it and hold your hand through it -- that, for me, is a more soul-filling kind. 

A Spot and the Soul (Part 2)

For my 40th birthday, all I wanted was to go watch my mom teach a course. She consults on leadership topics and I hadn't seen her teach in years (maybe decades), but since she's the best teacher I've ever met, it was all I wanted. It was March 10, 2020, and we had a date on the calendar when I'd accompany her to a training. Of course, that never happened because COVID happened instead. 

Fast forward 2.5 years. I'm 42 now and I had still yet to see my mom teach one of these leadership courses. However, in my year of writing, I have a flexible schedule and I finally got the birthday gift I wanted--I got to attend a training that my mom was doing for a group of nurse leaders at a hospital in the region. The topic of the workshop was TRUST and over the course of two Fridays, I watched in awe as my Mom taught about a topic that I definitely need to learn more about. 

As part of the training, my mom has each of the participants complete what's called a "DiSC assessment" of their work styles. Then she does engaging activities in which participants analyze how their work style could influence others (and so much more but that's the gist). I got to do an assessment and I came out right over the line of the D-I. No shocker that I'm not private or even-tempered, but rather direct. Yes, that's very much me. 

I couldn't wait for Brian to take the test and when he did, we discovered he's a very solid C. Conscientious. Analytical. Systematic. Reserved. Yes, very him. 

I have been thinking about my mom's training ever since. In this year of reflecting on my teaching, I realize that one of the hardest things is establishing trust between student and teacher, student and student, teacher and leader, etc. etc. Trust is so key to a functioning relationship. It kind of seems like the foundation of it all. 

Mind you, I am not pretending to be an expert in DiSC (how D of me to even try!). I bring this up because it relates to the nightmare I feel like I'm just waking up from, a nightmare that I am trying to process. 

Last week, in the beginning of the nightmare, I wrote the blog prior to this one. I didn't share it on social media so likely no one saw it. That's how I wanted it. But it's here, in all it's teary glory. 

Wednesday morning was the day of the follow-up MRI of my chest to see if the spot that they saw on the prior MRI was anything to worry about. I was surprisingly calm on Wednesday, all the way in to Dana-Farber (even before I took the Ativan) and all the way back. I was actually hanging in there pretty well until my willpower ran out and around dinner time, I felt like I was going to lose it. 

I was 100% convinced that this was it. The cancer was back. Now mind you, my medical team was VERY clear that this could be nothing. But given my history, they wanted to do the tests to take a closer look at the spot. Given that my dot on the DiSC circle is as far away from the Steadiness part of the pie as possible, it's no surprise that I struggled to be stable. 

Let's just say, it was a hard week. I tried to breathe, eat, and sleep. Writing felt impossible, which made me feel completely useless. I went to the darkest of dark places. At one point, I almost threw my phone across the room. See, Brian and I set up a little alert for reasonably priced houses in Maine. Years from now, we hope to retire there so just for fun, we look at the houses that come through. We say we are getting knowledgeable about real estate and maybe, as a C, he's doing that. I'm just dreaming and then writing with the hopes that some day, the Maine house would be possible. 

Yesterday, before getting my results, a Zillow house came through that I clicked on. It was in Harpswell and it was adorable. And that's when I lost control of my mind. I don't know that my mind formed full sentences but the thought was clear: I'll be dead before we get to retire together. And that's when I almost threw the phone. 

So that was a low point. But there were much higher points of this 8-day nightmare. I learned a lot about myself, the most important being that I am very focused on myself. I guess that makes me selfish but I hate to admit that. It's true though. I focus a lot on how I feel, what I'm doing, what I need. I think as a hypochondriac, the selfishness is also innate, not that it's an excuse. 

Also not making excuses (or am I?), probably because I'm a D, without results and a plan, I basically feel like I have no ground underneath me. So I have to prepare myself for the worst. It's the only way I can cope. So I lived 8 days of thinking that my time on this Earth would be limited. Of course, all of our time is limited, it's just that when you think you have metastatic cancer, you can see the horizon of that limit. And once you see that horizon, everything before it looks different. Like everything. Every song, every memory, every plan, every everything. I won't even bother with the examples; there are too many. 

So while Brian and most of my sane family and friends waited for my actual results, I just prepared myself. I made some decisions and in retrospect, the process of making those decisions and the decisions themselves were a huge step forward in my growth as a human being. 

(You can probably deduce from my tone that the results came back as good. There is a tiny mass that is likely a benign cyst on my chest. They have a good picture of it as a baseline and we will monitor it with another MRI in three months. It's the usual story, and wildly good one all things considered.)

