Ups and downs, Cancer and Rain

I'm in St. Louis right now visiting and setting things up to promote my book in the city that raised me and the city that raised Seffra. Yesterday I had a meeting with a woman at the school for social work at SLU, my alma mater. I genuinely enjoyed meeting this woman, gladly passed her a copy of my book, and look forward to her coming to a talk I'm giving on Saturday that's being promoted by Sex+ St. Louis. But it's not all books and praise.

The ups and downs feel so pronounced when you show up to your oldest favorite place to run on a sunny evening in the spring, the world the right level of moist, the trees green and full, the sun kissing between the leaves without yet scorching your shoulders. I looked forward to this run.

But a text came saying that my mom, who had just had a part of her tongue removed due to what we thought was a pre-cancerous growth, has in fact, got cancer.

Sure, they caught it early. It should be fine.

Wasn't I going for a run? Wasn't I enjoying a glass of wine by myself and the luxury of time before a flight? Wasn't that all just a moment ago?

I'm here and the trees are green and everything is blooming while at home it's mud season and the snow is melting and turning the trails to dogpoopsoup. I reconnected with the professor in college that made me want to teach in facilities. We had a leisurely lunch with good conversation and even though I forgot to feed the meter, I didn't get a ticket. That never would have happened when I was an undergrad.

I got a 2 star review. Oh well. That means the book's fully legit now right? Would you ever buy it that a book had all 4 & 5 star feedback? Someone always dislikes it once there are enough people reading. Such is writing. Such is life. I know people won't always like me. I just hope they dislike me for the right reasons. I guess I don't actually care that much why someone didn't like my book as long as a few people find some reality and hope in it, who could care?

When my 4 year old had his tonsils out in March, he had to stay overnight in the hospital unexpectedly. The recovery hadn't gone as smoothly as it was supposed to. He discharged just in time for us to part ways in the parking lot, my husband taking he and his brother home while I had a scheduled reading to give.

At the reading, I let go of my son and focused on my work and everyone came out okay. A friend gave me some leftover medication for my son that we couldn't get for him because all of the pharmacies had closed for the night after he was discharged. He got what he needed because I let go and went to work.

Yesterday, I had productive meetings and got to listen to my friends talk about all the things going on in their lives. I just wanted to listen. I missed my son's preschool graduation but came home to a video my husband took of the whole thing. He buzzed with excitement through the phone about what'd done at graduation and what he'd eaten at the party afterwards. It was good to hear him. It was good to hang up and be where I was and listen to what it's like to tour Jerusalem with 2 Jews, 2 different types of Christians, and an atheist, to tour a Palestinian territory without a head covering. It was good to be where I was.

Still, it's hard to be away instead of there bringing my boys who lick random things and chase my mom's chickens around over at my mom's house when I know it would lift her spirits and I could be making smoothies and telling her it's fine to have whiskey if that's what she wants. Fuckit, who cares? It's hard to be here, where I have time to write and run and think and cry. And yet if I were there, would I have time to cry about cancer and the essay I finished on the flight before I knew any of this about my aunt who died of cancer?

I hope the rains come and that I cry and write and let the help be with her where she is and the gift of time and rain and friends be with me where I am, there's something very cleansing about all of those things especially in combination. Next week, she'll have the rest of the cancer removed and we'll find out if there is a battle to be had, or merely a hurdle to get over. But for now, I'll just be here.

Hold space. Love the idea, hate the term.

Hold space. Love the idea, hate the term.

The term makes me think of disingenuous touchy feely people. They feel fake and desperate to tell you how much things touch them. You know, the ones who seem to never fart or get pissed off and mean to anyone because they're so busy living in tents with their guitars and their feelings. Blech.

I fart. And sometimes I'm a bitch with a bad attitude who yells at other drivers and has a mean streak when I'm tired. But mostly I'm pretty nice and want to be kind to the people around me, When my friends need someone to talk to, I like to be it. I want to be a person you can tell shit to that can let it be bad and overwhelming and all just too much, without intervention. I don't do it right most of the time. I want to swoop in and give you an answer. I want to help.

