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July 2010

Normally, I want to write a semi-happy blog. I want to talk about flowers and kids and books and home and friends. I like to write about these things because I like this kind of stuff personally, and the blogs I return to again and again myself (Sarah Dessen for one) tend to be light-hearted and funny because we all need lifting up, right? But the truth is I’m not feeling very light-hearted these days, and the things on my mind aren’t funny at all. In fact, they have a lot to do with where I’ve been and where I’m headed.

There have been the usual milestones—21st birthday (I don’t remember this one); 30th birthday (I do remember this one, unfortunately); 35th birthday (an exceptionally good year); 40th birthday (my mother was dying, so enough said); and 46th birthday. Yes, that’s right, I said 46.

Forty-six should not be a milestone year. Forty-six should come, be appropriately celebrated (it was), and then it should be forgotten. The trouble is I can’t forget it, and I’m already halfway to 47. If you’re reading this and you’re older than I am, you are probably rolling your eyes. If you’re a teenager, and in theory this website is for teenagers, you’ve probably already gone to a more interesting blog. Here’s the thing, though. Forty-six is like a throbbing headache that won’t go away. It’s like that very random person you friended on Facebook who didn’t accept your request. It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

Here’s what I’ve figured out about 46: I feel like the really big, exceptionally good stuff is already behind me. And trust me when I say I’ve tried presenting all the Life begins at forty counter arguments to myself, yet this hasn’t worked, either. We feel what we feel, logical or not.

Possible solutions to this problem:
1. Have another baby.
2. Get a new car, something shiny and colorful and important looking.
3. Head to the nearest cosmetic surgeon.

OR…maybe…the real solution is found in facing forty-six, not fighting it. I am 46. I’m never going to birth another child unless I’m stuck in an elevator with a crowning pregnant woman. And I like the car I have. It’s not colorful—it’s gray—or important looking—it’s a station wagon—but it is shiny, thanks to Auto Spa. And while I applaud the choice to fix things you don’t like about your face and body, surgically or otherwise, I don’t want to go there myself for a number of reasons.

For now, I’ll just do my best to feel grateful, really, truly blessed (because I am!) that this “big stuff,” as I call it, happened to me in the first place—the sweet wedding and those beautiful babies.

At the end of every day
I have been blessed
With so much more than I deserve
To be here with the ones
That love me
To love them so much it hurts
I have been blessed

Martina McBride’s “Blessed”
Written by: Hillary Lindsay, Troy Verges, and Brett James

June 2010

Lots of things make me happy: a clean house, a pantry and refrigerator filled with groceries, my garden, birds on the feeder, a new issue of Country Living in my mailbox, a bonfire with our new neighbors, and summer. Like most people, I love everything about this season, and I starting obsessing over its approach in late March. It seems that summer will never come, that I’ll be wearing dark clothes and sweaters and my winter coat forever. Then we have that first taste, a random day in April when the weather gets freakishly warm, and everyone emerges in shorts and T-shirts, happy simply because the sun is shining. Of course, summer retreats then, as she is coy and knows her power.

But now summer is here! Finally! And my new book is out, and I’m working on another new book. School is almost over, both for my kids and for me. Plus, we’re doing our first overnight on the sailboat, which means crabs and french fries and corn-on-cob and the smell of Bay water on my children’s skin.

Just yesterday I went to the library to return a book-on-tape, and the librarian said eagerly, “You won’t recognize this place in a couple of weeks.” “Why?” I asked, slightly worried since I love the space exactly as it is. She replied, her eyes glittering with excitement, “Summer reading. We change everything in the summer.” My eight-year-old looked up at me wide-eyed, which means we’ll be spending lots of time at the library, and there’s a snow cone stand right next door. We’ll be spending time there, too, I think.

During so many other seasons, we expect big things. Fall is back to school and homework and teaching and grading and stress. Christmas means lots of shopping and spending and cooking and decorating. Spring is over-loaded with so many school functions and household projects. But summer expects nothing more of us than to step outside our doors and squint up at the sky or listen to the breeze in the trees. Of course, people still work and have responsibilities. Writing with kids underfoot won’t be easy, and those first couple of weeks after school lets out they feel the stress (yes, stress) of entertaining themselves. That I can handle, though, because there are three brand new hydrangea bushes planted just outside our screened-in porch, and my husband’s garden of cut flowers and vegetables is showing signs of life.

Ah, summer, you will be gone before we know it, as my mother used to say, but while you are here, I plan to enjoy all your riches. I wish everyone a safe, happy, hydrangea-filled summer.