I think I only have the emotional strength to write about one decision today. Last week, I basically realized that when I first had cancer 10 years ago--my kids four- and one- years old, I wanted to do everything I could to give them everything I had. To be their mother--a central figure in their lives. Someone to raise them and teach them and do everything that a parent should do. That first time around, it was all about me, really. 

But the last eight days, as I lived my life assuming that cancer was once again on my horizon, I prepared in a different sort of way: I planned to step back. Oh trust me, I'd fight like Hell with every ounce in my being; that's a given. But I've known too many people who've done that and still reached the edge of that horizon. So I decided that if it got to the point in the next several years that death was imminent, I wanted to not matter to the people around me. I wanted my husband to have friends he could golf with anytime (check) and be cute enough to find someone else to retire with (check - but just not to Maine). I wanted my kids to have activities they love, friends they love, family they love, and people who would surround them with joy if I couldn't (all checks). I know you may think I'm the biggest D for DRAMA that you've ever known. But this is how my mind works. I need to make a plan, at least, for how my mind would cope. And this time, it wasn't going to be about me. As long as everyone else would be okay, I would be okay crossing over that horizon. 

Now, Brian, well, he actually waits for the results. He held on to the reality that this may be nothing before he decided where I should be buried. Such a thoughtful C. Thank God for him, and he's allowed every single "I told you so" he feels he needs. 

Speaking of God, on the way to the MRI, I opened a book at I had by my bed. It's called Chase the Lion and I got it at the library's book sale for $3. Turns out, the book is far too religious for me but on Wednesday I flipped it open for the first time and the topic on the page was "Faith Defined." I read just that page and it helped. "Sometimes you need to stop praying for something and start praising God as if it has already happened." (85) I had been doing a lot of praying, to powers that others seem to define as "God," so this line caught me. And a light peace came over me. I have a husband I love who is driving me to one of the best cancer hospitals in the world for a test to be sure that I don't have cancer again...a cancer that they have kept away for TEN YEARS! A cancer that, a dear researcher friend told me the night before, has many new options for treatment in the metastatic state (thank you, Selena). Instead of begging God that morning, I thanked my higher powers for the day. And yes, an hour later, I took the Ativan, and yes, eight hours later, I fell apart, but it was progress. 

Now, Annabel is almost home from school. Before she arrives, I'm going to take a huge leap that my amazing sister-in-law is helping me take. Lauren texted me the names of therapists who specialize in medical trauma. So to all of you who got to this point and can only think, Get this woman a therapist ASAP, please know, it's next on my list. Because if this last week taught me anything, it's this: (1) Being keenly aware of the horizon is a really hard part about being human, no matter our religion, health, work style, or way we find hope. And (2), I'm one of countless other humans who already know that. 

What fear. And what comfort. 

A Spot and the Soul (Part 1)

The technician jokingly called me "fresh" as she rolled me into the MRI tube this past Tuesday afternoon. She was referring to the fact that I was about eight years late in scheduling the MRI that she was about to perform. Truthfully, I had no idea that I was supposed to be going to see my plastic surgeon for MRIs every 2-3 years to check on the implants in my chest. 

I hadn't taken an Ativan for this test which was a first for me. I hate confined spaces and sitting still so lying still in a coffin-like tube isn't my idea of a good time. Ativan helps. I only had one pill left, so I figured I'd save it for the next brain MRI in December. 

I had some definite moments of panic while the MRI clanged away but I got through it. When I emerged from the machine, cheeks burning red and body freezing, I promised myself to take the Ativan next time. I wondered if the technicians saw anything on the scan but I've learned not to ask them because they don't tell you. Still, I felt a familiar nervous nausea as I changed out of the johnny and back into my clothes. 

On the way out, the technician who called me fresh joked again, "See you in ten years!" 

"God-willing," I replied, smiling, still sick to my stomach. God-willing. 

Yesterday, I took Annabel to Kohl's to look for a dress for a fancy event we are attending as a family on Saturday night. She had a few in hand and was headed to the fitting room when I felt my phone vibrate. It was the plastic surgeon. The implants look fine. But. 

My legs immediately turn to jelly when I get results like this. I felt the heat fill me, head to toe. 

I don't remember the exact words she used. Hyper-activity. 4mm. Bone. Sternum to be exact. Another test will look more closely. 

I thought I was going to throw up. "I'm scared," was all I could eek out. (Thank goodness Annabel is so independent and doesn't need my advice on clothes to decide if she likes or doesn't like them.)

Dr. Chun assured me that these types of things pop up "often." I made her repeat it. Often.  

"And are they ever cancer?" 

"Very rarely." 

"I'm scared." 

"I know you are and I'm so sorry to have to do this to you when it could be nothing. But when we see these spots, we have to investigate. I'm so sorry." 