But that's not what hold space means. It means that being you has gotten so big you can't contain your whole self in 1 body right now. It means, being you has expanded out and rocked pieces of you a part, like a rocking chair that has simply been rocked too hard and now is tipped over and doesn't fit in the room right. You don't fit in your body right because there's just too much there to fit until you take inventory and reorder. What's going on with you is so big, it just doesn't fit neatly together.

AND meanwhile I have room. My self feels organized, like the cleaning lady just came and I had time to sleep and hold my kids and read a book, so it's pretty orderly around here so what do you need? Some space? No problem. I can shut up and give you a bit of storage space within myself. You can carve through what's on top, toss a few duffel bags of whatever my way. I can hold them until you're ready. I can let you spread some of yourself out willy nilly, haphazardly, and you can sort through stuff, organize and take the pieces back when you're ready. I can just hold that space for you like a spot at the table within myself. Pull up a chair. I'll try to let you talk.

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The Power of Stories

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For the love of books and generosity

The thing I pick up most in my house is books. Academic books, children's picture books/chapter books/board books, literature, parenting books. They're everywhere.


They're on the edge of end tables, and between the wall and the bed, and under the couch. I love books. I love books about science and books about parenting and fiction and memoir and research and children's books. I so, so love children's books. 


My kids know it and they know I'll sit down on the linoleum in the kitchen and read with them. They use this to their advantage and I'd stop... but... books? Fuck that. Don't stop. Or actually do. Stop! and sit on the floor and read and breathe close to their faces and kiss their cheeks and embrace them and this phase that will one day end. So if you finish the book and they say "again!" That's what you do.


But this will mean that sometimes there are books in the bathroom or the kitchen or on top of the dryer. Meh? Who cares? I love books and bookstores too.

I love quirky used book stores and big posh book stores with cocktails. I love college libraries and tiny public libraries and little free libraries. In retirement, I could imagine spending incalculable hours around books, reading them, writing near them, hoping they whisper their best combinations to me and bring me hope and inspiration and maybe even some pocket money in the process. But...


I'm reminding myself about this because I'm going to do an event in a bookstore this weekend and that always scares me. I get nervous about whether people will show and worry that I'll look like a loser with a book no one wants to read or no friends or whatever like I'm some doubt-ridden adolescent. I worry that the owners won't like me or want to promote my book. It's all nerves. I'm good with people and this will be fine. If it's a good turnout, great. If it's small, I get a chance for more meaningful interaction with readers and writers and there's nothing bad about that. So, more than worrying whether the owners will like me or no one will be there, I'm focusing on the chance to be amid information, lovers of words, and great great books.


Publishing a book is seemingly covered in these pitfalls of insecurity. Before the publishing part, I was afraid I might offend someone or of the people who wouldn't like it. But now that it's here, the book is out... I'm far more afraid that no one will care enough to be bothered. I'm more afraid no one will read. 

At first I tried that cheerleader, pretending-all-is-awesome response but I just can't do that. When I've been honest about my vulnerability lately, I've been able to shiver and shrug it off and get onto a problem-solving place where inspiration happens and I'm suddenly so busy with ideas, I don't know how to get the time to follow through on all of them.


At the beginning of this publishing idea, I was hopeful that I might make a financial contribution to my family. I was hoping to give a return on the investment my husband has placed in my writing in the form of... money. But that's just not really what this phase of my writing career is about and it's definitely not what this book is about. We have food. My husband's not worried. So I should focus on working for the sake of the work.

I'm reminded of the purpose. Get people to read it. Make sure people know that these kids exist by using the book as a vehicle to tell a true story. Make sure those from this life find the book.

And in light of that focus, I'm cultivating generosity in myself and giving away everything I can. I'm doing talks and trying to schedule free writing workshops I'll teach to teens with the book as a backdrop.

April is child abuse awareness month. I tried to find a way to give the Kindle edition of the book away free all month, but there's no way to do that. Instead, I'm using the maximum 5 days at the end of April to give the book away. I hope you'll read it. I hope you'll review and recommend it and make it get noticed. The link is here.