May 2010

The sun came out today, and the temps warmed up, and tomorrow we’re headed out of town on a two-night family (minus Cassie, sadly) vacation to the Eastern Shore, one of THE most beautiful places on earth. Lately, life has been stressful. If you read my last blog, you probably gathered that. But this morning when the sun came out for the first time in days, and it was warm enough to bounce on the trampoline with Elsbeth and weed the garden this afternoon, I felt instantly better. Plus, there’s that promise of the weekend ahead—dinners out and reading and maybe treating myself to a pedicure. Even the two-hour drive sounds like fun. The kids in the back seat, my husband beside me, music on the radio.

Monday will come, of course. The house will be dirty and the laundry will have mysteriously piled up even though we were away all weekend, but for now, I’m not thinking about that. Or, I’m going to try not to think about all that. Truthfully, I’m not good at this letting go stuff. I’m more of a get-it-all-done-now-so-you-don’t-have-to-think-about- it-tomorrow kind of girl. The problem with my mindset, however, is that “it all” never gets done.

As I’m writing this, the phone is ringing off the hook, and the kids are playing outside, but the TV is still on upstairs (it’s blaring iCarly). And there’s that exciting matter of a new book coming out in days. There’s also the new, new book I’m working on. And my students are expecting their sudden fiction stories back next week. Yikes, I have an observation lesson to plan! Oh, and the yard is still a mess from the bad winter and all the construction work. My girls have school projects due, too. See how easily I can slip back into the real me, the worrier, the I-can-fix-it-all-if-I-just-work-harder person that I truly am?

Sometimes I think about that carthorse in George Orwell’s Animal Farm. Boxer was his name, and he kept saying I will work harder over and over and over. And then he did work harder and harder and harder. I’m simplifying Boxer’s situation because he and poor Clover symbolized the oppressed working class in Russian society. I get that. But to me, Boxer was kind of personal, too, because I related to him. He was gullible, naïve enough to believe that working 24/7/365 would bring him some sort of rich reward he couldn’t quite imagine. In the end, though, those pigs shipped him off to the glue factory so they could buy more whiskey. Boxer’s situation was pretty hopeless, really, given Stalin and those Communists and all. But I wish he would’ve grazed more on the sly or swished his tail defiantly in the breeze or sown some oats maybe, rather than exert every ounce of his energy just trying to get it all done.

I’m not sure how I went from a trip to the Eastern Shore to Boxer of Animal Farm. A sure sign that I really do need a vacation?

Elsbeth just switched off the television, thank heaven. And I unplugged the phone. It’s quiet now. There are two Adirondack chairs on our front lawn, and one of them is calling my name. For tonight and tomorrow and the next day and half of the next, I am not going to work harder. In fact, I’m not going to work at all. R.I.P., Boxer.

April 2010

In case you’ve ever wondered, writing a book is scary. You could be doing so many other things that would provide instant gratification, or at least the kind of gratification that doesn’t take two years (or twenty) to realize. Writing a book makes you question decisions and choices, those you’re making in the here and now and those you’ve made in the past. Writing a book makes you laugh on some days, cry on others, or even do both simultaneously. Writing a book can make you insanely jealous because somebody else, lots of folks, actually, are having way more success than you, and so you’re constantly comparing—Amazon sales rankings, tours or no tours, marketing campaigns, school bookings, awards, Facebook friends, fan pages, starred reviews or no reviews at all. And you so, so, so want to be where those successful authors are. You know you do, so don’t lie. You want to rise to the top and be important in this field you love. You feel a bit desperate about it, actually.

When you write a book, you spend a lot of time alone, staring at a computer screen, studying diction and syntax and characters and plots and symbols until you’re certain you no longer understand the first thing about any of it. You read things aloud to yourself and wonder if the UPS guy could hear you as he came up the walk. Maybe he thinks you’re crazy. Maybe you are crazy. Yes, you are crazy because no sane person would ever choose this line of work. You talk out plotlines in the car, or stand in the shower too long because you’re obsessing over how to describe water trickling down the drain or how to transition better from scene to scene. You watch people too intently—at the grocery store, in the carpool line, at the gas station, or the gym. You want to know their stories because you know they have a story—everyone does.

You spend a lot of time defending your profession, or if you’ve been at it for a while, just keeping your mouth shut when people say stupid things to you, like, “Boy, I wish my husband would let me stay home and write a novel,” (yes, she said let) or “I’d write a novel, too, but I just don’t have that kind of time.”