I was pacing now, in and out of the clothes racks. A middle-aged woman in a grey sweatshirt with baby blue writing walked by. I almost dove into her arms, ready to tell her everything and ask her to just hold me up. I would have done that were I alone. That poor woman has no idea what she escaped thanks to Kohl's having a limited selection of dresses that Annabel liked. Had she had more to try on, that woman have gotten a dose of a crazy stranger she'd never have forgotten. Knowing Annabel would emerge shortly, I let her pass by. 

Brian was teaching a class until 6 p.m. and it was only four. I didn't want to bother him so I called my mom. Of course, she was wonderful. My rock. She asked if she should meet me at Kohl's. I told her I thought I could get home myself. But honestly, I didn't believe it yet. 

Annabel emerged. Nothing fit, thank God because I never could have stood in line to pay. It took everything in my power to not share what I was feeling. I had to be a calm, rational version of myself and let me tell you, it would be easier to convince myself that I'm a seahorse than convince myself I'm calm when I'm not. But somehow, I did it. 

Annabel immediately knew something was wrong and I told her that the stupid MRI just showed a little spot that they have to look at. She was scared. I told her what the doctor told me. That these types of things "often" pop up on tests. That they are usually nothing. I told her that I was just so frustrated (hence, the approaching tears) because I just really didn't want to go for another test. She seemed to understand that. Still, she was scared and upset. God, I wanted to help her. But I was too scared and upset to do it.  

I don't even know how I got us home but somehow, I did. Once there, I ran upstairs to the cabinet and took the last Ativan that I hadn't taken the day prior. I tucked it under my tongue so it'd dissolve faster. 

My mom was on my porch in minutes. We knew we had to make some calls and by some miracle, I made them. To my oncology team to ask them to weigh in on next steps. To my PCP to order more Ativan. I paced. With Annabel in the other room, I cried. 

I had to get her out of the house so I could freak out and then collect my thoughts (it's a two-step process). I tried to walk her over to the field hockey game but as we got close, she started to cry and said she just wanted to go home. No! I thought to myself. I'm supposed to get you to this game with your friends so I can go home and fall apart. I need to go fall apart! But she didn't want to go to the game. 

And then something happened. In my most self-centered state, something came over me that told me, Do this for her. Do what you think you can't do FOR HER. And because of that voice--the voice of love, I guess--I did it. I shed a tiny part of the burden I was so selfishly bearing, just enough to hug her and make a joke. We laughed about how annoying medical tests were, about how pouty I was being. We walked home, lighter, me, Annabel, and my Mom. 

My sister-in-law is an incredible nurse practitioner and later last night, she gave me the hope I needed to hang on to some version of sanity. She assured me that these types of things pop up all the time. That it could be nothing. That it could be nothing. That it could be nothing. 

By the time Teddy and Brian got home, I had gotten myself to a much more stable place. The night went on as usual. Homework. Dinner (for those who could eat). Television. Bedtime. I even slept. Yes, I took another 0.5mg of Ativan, but still. 

This morning I took a walk with a dear friend, someone who knows more than I do how fucking scary this all is. (Remember: swearing allowed when scared shitless.) She knows the depths of this type of fear, and while it comforts me to have that company, it breaks my heart, too. No one should know this type of fear. (Okay, maybe I'd wish it on just a few people but those ones are basically the devil's spawn, and even then, I'd probably cave and want them spared, too.)

I know that this could be nothing. I have had these scares before. So why am I writing? Because writing is my lifeboat. 

Speaking of lifeboats, I just finished reading, Stranger in a Lifeboat by Mitch Albom (yes, the "Tuesdays-with-Morrie-guy"). That book. Wow. It shook me to my core. I won't ruin it for you but I'll say this.

I know it's easier for people who love us to watch us face an obstacle and say, "You'll be okay! It could be nothing!" That's the way they hope and I would never take that away from them. But for me, it's not enough. I know this could be nothing. But I also know it could be something. Cancer, again. I have to be able to say that to myself. To type it. To read it on the screen. Of course, the rational ones around me will say, "What are the chances!? Don't worry until there is something to worry about!" And I love that you think that way. I wish I could think that way. 

But something happened to me in these last ten years, and it wasn't just the shock of my own cancer. Today or any day, my hope is no longer founded on the thought of maybe it won't come back. There's always a part of me that assumes it will. I was just too young, too (otherwise) healthy, too shocked to think of it any other way. Plus, the nightmares. Oh the nightmares. They are there at least every week. They show me--with cinematic detail--what could happen. And, of course, there are the scares--like this one. The little glimpses into the "what if?" The pure Hell of those glimpses. 