Conservation, The Weirdness of Me, and how being an Indie author means I get both!

I've been teased for a long time for my obsession with conservation. My roommate in college used to see how far down in the trash can she had to hide recycling before I would not notice and actually throw it away, because if it was on top, I always took it out and put it in the recycling.

So when I started sending out review copies of my book, I decided that rather than buying packaging, I would make it out of what I could find around the house. I started making boxes and such out of the paperboard and cardboard that was headed to recycling anyway. Reduce... hmmm... couldn't get that one done, but reuse is next on the list, so I'll do that.

This became a challenge with my most recent venture in learning self-promotion: a Goodreads Giveaway. I offered up 25 copies to be mailed to lucky winners (who hopefully all rate and review the book with glowing recommendations... ahem.) But mailing out a copy here and there is one thing, mailing out 25 is another.

But I decided that I would continue to be weird-me who pulls things out of recycling and uses them to pack up books. I added stickers sometimes for effect.

The Giveaway ended yesterday, and I had spent a ridiculous amount of time and packing tape last week devising boxes. Today it was gorgeous out. I joked that I should continue the conservation efforts by walking the books over to the post office to mail using a wheel barrow. It was gorgeous out after all. So I did.

I am officially the first person to ever to walk a wheelbarrow full of handpackaged books into the Silverthorne post office.

And this is why I like writing and being an indie author.

Magnus & the big chin thrust

I think it's generally best for me to not know much detail about how I'll feel about a particular challenge before I face it. That way I can take it as it comes and I seem to take each step in stride, or well, maybe some tears but mostly ... stride.

Amid beeping machines and movies in my 4-year-old's hospital bedroom, I just read Chrysanthemum to my 2-year-old. I love that story. The basic premise is that a little girl loves her name until kids at school pick on her for it. She thinks it's perfect but then the other kids pick on her for being named after a flower.

My 4-year-old is named Magnus. I'd always liked the name and have a cousin in Sweden named Magnus, who is soft-spoken and kind and I'd always liked him. I wanted a Swedish name and my husband liked Magnus so that's what we picked.

When he was a baby and people would ask about his name, their eyes would grow wide and they'd say, "well, that's a BIG name!"

It sounded strange to them and I could tell because he was a small child but with a big name. Then it turned out he really is this huge person. I don't mean physically; I mean, he's practically invincible.

Last week, at a program I teach with childcare, a bigger kid told Magnus that he didn't like him. I was indignant when he told me, "what a jerk!"
"He wasn't a jerk, mom. Don't call him that!"

Magnus went on to tell me how he'd asked the kid why he didn't like him and the kid had said because he's a little kid. But then said-kid had helped him beat a Mario game and by the end he thought the kid had changed his mind and liked him.

That was Magnus-the-great's response to a kid not liking him. "Oh really, why don't you like me?" And then he determined to change the kid's mind. No hurt feelings, no crying, and it had worked.

This same child post-anesthesia yesterday had to be kept breathing by being held by his mandible in something called a chin thrust while I held oxygen to his face. Trust me when I tell you this is no gentle hold. A nurse means business if she holds someone this way. She means BREATHE.

He spent the night crying and whining and having nightmares. He looked so vulnerable curled in his hospital bed. His body in a wheelchair was impossibly tiny. He's breathing now, oxygen saturation not where we want it so still in the hospital, but no one's forcing him to breath by holding open his airway and forcing life in. He's breathing but I'm still catching my breath. Maybe I should skip over that part and go straight on to the next thing, which happens to be a reading of my book.

I was just about to cancel when I saw myself in the newspaper.

I went and tried out my reading skills amid a friendly crowd at a bookstore that really fits me. It's quirky and dusty with hand-written signs. Two good friends walked up together just before the start of the reading. I had been so stressed with all the ups and downs of Magnus's surgery that I pretty much lost it in relief when I saw them.

I made it through the reading, largely not thinking about Magnus. But figuratively anyway, my friends held me by the chin and I breathed and read.