And right before a new book comes out, you’re even nuttier. Is anybody going to buy your new book, and if they do buy it, will they like it? Will you get reviews? And is a bad review really better than no review at all? And how will you mark publication day? And the days following? Will this book do better than the last one? Maybe not. You know, there are no guarantees about this sort of thing. And if this new book does poorly, then what? Will you ever get another publishing deal? Will the editor you love ditch you? Will girls who hated you in high school have a rowdy celebration, raise their wine glasses high to your abysmal failure? Will kids tease your daughters on the playground?

You can’t go on like this much longer, so you set out to find your inner Anne Lammott. You’d look cute in dreadlocks, right? And even though Anne Tyler doesn’t know you, you live in the same town at least. There’s hope in that. Maybe success is in the good old Baltimore air; all you have to do is inhale deeply. You met Lee Smith and Sarah Dessen not too long ago. They were doing a reading together and you had your picture taken with them, stood so close that your shoulders touched. Some of their talent rubbed off. It did! And they have so much of the stuff they were probably glad to slough off a little.

One day after you’ve poured orange juice on the kids’ cereal or searched endlessly for the sunglasses on your head, the madness stops. It has to because you’ve exhausted yourself and your family and your friends. The UPS guy leaves packages out by the garage now. The dogs look at you funny when you walk past them. You have to get a handle on yourself, so you close your eyes and think back to your twenties when you wrote bad stories for a trade publication. You remember your early thirties and graduate school, all those classes you took so that you could be a better writer. You picture that pile of rejected manuscripts, those hours of your life you willingly gave up…for this. It meant so much. You got up early, went to bed late, dreamed and dreamed and prayed about having just one book on a shelf somewhere. Your forties showed up, and while your mom was being invaded by cancer cells, you kept writing, sorry that she’d never get to share the day with you if that acceptance letter or phone call or email ever happened.

Then it did happen. The Agent believed in you, and you spent all those months working together to make the book saleable. Eventually, The Editor believed in you, too, and you spent lots more months making the saleable book publishable.

Yes, writing a book is scary. So is writing the next book and the next book and so on. Wanna know what’s scarier than all this? Not writing the book.

Somebody Everybody Listens To is available for pre-order on Amazon!

March 2010

Fall (I know it’s almost spring, but bear with me) is a crazy time for birthdays around my house. Everyone in the family, except me, has a birthday in the fall—early fall, mid fall, late fall. My birthday comes in January, so by the time it rolls around, I am so done with birthdays. Typically, every family member gets a celebration of some sort. My husband and oldest daughter opt for simple, theme-free affairs—favorite dinner, cards, a few balloons, cake, and gifts. My two youngest daughters alternate “big” birthdays and “little” birthdays. This year it was Elsbeth’s turn for a “big” birthday, which meant she could invite all her classmates. Flannery had a “little” birthday, which meant she could invite three BFFs.

Here’s what I planned for the Big and Little birthdays:
1) Elsbeth—outdoor event—moon bouncing, swimming, and face painting in mid September.
2) Flannery—sleepover—movies, pizza, cake, and American Girl dolls in late December.

Here’s what I didn’t plan:
1) Elsbeth—pouring, drenching, cold rain, mud, LOTS of squealing little girls in wet clothes and dirty sneakers, and a deflated moonbounce.
2) Flannery—blizzard conditions, freezing temps, stranded children (this slumber party went on for 48 hours, thank you very much) and squealing girls in wet snow clothes and boots.

About the last thing I expected to be doing in early March was hosting yet another birthday party. Birthdays, or so I thought, were behind me until September. BUT…according to the eight and ten year olds who live in my house, Iris, our 23-pound Jack Russell terrier, was expecting a birthday soiree of her own. Seriously? I asked. Yes, my girls insisted. They were serious and already armed with invitations they’d made themselves. Cute invitations, I had to admit. At the very least, this futile attempt at party planning would get them out of the house for a while (they were hand-delivering the invitations). Okay, I said, confident it would never happen.

Here’s what they planned:
Invite the neighbors, 19 people (not including us).
Play dog games and watch dog movies.
Eat dog cake.
Unwrap dog presents.

Here’s what happened:
Our incredibly kind neighbors gave up a Saturday afternoon to attend a dog party.
They brought dog gifts.
They didn’t make fun of us for hosting a dog party.
And, the weather was perfect.

The birthday girl had a good time, too.