And so I need to ground my hope in something deeper. I need to believe that if this spot on my sternum does turn out to be metastasized cancer, that they could do something about it. That there would be a surgery or a procedure or a medicine. That there would be a plan of action, and then, action. 

But I'm not done yet. Do you want to know how really, truly crazy I am? (It's a lot, brace yourself.) I actually need even more hope than that (a hope-hog, right?!). I need to have the hope that if they didn't have a plan, or if the plans eventually ran out, that the universe would somehow still be loving and fair. What does that look like? (Oh the tears.) Breathe. It looks like last night. My mom taking Annabel to  McDonalds. Teddy coming home from a golf match and doing his homework. Brian teaching and coaching. It means me, absent, still somehow able to show them how much I love them. 

There is a page in Mitch Albom's Stranger in the Lifeboat that reads (without giving away any  surprises, hence the multiple ellipses): 

"When someone passes, Benjamin, people always ask, 'Why did God take them?' A better question would be 'Why did God give them to us?' What did we do to deserve their love, their joy, the sweet moments we shared? Did you have such moments with Annabelle?" [The character's name is Annabelle, like my Annabel.)] … 

"Those moments are a gift. But their end is not punishment. … Beginnings and endings are earthly ideas. … Feeling loss is part of why you are on Earth. Through it, you appreciate the gift of human existence, and you learn to cherish the world[.] … But the human form is not permanent. It was never meant to be. That gift belongs to the soul." (page 241-242)

My deepest fear and my deepest hope lies in the "not permanence" of us all. So yes, the spot on my sternum could be nothing. But if it's something, I will still find hope in modern medicine, in the resilience of the human spirit, and ultimately, in my faith that soul continues on in a way no earthly being could ever understand.

Against the Current

My grandmother and grandfather bought a piece of land in East Hampton, New York in the late 1960s. Back then, I'm pretty sure when people said "the Hamptons" it didn't come with all the elitism and snobby baggage that it does now. From what family lore has told me, they found a small plot of land that overlooked a bay, and they jumped. Their eldest child and her husband (my aunt and uncle) are architects so they designed a house and my grandparents built it in 1976. Along with my mother and their other siblings, my aunt and uncle have maintained the house on its stunning perch, putting blood, sweat, and tears into a place that has meant (and continues to mean) so much to me, Brian, and our family. 

My grandparents have been gone for years now, but their spirits live on in this house. I can feel them in the books, chairs, artwork, coffee mugs, photographs, and even the placemats and recipes that remain in this house. Every now and then, I can still smell my grandmother, I swear (she had such a beautiful smell that could never be explained nor replicated). 

For us, the visits to Long Island come only in the summers, but those two precious weeks in July are cherished times of the year. When we are here, Brian cooks (per usual, but somehow it tastes even better), we read (a lot), we sit on the deck and admire the sky and the sea (that view will never get old), and we spend a lot of time at the ocean (Atlantic Avenue Beach). 

This year, our family vacation left behind a family member because his baseball team kept winning (so awesome, but boy have we missed him). Granted, our 14-year-old probably wouldn't have much interest in this quiet, peaceful place, and we have spent ten days trying to accept that in this phase of his life, playing baseball and being with friends is more his vibe. Oh how that's a tough pill to swallow, and at times, the mom-guilt of leaving him has been debilitating.  

So while family and friends in Canton have spoiled Teddy, Brian and I have enjoyed quality time with each other, and with Annabel and my Mom. It's been blissful, with reality interrupting the bliss in all its normal reality sort of ways. 

Yesterday, Annabel and I enjoyed the waves at the ocean. While my mom read her book on shore, I loved every minute of teaching our 11-year-old how to navigate the surf. I grew up playing in these waves and it's so precious watching her love them as much as I do. The waves at Atlantic aren’t enormous waves, but they are strong enough to challenge even experienced swimmers. Lifeguards raise a green, yellow, or red flag every day to indicate the danger level of the water (including riptides). Green days are fun because they are more calm but yellow days are fun because they are more full of adventure. Red days are off-limits per the life guard’s restrictions.

A yellow flag has flown over the lifeguard stand in the last few days but there has been enough space in the waves closer to shore for Annabel and I to enjoy the waves without being fearful. She's a water bug and can stay in there for three hours at a time. There's nothing better than watching her play, even if after an hour, I need to put a podcast on in my ear. There's only so much being totally in the present moment I can take. 

