Jennie sez

On persistence, tears, and love

2017-06-25T11:58:00.000-07:00

Thoughts on the morning of Seattle Pride:

In an unprecedented time when the U.S. administration is unrecognizable to many of us as American, perhaps like you, I’ve been living with what can feel like insurmountable fear and loathing, feelings I fear and loathe.

I live in a blue bubble here in Seattle, by intention, and I’m naturally optimistic, so I was one of those who kept saying in the fall of 2016, “Don’t worry, it will never happen.” I had faith in my fellow Americans to value their constitutional rights and freedoms more than the quackery and far-fetched promises and claims of a snake oil salesman. (Exhibit A in the “loathing” department.)

The night it happened, I'd bought a bottle of champagne to pop when the right thing happened. Instead, like so many others, the night ended in gut-punching shock, tears, and nearly the same level of fear I felt on the morning of 9/11, when we didn’t yet know how extensive the attack was going to be.

I’ve been through all the phases of grief many times over the past six months: denial, anger, sorrow, and every once in a while, a wee bit of acceptance that this is what is, for now.

I’ve watched too much news, scrolled through too much social media, clicked through too many op-eds, and in the process, developed an obsessive behavior of clenching my jaw and teeth to the point that I give myself a headache every day. Sometimes, I wake up with one.

I’ve been through phases of not watching any media, of turning the other way at any sight or mention of the great pretender. Even so, despondency and a yellow-threat-level anxiety subsumed me.

I’ve started meditating, using an easy online app. I’ve never been a successful meditator in the past; I’d written it off as something I’d never be able to do. Turns out, I can, and the more I do it, the more I want to. Talk about your soft addictions.

I’ve sought treatment for the obsessive behavior, but after meeting with various western and eastern practitioners, I still face a months-long waiting list to enter a cognitive behavior therapy program, one that is not covered by insurance. Insurance does cover prescription medications, however—drugs I prefer not to take.

(To be clear, I do take an antidepressant for a lifelong anxiety disorder, which has always worked well for me. I prefer not to take drugs that are addictive or that leave me brain fogged, like benzodiazepines. I believe in appropriate medication.)

So, I’ve embarked on developing my own damn CBT plan, combining meditation and mindfulness, bringing my attention back to a place of calm whenever I feel my jaw clench or working too hard. My ability to notice the behavior is spotty, as I do it while working and focusing on my writing, while driving, while solving problems in every day life—clearly, when I’m laser focused. But I keep trying. Many failures make for eventual success, if we persist. If we pay attention as much as we can, and forgive ourselves when we lapse, and lapse, and begin again.

I’ve turned to books about people who overcome adversity and persist, people who resist and keep on going. Who get knocked down and get back up. These are the kinds of books I’ve always read, from the time I was a kid, and turning my attention specifically to them now is like making new, strong and brave friends.

The Sunday morning I write this is the weekend of Seattle Pride, a celebration that moves me to tears each year as I show up to be an ally, to be a supporter, to say “I’m so glad you’re here.” Pride is a celebration of our humanity as well as a community outpouring of support. It’s a testament to the fact that no matter what, love wins.

I’m a lifelong volunteer for the same reason, to show up for others. Perhaps it’s because I desperately wanted someone to show up for me as a kid of a mentally ill mom, but didn’t know how to find that someone. I now have the strength and ability to be that someone. And as all volunteers know, what we gain through our volunteer experience is balm for our own souls. We give love, we receive it, even if not in the moment. We give of ourselves and we lose ourselves in the moment, focusing on someone else instead. We get out of our own way. We experience joy from being of service.

So, now six or so months into this administration, when I’m worn out and weary of resisting, of persisting, I have to remember to remember: what makes me well? What makes me feel whole and calm, like me?

I’m no expert for anyone but myself, but in my nearly six decades so far on the planet, here are the places I land:

Resistance with rest. Focus with calm. Persistence with love.
Being an ally. Being of service.
Reading good books. Taking time out.

And because our souls need a good scrubbing every once in a while, tears. We move on through tears: of grief, of anger, of joy in knowing that no matter what, love wins.

Love will always win.

And now, I have a parade to attend.

Writers: To Group or Not?

2015-07-03T14:25:00.000-07:00

I'm often asked if I'm in a writers' group, if I think they're a good thing, and if I know of any good ones to join!

All good questions, and the answers are: sometimes, if you're diligent, and sorry, wish I did. But for those who are out there searching, or who have a group that may not be functioning as well as you'd hoped, I do have these guidelines for creating successful writing groups.