February 2010

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about crazy dreams. You know what I’m talking about, or at least I hope you do. You’re in the car singing your heart out to Taylor Swift. You might be forty-six and crinkled, but in your head you’re fifteen, smooth, and it’s the first day of freshman year, except you are so much smarter than you were back in high school. This is a fantasy, after all. Or, maybe it’s Monday morning and you’re in spinning class. The music sucks and the teacher is kind of loud, so you retreat to the Lance Armstrong dream—last stage of the Tour de France, yellow jersey, crowds shouting, horns honking, and you’ve nearly reached the finish line.

This time of year I really need to kick into my crazy dream side because I don’t much care for winter. I don’t ski or snowboard. And even with a hat, my ears still freeze when I go for a run. The other day I wore a pair of those cropped workout pants to the gym. I was on the rowing machine (in my head I have arms like a champion sculler), and I glanced down at my calf. Really? Is that MY leg? I thought. How did it get so white? Or so dry? In no time I was pushing those pedals with Megan Fox’s legs instead of my own.

When I was a kid, I spent most of my life fantasizing. I played with my tape recorder— made up songs, told stories. I sat in the living room chair and imagined I was being interviewed by Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show or guest starring on Carol Burnett. Sometimes, Charles Ingalls was my father or Donny Osmond was my boyfriend or I replaced Mary Tyler Moore and tossed my own red hat into the air. In my twenties I wanted a turquoise-blue Harley Davidson, ripped jeans, a white T-shirt, a guitar, and a voice not unlike Mary Chapin Carpenter’s.

I like the pretending that goes along with being a writer. I like the places my imagination takes me. I like the way characters slowly appear on the computer screen or yellow legal pad if I don’t intrude too much. Back in high school, I spent way more time staring out the window than I probably should have, but now I can see that I was practicing for the days ahead, the days when I would need to be really good at dreaming stuff up.

Whenever I start feeling like it’s time to grow up, time to listen to talk radio or history books on tape, stop pretending I’m Miranda Lambert singing White Liar or Megan Fox on the rowing machine, I remind myself of those dreary winter days so long ago. Back then I was supposed to play and imagine things. All part of being a kid, right? But dreaming isn’t something I plan to give up or outgrow, and I don’t want my girls to give this up, either. No matter how crazy or silly or unlikely they are, our dreams mean we’re alive with possibility.

Now close your eyes and pretend it’s a summer day. You’ve been kissed by the sun and…

The rest is up to you.

January 2010

A year ago I bought giant plastic storage bins, and we cleared out the bookcases in our old house. By “clear out” I mean that when we were finished there weren’t books stacked on top of books stacked on top of books stacked on top of books. The books left behind, mint condition hardbacks only, were single file on the shelf, and they reminded me of rigid soldiers—at attention and saluting prospective buyers. The poor paperbacks were shoved in a dark storage unit a few miles away.

Normally, I’m all for clearing out and organizing. My name is Suzanne, and I’m a neat freak. The pillows on my bed are lined up a certain way, and they get that HGTV karate chop down the middle. The surface of my desk is dust and clutter free. The kitchen counters get wiped down at least twice a day, and rugs are vacuumed regularly (I also comb the fringe). In my book James Dyson has rock star status, which brings me back to my original topic: Books.

Yes, with most things I like neatness and order, but when it comes to my books, I want messy and piled up all over the place—on my bedside table, on the coffee table, in the passenger’s seat of my car, on my children’s bedside tables, and in the bookshelves. I need to be surrounded by books, but I don’t want them organized in any logical way. When I must find a particular book, I want the thrill of the hunt: climbing on ledges and eating a little dust and rifling through stacks of other beloved but forgotten books before I find the one I’m looking for.

I confess I have different copies of the same book. For example, there is my tattered copy of Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. It’s been dog-eared and highlighted and I’ve written comments in the margins, and there’s the brand new copy of Bird by Bird that hasn’t been touched. There’s my hardback of Brad Gooch’s biography, Flannery, a book I really, really hope goes to paperback so that I CAN dog-ear pages and highlight passages (it just feels wrong to do this kind of thing to a sleek hardback). There’s my collection of every Lee Smith book ever written, my stack of Anne Tylers and Barbara Kingsolvers and Thomas Hardys (I realize he doesn’t quite fit into this other category, but I am a book lover, not a PhD), and there are my beautiful, beautiful YA novels—Sarah Dessens and John Greens and Lauren Myracles and Laurie Halse Andersons and so many others, the books I go to over and over again when I feel a craving for the teenage perspective.