I never had any formal training in how to navigate the waves of Atlantic Beach but I had parents, uncles, and cousins who taught me the basics: when and how to enter the waves at the right time, how to decide if it’s safe to float over a wave or if diving underneath is necessary, how to exit the waves when you’re tired or freezing, and how to empty the sand out of your bathing suit once one-too-many boogie board or body surfing trips has led to an uncomfortable collection in a part of the body that really doesn’t appreciate sand.

My family also taught me one of the most important lessons about riptides: don’t fight them and don’t panic. If you feel that a riptide is pulling you out into the ocean, the best thing to do in the moment is let it pull you. You’re never going to be stronger than the ocean. Once the riptide has taken you out and it subsides, you collect yourself, stay patient, and wait for the right time to let the waves help carry you back to shore. By that point, you have likely moved hundreds of yards down the beach from where you started, but that’s okay. Once you’ve made it back to shore safely, you can use those cold and shaky legs to walk back to where you began.

Last summer, on a glorious beach day with a yellow flag, the ocean currents were real, so real that it took no more than two minutes in the water before you were about 400 yards down the beach. That day, I taught Teddy about a few powers of the ocean. I'll admit: taking him all the way out in a yellow flag (something I haven't yet done with Annabel), scared me. Mostly, I was scared that he would fight the current. That he would panic. But I wanted him to learn, and he did. Annabel will be ready next year. I hope I'm still strong enough to teach her. 

*  *  *

In many ways, the last school year felt like trying to swim against a riptide. Several times a day, I felt like I wasn't strong enough to keep going, like I didn't have the energy or the will to keep on fighting against the current of so many bad things. Student addiction to cell phones, mental health issues (students and adults included), violent behavior, hateful and hurtful language, low motivation, and persistent negativity. Any teacher in America will tell you: it was a challenging school year. 

While some teachers may find solace in their shared frustration with students, others of us just feel sad that our students are struggling so much. “It’s not their fault,” I repeat, and I still believe that. At the same time, fault doesn't really matter when it comes to their futures. Plus, receiving constant negative energy eventually feels toxic. Last year, no amount of mindfulness could shield me from that toxicity.

At the same time, I believe deeply in schools and in educators who fully commit to closing the achievement gap. It’s a canyon of a gap, an abyss really. And COVID seems to have made it all so much worse. 

In the years of remote and hybrid learning (and, now that I think about, in the prior years teaching in Boston), I felt like I was swimming against a strong current. I'm guessing other teachers and even students felt the same. But for many of us, last year was different. Last year, I felt like I could drown. 

In what often felt like chaos, I fought the current and I went with it, and neither seemed to work. Like other teachers across the globe, I changed my teaching methods in hundreds of different ways. I edited and adapted and adjusted, before class and during and after. I reflected a lot, and even reflected on how I reflected. I took numerous different tones, tried to listen more, and tried to distinguish between noise that needs my attention and toxicity that doesn’t deserve it. I tried. We tried. So hard. And yet, by the end of the year, I was only just holding on. I have taught for a very short thirteen years. I know that's not enough to feel exhausted. But I felt exhausted. 

Aside from the feeling of failure and shame that comes when I ask myself what some students learned from my class last year (answer: maybe nothing), I also feel great guilt in the reality that I am taking the next school year off from teaching to write my book. But I know I need to surrender to the current for now, let it pull me to places I hadn’t anticipated I would land. While I’m there (wherever that may be), I hope to become stronger, more knowledgeable, and more patient. I need to rethink my ideas about education by asking questions that I think we all need to ask: How do we address students’ increasingly short attention span for any academic task? How can we get kids to come to school, never mind, how do we best teach them once they are there? Oh the list goes on.)

Still, I feel guilt and sadness. I will miss my classroom next year, despite that so many classes this year have ended in my wanting to cry or scream. But eventually, I will gather strength, emerge from the waves, and march back down the beach, ready to dive back in again.

*  *  *

A few mornings ago, I got up early to set a time lapse photo to catch this sunrise.

Playing in the waves.

Imperfection Anyways

I wrote in my memoir about how different the reality of life can be to our vision for it. I still chuckle (and sometimes cry) at how very true the discrepancy can be. 

Teddy is in the heart of a busy summer baseball season and last night's game took us to Worcester State. It's not a terrible ride -- about an hour and 15 minutes -- and Brian was more than willing to go. But I had a vision. Since I'll be missing Teddy's Thursday night game for dinner with some dear friends, I would catch up with him (assuage my mom guilt), and drive him to Worcester State. We would chat in the car about how he's doing, he would tell me all about being a camp counselor this week, and we would discuss his excitement and fears for his upcoming first year of high school. I even had some questions I wanted to ask as I churn an idea in my head for something I want to write about habits for academic success. Not that I was going to interview my own son, but kind of, I was. 

