My alarm was set for five a.m. but I was wide awake before it went off. I hadn’t slept much because I was too “excited”—excitement being what I’ve decided to call anxiety—about my live interview on Canadian morning television. My publicist had booked me on what she called “the Today show of Canada” to talk …
I’ve been working on a new novel, and I have to pause here, already, because just typing those few words is challenging.
I barely like to admit it, because once I say those words a barrage of qualifiers come crashing in. Can I say I’ve been working hard on a new novel? No. Never hard enough.
Yesterday I went to an event and heard Marcus Lemonis speak. Marcus is the entrepreneur and investor who stars in the TV show The Profit.
Marcus never even took the stage in front of the 4,000 people gathered at the Sears Center, except during one short segment when he interacted with six women he’d called up. Instead, we heard his voice before we saw him.
Today I want to make a case for conflict. Nobody likes it, of course, except maybe drama queens, adrenaline junkies, or lawyers.
I personally try to avoid conflict as much as possible. Heck, the subtitle of my memoir is ‘How I Found Peace in Betrayal and Divorce.’ Sometimes, during not so peaceful times, I look at that and feel like an imposter. Or I might repeat the words I found peace, I found peace as if I can make it so.
So now that I’m in my 50s, I’m proclaiming it the official “I don’t give a damn” decade.
I made this proclamation after dropping my teenage daughter off for three weeks of summer camp. Though she was handling this milestone in a calm, mature way, I found myself remembering the kinds of thoughts I had at her age when I went to camp…(read more)
Since the publication of my memoir last fall, I’ve been reunited with my first love—fiction—and it feels so…..good. Mostly.
It also feels daunting and overwhelming and fills me with uncertainty and doubt.
But I believe ideas have their own timeline, and that, when we pay attention, we see tiny sprouts of magic when the time comes to begin the novel, or return to the memoir, or noodle over a poem.
I’m from Holland, Michigan, and when I was a kid, my grandma taught me a children’s rhyme in Dutch. She didn’t speak Dutch fluently, but her parents had and this little ditty was one of the things she remembered.
She wasn’t completely sure of the meaning, just that it was something about a cart before a horse.
Years ago, when I was still shell-shocked from learning of my husband’s infidelity and angry that I had become a divorced woman, I went out to dinner with two friends. Both were divorced, so we had that in common. But one was talking easily about co-hosting her son’s graduation party with her Ex and his new wife—the woman he’d left her for.
She barely even rolled her eyes when she said his name!
How’s this for a conundrum? I spent eight years writing a book about divorce, then when I finally reached those two magic words I’d been certain would never materialize on the page—the end—I discovered that I was expected to talk about it. A lot.
In my mind, once I put the story on paper, I’d never again have to relate this difficult time in my life. If someone had a question about my past, I could point them toward the nearest bookstore and say “Read the book.” I could move on to writing happier, made-up stories.
So I opened my laptop this morning and found that the battery was nearly dead. The power cord wasn’t in its usual spot and as I started looking for it I realized, with a sinking feeling, that I must have left it at my mom’s house over the weekend—three hours away.
While I was trying to work out how to replace it before a client call, my phone died.
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