But there is a dilemma in my new house. We have two very nice built-in bookcases, but they are way too small. Once again the hardbacks are standing tall, but my paperbacks and all the YA titles and most of my good grammar/teaching books are still packed, and I NEED these books. I’ve lived without them long enough. The question is where will they go? More built-ins? Pretty but expensive. New bookcases? Prone to sagging when overloaded (and they will be overloaded).

This year I’ve given myself one New Year’s resolution, and it is to resolve the where-do-I-put-my-books problem. For some people this might seem a very mundane decision, but (Warning: there’s a cliché coming) these books are my friends. I love they way they look and feel. I love the way the ink smells on the pages. I love the way characters, when well drawn and fully three-dimensional, come into my life and return again and again. I love the way great last lines resonate years later—“And so we beat on, boats against the current…” or “It’s no real pleasure in life,” or “Whereon the pillars of this earth are founded, toward which the conscience of the world is tending—a wind is rising, and the rivers flow.”

Books comfort me in a way nothing else can. They keep me company when I’m lonely. They entertain when I’m bored. They take me places that family and work and finances prohibit in real life. I wake up with a book (usually the Bible or some devotional thing), and I go to bed with one (currently Olive Kitteridge). I give books as presents and enjoy getting them in return. I even love the way the word BOOK sounds. Say the word BOOK aloud. Your mouth moves the same way it does when you kiss someone’s cheek. And, besides, BOOK sounds so solid and dependable and straightforward. B-O-O-K. And even B-O-O-K says Be o-o-kay!

You’d think I was raised in a house filled with books; I wasn’t. But somewhere along the way, probably when life proved disappointing or overwhelming or just plain sad, I discovered that words on a page offered a kind of wisdom and inspiration and guidance I couldn’t get on my own.

Yes, this is the month to get ALL my books out of boxes. Now that I think about it, the kind of shelf doesn’t matter. Whatever I decide it’ll be-o-o-kay.

Happy New Year!

December 2009

As I write this, the sun is just coming up. There is frost on the grass. And my family is still asleep upstairs. I can no longer sleep late. Truthfully, I look forward to those first few minutes of the day when I am alone with my Diet Coke, my carb of choice (muffins lately rather than toast), and my mind. This time of the day always feels like the calm before the storm.

Mornings around our house usually go something like this: “School days, school days, dear old golden rule days…” I sing this to my children to get them up, and it works every time, mostly because I can’t sing. There is groaning. There is protesting—from my children, that is. The dogs actually seem to like my singing; Maddie and Iris pop up, yawn, stretch, and give me their always-happy dog smiles. “Be dressed in five minutes,” I say and head to the kitchen. Clean dishes are waiting in the dishwasher, and while unloading them, I toast things—waffles, bagels. I flick on lights, pour juice, and start calling, “Breakfast is ready!” Breakfast is not ready, mind you, but by the time everyone drags downstairs, not only will it be ready, it’ll be cold. Next, I’ll retoast the waffles and bagels, and sit down with my children for a minute. They are bleary-eyed, grumpy. They scold one another for making eye contact and chewing too loudly. I cajole them into eating just enough to get them through the morning, then nudge them upstairs where they’ll brush their teeth, and I’ll pull out the heavy artillery: a tea tree oil concoction I spray on their hair to stave off head lice. There have been numerous cases at their school this fall, and I do NOT want this experience. Backpacks are loaded and waiting by the door. After thirty minutes in the car, we arrive at school. As hectic as the mornings are, I feel this slight twinge of sadness as I watch them go. “Bye,” Flannery says and gives me a wary smile. Elsbeth leans across the console and kisses me. “Have a good day,” I say at least three times. “Learn something,” I add. They unload backpacks that only linebackers should be lifting and take off up the sidewalk. There are multiple cars behind me, filled with other mothers and fathers who have packed lunches and poured juice and perhaps sprayed tea tree oil concoctions into their children’s hair. I hesitate, though, because I want to watch my girls walk toward the building.

The sun is fully up now. Even though it’s Sunday, there’s a tile guy coming to work on the new basement bathroom. Besides that, we have a play at our church. Elsbeth is baby Moses. She is eight, so I’m assuming the cast pickings were slim. The afternoon will be filled with grocery shopping and laundry and some cleaning since I was away at a conference yesterday. If I’m lucky I’ll get to eat popcorn tonight, maybe coerce my husband into watching Desperate Housewives with me. The older I get the more I realize it’s the little things that make a happy life—the turkey sandwiches minus the mayo, the clean clothes in a basket, the encouraging things we say to our kids when they slide out of the car or step onto that school bus.

In this season of giving and receiving and returning or regifting, I am going to do my best to focus on the little things (and people).