I was all packed up with things to read in the hour his team warmed up, and had my dinner in hand. Brian had packed a cooler for Teddy, and the gas tank was full. This was going to be great. A summer night with my son, oh, and his gregarious friend, who took the back seat. I was happy; these two are fun to be around. 

As we got in the car, I watched them insert earbuds. Oh. Ok. Then I noticed Teddy had left the cooler of his water and dinner in the middle of the driveway. 

When we got in the car (again), Teddy and his friend positioned themselves for a nap. 

"Oh, you're not going to talk to me?" I asked. 

"We can talk on the way home," Teddy told me with his charming smile. Well, then. I fired up the Waze and my podcast about writing, and off we went. Teddy woke up when we were almost there and his friend chose his music over my podcast (how?!). Solid bonding time was had by all. Vision versus reality. 

*  *  *

I have been writing; I promise. I even found my protagonist's voice, which feels like finding treasure. Her name is Nomzamo, and I have loved her for a long time, even before she had come close enough to be fully in focus. But she's coming closer, and she's fascinating. 

I have followed my commitment to write from 6:30 - 8 a.m. every morning and not broken it once. I have also kept my commitment to read 60 minutes a day, although that time has been much more scattered and I should probably tighten it up a bit. 

I've also realized that despite all of the reading and research I have done for this book over the last 20+ years, I have so much more to do. This morning I outlined the 20 pages of the book that I need to write to meet my first deadline of July 31. I made a chart -- basically 4 pages at a time for 5 sections -- and added a column for the research I will need to do to complete each section. I have a plan, at least for the road immediately ahead of me; it's like I've set the Waze for my writing. 

In one of the writing podcasts I listened to the other day, the writer quoted someone who said that starting to write is so hard because it means that you have to sit down to the bar of self-judgment. He went on to explain that every idea is perfect until you start to write it. When you start to write it, it's no longer perfect, and sitting down to write is so hard because we all hate to see perfection turn to imperfection. Yes. Yes. Yes. 

I realized last night that my visions for parenting, and life really, are much like my ideas for writing: they are perfect until they actually become real. Then they are wildly imperfect and the sunny summer evening turns into a lightening storm, the game ends early, and my son is mad at me because the fresh sandwich we packed for him isn't as delicious as a burrito from Chipotle. Then we drive home. I spend the first part of hour listening to music and when it's clear Teddy doesn't have much to say, I call my sister and we talk about books. Just about 10 minutes away from home, Teddy starts to talk to me. Not about much, but it's something. I'm grateful for it because I really do love him so. And he's 14, so I guess talking to his mother isn't all that thrilling. His loss. Ha! 

Writing is so beautiful and so damn hard because, like life, it is a constant reminder that even on the very best of days, imperfection is inevitable and visions are never reality. And that's okay. I'll live it, and write it, anyways. 

Goals, not dreams.

In a podcast an inspirational friend recently shared with me, an American author, Glennon Doyle, said that when she puts her writing out into the world, she doesn't then "babysit" it. She further explained: she doesn't watch what people say about what she wrote, defend it, or further explain it. She just lets it be. 

I won't lie; when this blog first came into existence almost 10 years ago (gulp, goosebumps), I babysat it like it was my nephew in the NICU. (When John was born three years ago tomorrow -- two months prior to his due date and with head trauma to boot -- I visited the NICU often. I usually went after dinner, when my kids were settled and when his heroic parents finally left his side to get a bit of sleep. When I wasn't holding him, I would watch the numbers on the screen above his incubator, examine his little body and his precious movements as if those numbers, that body, and those movements were the most important things in the whole world. Because to our family, they were.) I could write about John for a whole book, but let the metaphor end here, and suffice it to say, years ago, I babysat this blog and people's responses to it like they meant the world to me. Because they did. 

Ten years ago, thanks to my brother (John's dad) who showed me how to see the "analytics" of the blog, I experienced joy in watching people in over 90 countries consistently read something I wrote. I still don't understand how it happened, but at the time, I was scared out of my mind and the distraction of writing and then babysitting my writing helped. At a time when I wondered what more I'd get to do with my life, I felt valuable in seeing that what I was writing meant something to someone else. Plus, I felt loved. Heard. Insightful. Who doesn't want to feel that?!

In one month, August 8, 2022, I will (God willing) reach the 10-year anniversary of my diagnosis. I would be lying if I said I haven't been looking at that date. Watching that number on the calendar. Five years felt big. Ten feels monumental. And standing in the shadow of a monument can feel really overwhelming.