Really, there are different kinds of “writers’ groups,” and you must first decide what you want your group to accomplish together:

-Writers’ support groups meet to help each other stay emotionally afloat during the process of writing and submitting work for publication. Wine is often involved. Hugs. The sharing of wisdom, books, quotes, and encouragement. Members’ writing is not generally shared, not for the purpose of critique, anyway. Sometimes for encouragement, but when critique becomes involved . . . issues may arise because there are no guidelines in place.

-Writers’ critique groups meet to apply the collective knowledge, wisdom, and sensibilities of the group to each writer’s work, distributed evenly and fairly among members. All members must be actively writing and sharing with group. Guidelines are established and followed.

-Combo groups work when the critique portion of each meeting follows established guidelines and happens at the beginning of the meeting. Social time follows for encouragement, kvetching, wine, etc.

-Online groups work well for isolated or too-busy-to-meet writers. You may choose to do critique in written form and send by email, or to have Skype meetings.

How to have a successful writers’ critique group:

1. Establish group guidelines

a. Minimum and maximum size of the group (small is best)

b. Regular meeting date, such as third Tuesdays at 7pm

c. Regular location

1) Neutral, library or coffee shop

2) Rotating homes

d. Format of meetings

1) How many critiques per session

2) Written or oral presentation*

3) If written, how long in advance to be sent

4) How many pages per piece

5) How many minutes spent on each piece (use a timer)

2. Establish critique guidelines

a. All members agree to read each submitted piece in its entirety and provide sincere, helpful feedback that is specific, constructive and positively phrased.

b. Steps for providing feedback

1) Start with an overall statement of what works well in the writing.

2) Point out what you feel isn’t clear, what pulled you out of the story, what doesn’t work as well as it could, or could be improved. (Not “liking” something is not constructive feedback, and not everything in a story is meant to be liked.)

3) Rather than “fixing” another’s writing, provide an example or two of what you think might work better. Offer it as a gift. If you have no ideas, it’s fine to simply say, “This felt unclear, took me out of the story, stopped me, felt like it needed more” etc.

c. Steps for receiving feedback

1) As the writer, your role is to listen and take notes, without participating in the conversation.

2) If you have questions, wait until the end of the critique to ask for clarification, further detail or thought.

3) Don’t defend your work. It’s normal to feel defensive during critique and for several days afterward. Take a deep breath and listen, and withhold objections. It’s your work and you get to do whatever you want to with it.

4) Thank your group members for the thoughtful reading and critique.

NOTE: If one person points out something you feel is not at issue, you might decide it’s just one person’s opinion and not worry about it. If several people point to the same problem, you must figure out what the problem is, even if it is not what they’re pointing to. (You may not have given a detailed enough introduction to a topic earlier, for instance, or clearly shown the character’s motivations.)

3. Avoiding the writers’ group from hell

a. Stick to time limits and established guidelines.

b. Save social time for afterward; get down to business first.

c. Wine is not your friend during critique sessions. Loose lips hurt feelings. Again, hold off until afterward to celebrate, kvetch, support, catch up.

d. Don’t allow toxic members to poison the group. No member may dominate the conversation, create a negative environment, attack another writer emotionally or verbally, consistently ignore constructive input, regularly go off topic, regularly arrive late/leave early/miss all together.

e. Agree as a group to hold to these guidelines, and if a member goes rogue, you must act in a timely manner to remove her/him from the group.

f. If all else fails, consider leaving the group. There are many writers in the world who will want to work together productively.

Oral Presentation

The writer being critiqued brings hard copies for each member to write notes on during the meeting, and reads the piece aloud. Then discussion begins, and members make notes on the printouts to give back to the writer. This works best for monthly groups who want to move through a piece of each members’ work (10 pages max) at each meeting. While no one gets in-depth time to study the piece, it is akin to a real-world reading of the writer’s work. Lends itself to longer, less frequent meetings.

Written Presentation

The writer being critiqued (usually one per session) sends the piece (up to 20 pages) to members ahead of time (establish how long is required as a group) by email or by posting to a private online group such as Facebook or Google Drive. Members print, read and make notes on the piece before arriving at the meeting. Discussion begins right away. This method works well for working longer sections in a weekly group, as each member will get a shot approximately once per month or so. Lends itself to shorter meeting duration as well.

When Young Frankenstein Flew

2014-12-16T10:36:00.000-08:00

The movie Young Frankenstein has been in the public consciousness for most of my life, a classic comedy inspired by a classic piece of literature. When a musical was produced for the stage, it previewed here in Seattle before heading to Broadway. The creators of the film, Mel Brooks and Michael Gruskoff, came to town for that premiere. They asked their hotel concierge what they might do in town during the day, and the concierge made a list, including visiting Elliott Bay Books in Pioneer Square.