November 2009

We moved. Oh. My. Lord. Not fun. Not fun a-tall. For starters, we miss our home. Yes, it was old and cranky and needed lots of attention (sounds a bit like me, actually), but it had charm and character, and we had important memories there—newlywed days and new babies and first Christmases. I hate to admit this next thing, but we also had youth there.

Don’t get me wrong, the new house is pretty, and it’s not 125-years-old. So far the septic system is just fine, and all the windows are airtight. The toilets flush—no need to jiggle the handle. The bedrooms and bathrooms actually have locks, and said locks are on the right side of the doors. To explain, our old bathroom had a lock on the door, but it was on the outside of the door, not the inside. We didn’t install this lock, by the way. More importantly, we never had the old lock fixed. For years, we just amused ourselves with all the reasons the previous owners might’ve wanted a lock on the outside of the bathroom door.

The new house is still a work-in-progress. Most of the main living quarters are finished, but as I write this, head-banger music is cranked in the basement and hammers are pounding (we’re in the drywalling stage). Lately, I’m noticing the differences between carpenters and drywallers and duct guys and plumbers and electricians, and I could see this somehow ending up in a novel one day. The drywallers alternate music choices: one day it’s Carrie Underwood on the boom box; the next it’s Twisted Sister.

At the end of this, we will have a finished basement, something I have never had, and I’ll have an office of my very own. An office with an actual door. A place not in the middle of the house, but tucked away and private. I can have real file cabinets and a bulletin board and bookshelves just for my teacher/writer books. It sounds dreamy and maybe a little too grownup somehow.

As hard as the move has been on my children and my husband and myself, it’s been hardest on our dogs. Iris is packing on the pounds, and Maddie is often too afraid to jump off the porch. Mind you, we’re talking fearless, active, crazy Jack Russells here, little dogs who definitely don’t cower on the porch. This is what an invisible electric fence and nail guns have done to them.

This morning my husband left late for work. Instead of his usual racing out the door and leaving a cell phone and brown bag lunch behind, he made another pot of coffee, and we hung out for a while. We discussed all the ways we feel displaced, in limbo, floating just above our lives instead of inside them. Technically, we’re living in the new house, but because of all the workers, it doesn’t feel like it belongs to us yet. Besides all that, it takes time to make memories. Other than the dogs getting into a bag of contraband Hershey’s kisses they found in Flannery’s room and barfing up chocolate and tin foil all over the new slipcover, we don’t have real memories here yet.

But we will, I keep reminding myself. The chaos will die down. I’ll hang some curtains and make too many decorating mistakes to count. There will be scratches on the wood floors and scuff marks on fresh paint, and this place will feel like home for a couple in medias res.

For now I am going to ignore the sound of a buzz saw, pretend Judas Priest isn’t screeching Hot Rockin’ in my soon-to-be-finished office and try to get some work done at my make-shift desk in the kitchen. Somehow I have a feeling this new story will involve a life still under construction or at the very least a character who yells, “Fire in the hole!” when he pops a nail gun.

October 2009

As I write this, I am packing, leaving a house where I have lived for eleven years. My husband and I dated here. He carried me over the threshold here. We brought our girls home from the hospital here. We laughed, grieved, loved, disagreed, and celebrated here. For so many years, this 1880s farmhouse has been our home, and we have enjoyed it. I love the creak in the wooden steps. I love watching the flowers we’ve planted bloom. I love the fact my best bud lives right next door, and I can hear her dog barking when he wants back in—appropriately enough, his name is Boomer. But, like all good things, our time in this house must come to an end.

Usually, I’m a sentimental girl, and perhaps I will be when that giant truck pulls up in front of our house, but tonight, with all my life in boxes, I feel ready for something different, excited that we have fresh adventures awaiting us. The girls will have to adjust. There’s a crawl space in Elsbeth’s room that is already completely freaking her out, but I have promised that its future use will be as a Webkinz clubhouse. She smiled at that idea, a start, I suppose. Flannery will miss her friend down the hill. Cassie just shakes her head, and I sense that she’s wondering if our new house will ever feel like home to her.

More than anything, I will miss my kitchen window. At heart, I guess I’m a nosey neighbor because I love washing dishes and staring out that window—observing the comings and goings of everyday neighborhood life. I know who leaves early for work and who comes home late. I know who the sloggy joggers are and the dog walkers who don’t bother with pooper scoopers. I know the bus routes and the best running paths. It sounds mundane, but I think there is great beauty in routine things—in people who go to work and come home again, in joggers and dog walkers and big yellow school busses. I like being a part of all that, but I also like to stand back and observe. Maybe this is why I’m a writer.