Part of this burst of energy to begin to write my book is fueled by that anniversary. It's even fueled, a bit, by fear, but more on that sometime soon. It's largely fueled by my mother, who doesn't just inspire me with her faith in my abilities and the constant insight she gives me without even trying, but with the practical support I need to actually do this. And it's fueled by something deep inside me that just knows: this is what I need to do if I am going to live, really live, as me. 

At the same time, I'm trying not to babysit these little blogs. I'm practicing for when I start to put more writing out into the world. I can't control what people will say about what I write so I may as well practice surrendering now. 

Still, I peek. I smile. And I'm so grateful for the people who believe in me. Again, who doesn't want to feel that?!

I have two solid guesses as to the person who left this comment on my "It's Time" blog, and there's a little magic in not reaching out to either of them to say, "Was this you?" So I haven't done that (yet?) and rather, I've just been reading these words over and over. 

The brave and warrior part are sweet but I don't really pay much heed to that. How can I believe that when I'm reading American Dirt? What I have done is like 0.00000000001% of what others do in this world. But still, I'm grateful for the sentiment. 

But just read those words: "Goals, not dreams. Not an if, but a when, marked in your time, your pace, to reach your planned goals." Dang. For me, words are often precious gifts and when shaped in the way this person shaped them, I feel like Anonymous left me a gift worth billions. 

This morning, shortly after 6:30 a.m., I made a new note in my novel's Scrivener document. I called it, "Goals, not dreams," and I mapped out the plan. 

300 pages by December 31. A full draft of the novel, messy and in need of months of editing, but complete by the end of 2022. That's the planned goal, with a pretty little table and mini-deadlines all mapped out as of today. That map will take me the distance. Planned goal. Born in a dream. 

Thank you to Anonymous for sharing the precious gift of your words. I promise, I won't babysit, but every now and then, I'll quietly open the door and peek in to check on these sleeping babies. Because who doesn't want to feel that?!

July 7, 2022

I took a huge baby step this morning (maybe even a toddler step) with respect to my narrator's voice and the point of entry to her story. I needed this boost of confidence that I can find the narrator's perspective and that her perspective can be strong, vulnerable, purposeful, and authentic. 

American Dirt continues to inspire me as mother, a wife, an American, and a writer. I highly recommend this book even though it will twist your gut and ache your heart. Even after years of working closely with refugees who sought political asylum in this country, I still needed this book to teach me about how much pain people endure to reach America. This nation has broken many hearts lately, but American Dirt reminds me that the freedom, opportunity, and hope within our borders still hold the power to heal those breaks.  

My goal for tomorrow's morning writing session is to finish outlining the novel. I also plan to finish reading American Dirt. When I'm done with that, I plan on finishing The Alice Network, which I am halfway through. Kate Quinn does historical fiction like no other. 

July 6, 2022

Yesterday I introduced myself to my fellow classmates in an online writing course that begins on July 11th. I sound like a boring person in my introduction, which either means that I am, actually, boring, or that I reallllly need the writing course. Probably both. 

This morning, my gentle Amazon alarm rang at 6 a.m. and ... You better get up. You promised you would ... but you have COVID. Isn't that enough of an excuse? But I know I feel fine to get up. Dammit. 5-4-3-2-1 ... and I was up. 

I brushed my teeth, didn't put in my contacts (still celebrating the victory of PRK), and poured some ice coffee. I listened to a short meditation recording from Headspace, realized that clearing my mind feels next to impossible, took some deep breaths, and put my a$$ in the chair. 

The thing was, I didn't stay there for long. But don't worry...it's not because I quit because I did not quit for a single second (and even kept working until Annabel needed me for a ride to gymnastics). I didn't stay in my seat because I mostly stood facing the wall in our den on which I hung (crookedly) this pocket chart that I have had in my classroom for years. Here is an image of a "pocket chart" for non-teachers. 

Using this excellent-used-condition pocket chart, I outlined the three main parts of the book and decided on the two points of view that I want to take (actually, it may be three but the last one is tricky...stay tuned). 

In the many "how to write a novel" podcasts, MasterClasses, and YouTube videos I have watched about becoming a writer, authors have shared a common theme about outlining: some authors do it and some don't. For the ones who outline, some do it extensively and some do it with lots of wiggle room for adjustments. For the ones who don't outline, many cite the need to stay creative through the process. Since I've never written a book, I don't know which type of writer I am so I'm going to try the outlining method and see where it takes me. 

So this morning I decided that each "part" should have about 12 chapters and each chapter should be able 10 pages. In reality, I just took the novel I'm reading now (American Dirt), found how long it is (379 pages) divided 379 by the number of chapters (36) and decided that I'd round down. Voila! I just have to write 36 awesome 10-page mini-stories, have them all fit together perfectly, and I have a novel. Piece. Of. Cake. (Yum. Cake. Ugh!)