Later that week, I would be doing a reading there for my new book at the time, When She Flew. It would be the final reading at the Pioneer Square location. In the store, a stack of my books were on display in front.

You see where this is heading.

Michael Gruskoff (producer not only of Young Frankenstein, but of many perennial favorites including Quest for Fire, My Favorite Year, Silent Running) was attracted to the cover image and title of When She Flew. He picked it up, turned it over and read the description of the book on the back cover. Again, it intrigued him. I'd like to think he looked in the pages and felt some excitement at the words there, but that's just my wild imagining.

He bought the book. He took it home and read it and started trying to contact me to obtain the rights. It would take him over a year to track me down, but he kept trying. I'd changed agents, and my former agent was no longer interested in my work or me. But Michael found me.

He explained why he loved the story, why he had to try to make it a film. He could already see it, and he described scenes to me that broke my heart afresh, the thought of my characters so beautifully visually represented. That was several years ago, and he's still trying.

It's not easy to get films made. In fact, a low percentage of proposed movies make it to any screen, even your television set. He sent the book to everyone he knew in Hollywood. There were no takers, even though others also loved the story. "It's not what Hollywood is making right now," he was told
over and over.

Screenwriters are working on a screenplay for a small independent film; we hope to read it over the holidays. Even if it never gets made, though, I've found through this experience that the richest things in life are those that sneak in while you're envisioning something much grander. It's been such a delight over the years, talking with Michael about the characters, the story, the possibilities. He's old-guard Hollywood, and his experiences are vast. He's generous with stories and with his time on this project. As his pal Barry Levinson told him, When She Flew is his "heart" project. (In Barry's context, this meant it would probably never get made. But we all know heart projects that win over adversity, right?)

So I thank my lucky stars for Young Frankenstein, for Seattle's thriving theatre scene, for Elliott Bay Books, and especially for Michael, who believes so strongly in the story.

Sad Isn't Bad

2014-12-15T10:42:00.002-08:00

Note: Among my favorite spirit/soul resources have always been the wonderful "Comfort" series of books by Jennifer Louden. In some awesome crazy twist of life, I got to meet her this summer, and now she's a friend. I'm so honored to be here on her blog this month.

Dispatches of Love & Insight—Jennifer Louden’s Blog

One of the ways I am actively exploring creating my truer life is regularly busting the story that I don't belong. Jennie helped me do this by inviting me to a Seattle7Writers event a few months ago. To say I was thrilled like a little kid invited to a birthday party would be … accurate. And then to be inducted into the Seattle7? Color me belonging. Of course, I knew Jennie from reading her five bestselling novels. To get to know her personally has been even better than reading her work--she's just one big love and such a connector!

Thanks for being here, Jennie!

Sad Isn't Bad, by Jennie Shortridge

I am a soldier--have always been a soldier--of optimism. I have fallen six times (more like six hundred) and gotten up, over and over again. I've healed old wounds, instilled new patterns, and faked it till I made it. My mantra, when low, has always been "I feel good," a la James Brown. The lower I've felt, the louder I've sung it.

This optimism may be why I find myself leading a busy nonprofit collective of authors, why I've joined a new organization (The Stability Network) to help destigmatize mental illness, why I teach and volunteer and mentor, and oh yes, write novels and then do all I can to help my books find readers. And usually I do it all with joy and a satisfyingly clear sense of purpose.

But right now? Well, I don't feel good. I feel sad. My work is suffering. In the past few months I've been confronted by a string of life changes not of my choosing, including the recent loss of my feline companion of twenty years. Now, I'm unmotivated and closer to tears than singing, right at holiday time when high expectations are inescapable and daunting.

It's a recipe for self destruction. For eating more and exercising less. Having an extra drink. Spending too much time at screens and not enough in the real world. Forgetting to reach out to others. Self pity on a grand scale: "I have no power over these changes, therefore I am doomed."

Perhaps then, it is the optimist in me that realizes I do have some power--the power over how I react to these things, to how I hold them in my gut and heart and head, and how I move myself through them with as few casualities of physical and mental health as possible.

In wintertime, it's natural to turn inward and take stock of our reserves. Like Winnie the Pooh counting hunny jars, I can count the things for which I remain grateful: my dear husband, family and friends; a love city and home; a vocation I never believed I could have. The striking lime color of moss on dead branches if I can't think of anything else, or the smell of baking bread and wood smoke hanging in the fog as I walk through my neighborhood.