In our front yard there’s a magnolia tree that was given to me by two very special friends when my mother passed away. It’s a giant thing now, and I’ve gone back and forth about whether to leave it for the new owners or take it with me. It’s possible to move large trees, I know (expensive, too). There is a big part of me that wants to drag it along, but in these past few years, I’ve learned that sometimes you have to let go. Maybe next spring I’ll go pick out a new tree—a pink dogwood or a Yoshina cherry perhaps.

September 2009

Lately, I’ve tried to imagine myself as an old woman, not fifty or sixty, but eighty, ninety. Frail and forgetful or vibrant and with-it. I’m not sure which category I’ll fall into, although we all hope to be vibrant and with-it, I think. Right? This started because one afternoon, I pulled out some old photo albums (this is SO unlike me). My two youngest daughters were still home for summer vacation, and we were a little bored. Besides that, I’d been working much too hard on line edits, and I knew the kids needed some mom time. So, I took out the albums and sat down on the sofa with Flannery on one side and Elseth on the other (Cassie was already back at college by this point).

“Elsbeth, you look just like Mommy!” Flannie said when she found my second grade school picture. In it, I’m missing my two front teeth. Elsbeth studied the photo, and I could tell it made her feel better to know that my front teeth took forever to come in, too. There were baby pictures and high school pictures, old photos of my mom, some of them taken when she was much younger than I am now. The albums weren’t perfectly organized. In fact, some of the pictures were missing or lost, with just the faded captions left behind in my mother’s handwriting. I’m so negligent when it comes to photo albums, but she really tried to document my life.

What struck me most was the way I felt looking back at the much younger me. No wrinkles. No sun damage. No need for a monthly trip to the hairdresser. I was just young and smooth and filled with a kind of energy that I no longer have—boundless energy. Not that I’m decrepit, mind you, but I am no longer that same girl. And I sat there on the sofa with my children, and I thought, I am SO GLAD not to be her! I don’t care that she has no age spots even though she bakes in the sun. I don’t care that her hair is such a pretty color. Naturally. I don’t care that her eyes aren’t crinkly.

It was strange because I could instantly remember all the silly things (and people) that mattered so much to me then, all the ways I wanted to please and be important. The irony is that none of the things I remember thinking were so important turned out to actually BE important, at least not most of them. And in a way, I felt sorry for that girl in the pictures, wished I could somehow go back as the me I am now and give her some guidance and comfort, things I so needed at the time. And like any writer, I began to entertain this idea: What would I tell the nineteen-year-old me if I could?

For starters, I would tell her not to be so hard on herself (or on other people). I would tell her that in time she would lose that college fifteen (twenty in my case). I would tell her that parties are NOT all they’re cracked up to be and that actually going to class and working really hard are totally worth it in the long run (she’d learn that later, thankfully). I would tell her to put boys on the back burner. Turns out, there’s lots of time for dating. I would tell her to take a close look at the people she calls friends. Good friends show up when life is really happy and when it’s really sad. I would tell her that the time she spent with her family was time well spent. I would tell her to get a job as a waitress. Waiting tables is probably the best way to learn about human nature. I would tell her that even nineteen-year-olds need God. I would tell her that exercise isn’t as bad as she thinks and that she should try it, not just sometimes, but all the time. I would tell her to trust her gut more, listen to the voice inside her head because she’s smarter than she realizes. I would tell her that everybody doesn’t have to like her. I would tell her she wears way too much eyeliner. Seriously, what is UP with that? I would tell her not to cut her hair really short. That style just doesn’t look good on her. I would tell her to take care of herself because I hope she’s around to get old.

Of course, my thinking on this topic didn’t end at bedtime. It never does. My mind gets wound up even tighter when it’s time for sleep. Lying there in the darkness, I began to wonder what the eighty year old me would say to the now me? What a concept, you know? If you could go through your entire life with this much older, wiser you always at your side? So, I tried to picture myself as this old lady, heavily lined (not with eyeliner, thankfully) and a little frail, more forgetful than I am now (scary). Once I had a picture in my head, I let her start talking and I did my now-sleepy best to listen. Here’s what I think she said: Enjoy the body you have—it will only get older and more wrinkly; perfection is a trap, so don’t go there; be thankful for every run and every workout because you CAN still do those things; don’t be so hard on people, including yourself; cherish every second you have with your family, for families are born and they die; if given the choice to scrub the bathtub or sit down and read to your children, read to your children; enjoy your job(s)—one day you won’t be able to work, and you will miss it. Don’t fret when people drift out of your life; just appreciate the ones who stick around. Always, always say thank you. Remember to be grateful. Take care of yourself because I really hope you’re around to get old.