Sometime about 57 minutes into outlining, thinking, and plotting, I had a little breakthrough with one of my key themes. I can't give it away now but it was important and I have my first piece of personal evidence to prove what all those authors have said -- when you actually focus on writing, you come closer to writing. It's magical. 

Yep, Day 1 was awesome and I'm already eager to go to sleep so I'm closer to Day 2. And I am never eager to go to sleep, so I'm deeming Day 1 a positive little baby step. 

As for my second commitment, to read for 60 minutes, I failed. Ugh. But I learned a lot, including this: 

1. I did a favor for some friends today that took about an hour. I learned that I should have said "Yes" to this favor only after I finished my reading and writing commitments. Next time someone asks me for time that I know could infringe on my writing or reading commitments, I'm going to say, "Yes, I can, but only after I get my work done." I'm terrible at saying anything but, "Yes, I can," and I need to work on that. Period. Let's practice. Yes, I can, but only after I get my work done. Easier said then done.  

2. In my house, we watch TV together beginning around 8 or 9 p.m. I love having my husband, two kids, and my dog all in the same room, even if five screens are still lighting up around us. I think we are somehow bonding, too. But also, if I'm being totally honest, I've always struggled with that TV time. I guess I can love something and simultaneously struggle with it because I swear, the love and the struggle coexist. First, when we watch TV, I just want to eat, and I battle with the food that calls to me from the kitchen. If I give in to the food, it's no good for my brain. But second, when we watch TV, I'm bored. I try to pay attention to the story in whatever show my family chose, but something inside me has always felt like I should be using that time for something else. Tonight, when they sat down to watch TV, I realized I hadn't done my 60 minutes of reading. I was disappointed with myself until I thought, I could not watch TV and do the reading now. But then I'd have to go upstairs and I like being near them. I tried it out anyways and went upstairs. But instead of reading, I started to write this. Then I had to go pick up Teddy. Then I had to take the dog out. But now I'm back. I still haven't done by 60 minutes of reading, but I'm going to get to it. I can hear Brian and Annabel enjoying their 35th episode of Chuck downstairs and it's clear I'm not as central to TV time as I thought. Plus, it's not as lonely up here as I thought it would be. Actually, it's kind of nice. 

Commitment #2

I commit to reading for 60 minutes every day. I already do this (probably way more) but in these particular 60 minutes, I will read with a keen eye towards dissecting the author's craft. Today, for example, I continued reading a book that my sister recommended to me, American Dirt, by Jeanine Cummins. American Dirt is the gut-wrenching story of a mother and son trying to flee Mexico after a drug lord murdered 16 members of their family (I'm not giving anything away as the story opens with this scene). 

In reading today, I paid very close attention to how Cummins worked with back story, flashbacks, and the narrative tense. She weaves time together seamlessly and in my writing, I have found that such weaving is a great struggle.  

I also started to keep a notebook of new words I'm learning because Wordle reminds me every day that my vocabulary is deficient. I mean, how did I only just learn what droll means?

Here was the most amazing line of today's reading...actually, two!

"Lydia funnels gratitude into the slow blink of her lashes." (p. 152)

"She could do anything back then, before she had the maternal fear to spark any real caution in her soul." (p. 154)

Dang. 

Goals. 

Commitment #1

For the last few years, I have listened to, read, and watched every single thing I can about becoming a writer. I must be the world's biggest expert on becoming a writer who is not actually writing anything. I know that needs to change. 

A friend introduced me to a fellow former-lawyer-who-wanted-more-from-life, Mel Robbins. Mel is interesting and several of her "life hacks" (as Annabel would call them) have come in handy, including this one, which I now deem central to my commitments to writing.

Mel says, If you struggle to get out of bed in the morning, set the alarm and when it goes off, say "5-4-3-2-1" and then get up. I know; it's so damn simple, but a few months in, it still feels somewhat miraculous. As someone who has perpetually set early alarms that I then ignored, and as someone who spent the subsequent day tarnished in guilt from "sleeping late," this method has really helped. I find myself getting up early with much more ease and feeling great about it after. 

However, the truth is that I am still using my early morning time hiding from writing. A few times I have written but mostly, I have hidden from writing by using exercise. I've used exercise to hide from a lot of things in life and I know I want to change that. It's time. 

So my first commitment in my writing journey is this: 

1. Get out of bed at 6:00 AM every week day of the summer (excluding 1 vacation week in August). 

2. Be in my chair writing from 6:30 - 8:00 AM every week day of the summer (excluding 1 vacation week in August). 

That's it. Commitment #1. Day 1 starts tomorrow. No hiding, because you're there. Right, Mom?