I also have the power to decide how I react outwardly to these changes. While speaking my truth, I can do my best to remain thoughtful and respectful with some semblance of grace. And when I react too hastily or harshly, I can forgive myself. Sure, sometimes only after stewing too long in toxic broth, but eventually, yes, I can climb out and say, as I would to any friend, "Forgive yourself, you're human. Move on."

Here's the thing: I really don't want to be a soldier anymore. I don't have to be un-sad to be worthy, or to be generally optimistic. Sad is part of life. But I can sweeten my broth doing the things I naturally do when feeling better:

•Take walks in nature

•Eat exquisite food

•Take hot baths

•Spend time with friends I find delightful

•Watch funny or sweet movies

•Get enough sleep

And though this last one can be the most difficult, there is one sure-fire way I've found to beat insomnia: acknowledging those golden hunny jars with gratitude, one by one by one, over and over again. And, as the song goes, I fall asleep counting my blessings.

Thanks for your honesty and hope, Jennie. It's so easy w hen we are building our lives to think that other women have it all togeter, especially a successful author and activist like yourself. I used to look at your picture on the back of your books and think, "She's so talented and beautiful, her life must be so good." I know, comparisons suck, but our brains make them anyway. Thank you for opening your heart to us. (And now I know how beautiful and talented you are, which is even more amazing in person!)

Love,

Jen

Chrysalis

2014-10-21T15:02:00.001-07:00

A new book emerges slowly, unwrapping and untangling itself from dreams and images and experiences, from lines of poetry and memories.

I'm writing a story now that I've wanted to write for a long time, but it's not yet untangled enough to tell you too much about it, other than at its center is a 93-year-old nun who is delivered in the middle of the night to a nurse on duty at a long-term care facility. The old woman has suffered a stroke, as my aunt Alayne did this summer. Alayne passed away, but my character lives on with more than a hint of my feisty auntie in her.

In the story, Sister Rose has right-side paralysis and aphasia, loss of speech. When her nurse, Johanna, tries to remove her garments to examine her, she fights against it. It's a battle she can't win, and all is revealed, including a large butterfly tattooed on her chest.

This weekend I was walking downtown, and passed Luly Yang's, a shop of beautiful formal and wedding dresses. In my last book, Love Water Memory, this shop had a cameo as Lana Tang's, a place the main character Lucie loved, slowing down as she drove by (as I do) to admire the dresses.

Imagine my delight when I saw this dress on display on Saturday! A good omen? A sign that I'm on the right track? Or just a dress inspired by Halloween?

Whatever it is, I can't stop looking at it, which is weird for a person whose idea of formal wear is Seattle-typical: nicer-than-everyday jeans.

Where do books come from? From things large and small that shimmer in a certain light.

What inspires you?

A Stop on the Pacific NW Writers Blog Tour

2014-09-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

I've been tagged by the fabulous writer, Shannon Huffman Polson, to post for the blog tour today, and in turn, I'm tagging Claudia Rowe, Kitty Harmon, and Jennifer Murphy, three great and wonderfully diverse writers in Seattle.

The point is to share a bit about the writing life by answering these questions:

1. What am I working on?
2. How does my writing differ from others in its genre?
3. Why do I write what I do?
4. How does my writing process work?

The quick answers:
1. a new novel, 2. I have no idea, 3. because I want to, and 4. I wish I knew.

The more complex answers:

1. I've embarked on an idea I've had for twelve or so years about characters from the 1930s, during the Depression, and the very odd thing they do for a living. I'm not yet ready to talk a whole lot about it, and historical fiction is new for me, but these characters have been pulling at me for so long. I'm in heaven writing right now, but it will be at least a year before I finish! This is the reality of novel writing. It just takes a really, really, really long time.

2. We all write how and what we write as individuals, and I never really think of it as how writers compare. Some writers delight us with their beautiful prose, the kind you can read over and over and take pure delight in. Some writers pack their stories with so much meat and muscle that you feel you've been taken on a thrill ride by the end. Some writers are quiet and introspective. Some are hilarious. Most writers don't know how to characterize their own writing. Now that I have five books in the world, I do feel fairly confident saying that I think my strengths are concision, ease of reading (which is important to me; I want readers to feel pulled through my pages as much as possible), creating real characters, and an attempt to get at the emotional truth. I hope so, anyway.

3. I write what I do because it's what bubbles to the surface. As it turns out, my stories are often about characters who do battle with emotional trauma or mental illness (in themselves or others). I'm glad for that, because it gives me a way to talk about my own issues with those things in a way that might help someone else and reduce stigma one tiny step at a time.