August 2009

I awoke at 4:15 AM and could not go back to sleep. For starters, my husband has way too many mothballs in his closet (no, this is not a hidden metaphor for anything else—it really is just about mothballs), and when the door is left slightly ajar, the smell makes me allergic. My theory is that you only need a few mothballs to prevent holes in your sweaters or suits, but he seems to think an entire box of naphthalene is completely necessary.

So, while I lay there thinking about how much I detest the smell of mothballs and how much I would pay someone to quietly close the closet door for me, my mind wandered to the topic of revisions. Yes, that’s right, I can go from naphthalene and holey sweaters to manuscripts in an instant. I began to obsess about the changes I want to make to a brand new project I’m working on, then I moved on to the line edits for next summer’s book, Somebody Everybody Listens To. Soon I was thinking about a group of writers I met in Orlando back in June, wondering if the workshop my editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, and I did on the topic of revisions had helped them with their own manuscripts (I really hope it did, btw).

Basically, it worked like this: attendees were allowed to view Artichoke’s Heart in its original form (the way it looked when it was submitted to Julie back in 2006), then make comments and observations on their own. On day two of the workshop, they read Julie’s editorial notes so they could compare her expert thoughts to their own natural instincts. There were also writing exercises and lots and lots of questions and discussions, etc., but the main objective was to give writers a chance to see how the editorial process really works, all that back-and-forth and give-and-take that most readers never see.

All this obsessing over manuscripts and conferences and writers U-turned back to mothballs and revisions again, mainly because I still hadn’t gotten up to shut the closet door. At this point, I crept out of bed and went downstairs to make cinnamon raisin toast. I pushed the lever and waited for the small kitchen appliance to startle me with its eruption, chalked my weird thought patterns up to sleep-deprivation and crazy writer quirkiness. But as I sat down at my desk and ate the buttery toast and browsed Facebook status updates, it struck me that no matter how hard we try, in life or in writing, we will have to revise, revise, revise, and maybe this is really what defines us. Not what we do wrong, but how hard we try to make it right. Over and over and over.

In my case, I’m lucky to have an editor like Julie, someone smart and kind who will guide me, show me ways to make my wobbly story better and stronger. And I’m fortunate to have my husband, because those sweaters aren’t the only things he’s vigilant about protecting (hmmm…I guess there’s something metaphorical about that mothball trait, after all).

JUNE 2009

It’s June, people! June 2009! How did this happen? Time went by, and I turned around, like, twice, and now it’s summer (almost) again. My roses and foxgloves are blooming. My kids will be out of school as of tomorrow. We have two vacations planned, plus numerous sailing trips on the Chesapeake Bay to look forward to. And besides all that, I’m in the mood to be lazy. So are my kids. We’re listening to “Multiply With Power” with far less interest on the way to school each morning. I find myself NOT checking their homework quite so thoroughly (if at all), and I feel like every day should be some sort of mini celebration—summer is a reasonable excuse for too much ice cream or impromptu salsa and chips or hanging out by the pool well past six o’clock and just winging dinner.

Maybe it’s the Southern girl in me, but I like to sweat. I love it when the temperature soars and everyone around me is whining about it. Secretly, I am thinking YA-HOO, let it be hot. Next thing you know we’ll all be complaining about snow! Give me bare feet and T-shirts and no makeup any day. Put me in a garden, and I’ll pick weeds happily. Slice up a tomato and boil a few ears of corn, and that’s my idea of bliss. Plus, summer is the time when stories come. At least this is how it works for me. Maybe it’s all those hours spent outdoors or listening to my girls pretend or the opportunity to sit at the beach and watch people behind the cover of sunglasses. If you’re a writer, summer is a fertile time because the best stories show up when you’re running up that big hill or half-asleep by the pool or staring at what you think are weeds but could actually be those zinnias you planted weeks ago.

When my brother and I were little, my mother would begin each summer vacation by saying, “Before y’all know it school will be starting again.” I hated it when she said that, but she was right. Now here I am SO many summers later, yet I’m still just as excited, eager to monitor the hummingbird feeder or to jump on the trampoline with my girls. Or better yet, to lie on said trampoline and look up at the big ol’ summer sky. Because you know what, school WILL be starting again before we know it.

Happy almost summer, y’all.