4. First, I do a lot of thinking. I keep my eyes and ears and heart open to what's happening around me in the world, in my life, even on my walks and shopping and visits with friends. Certain things will "glimmer" and begin to coalesce into characters, themes, plot lines, etc. I'll gather them all up and begin to write about these things, looking for a way to build something from it. I'll have a few false starts and adjust, and eventually, I will launch. From there, I draft every weekday morning for about a year, and then I will revise for another year or so. I get help from trusted readers and experts, including my agent. Every book works a little differently, but that's basically how it happens for me. And if you ask me this in a year or five, it may have changed. It's ever evolving.

If you are a reader, thank you. If you are a writer, bless you. We're all in this together!

It's my job

2014-01-09T11:08:00.001-08:00

Writers have an uneasy relationship with the business side of said writing. Most of us nurture seriously introverted personalities in order to write in the first place. A few of us (like me) have fairly robust extroverted sides as well. Even so, when it's time to spread the word about a book release, it's…uncomfortable. So with all necessary caveats and excuses now out of the way, I bring you:

LOVE WATER MEMORY in glorious paperback (Jan.14)! I pleaded with the publisher to keep the hardcover artwork for the paperwork, but when they showed me this beautiful image, I loved it equally, as one does each child born, even though we thought we could only love the first.

I'd love your help spreading the love. If you've enjoyed the book, please consider writing a review online (Amazon, Goodreads, or other sites). Or, do that verbally with friends and family you think will like the book. Let your book groups know they might enjoy discussing it. Ask your local libraries to stock it if they don't, and your bookstores, too.

Books that don't make it into the top ten lists (and there are tens of thousands of us) survive on word of mouth, readers talking to readers. Whenever you like a book, any book, let someone know! You're helping the entire literary ecosystem survive. (And thank you to loyal readers who do this all of the time; you know I love you, right?)

Now, for fun:

•Watch the book trailer!
•Listen to the music!
•Attend an event!
•Order a copy!

My work here is done.

Thanks Giving

2013-11-27T11:49:00.000-08:00

It is the day before Thanksgiving. Matt and I are not traveling this year, and we live in a city with no family, but many dear friends. Many dear friends who are traveling for the holiday, though, or uber familied with traditions of their own. We'd decided not to mope but to enjoy a simple day, eating out at a restaurant, taking a long walk, seeing a movie. Sure, that will be fine, we told ourselves.

Hanging with friends one night last week, discussing where everyone was going for the holiday, we said, "Oh, we're going to a restaurant, no big deal." And I felt the flood of emotion, the deep homesick, the lack of family. I admitted I was sad, that I'd rather spend it with others. A dear uber-familied friend said, "Just come over! We'd be happy to have you guys. We thought you were going out of town." My eyes, which were moist, brimmed for a moment before I took a deep breath and said, "Thank you."

Today I will be shopping for root vegetables and apples and pomegranates. I will be pre-heating and whisking and chopping, and I will be so grateful. Friends are not hard to come by, not necessarily, but a truer connection comes with vulnerability, with the simple words, "I'm so sad." Or, "Can I help?"

And always, always, "Thank you."

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Bitter/Sweet

2013-08-30T10:23:00.000-07:00

Life has a way of throwing annoying metaphors at you when you least want them. My computer's hard drive bit the dust last week, just as summer was ending. Just as I was finalizing what to write next, making copious notes and plans. Just as one dear person in my life was undergoing a serious lifesaving procedure, and another was veering off in a new direction.

I felt endlessly sad and frustrated and, well, pissed off.

And then yesterday, it rained like hell. No, like heaven had opened and emptied itself, either a giant thunder piss to say, You think you know what life's about? Ha! or to say, Here, let me wash that clean for you. (And by the way, you can't stop the seasons changing.)

You can't stop the seasons changing. You know that, inside, but sometimes you just want to hold on for one moment longer to what you had, whether it's health, love, an idea, or summer. The ocean lolling its waves at you on a hot day, the kind of conversation that feels life saving. But as the Buddha will tell you, everything is impermanent. Not to mention imperfect.

So life, I piss on you. I hate that you've taken my precious things, because to me, possession should be 9/10ths of the karmic law.

And, goddamnit, I love you. Because you wash me clean every now and again, open up new possibilities, make me work hard for what I want, and occasionally, you deliver something quite sweet and beautiful.

The Long and Winding Road . . .

2013-06-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

. . . of book touring is coming to an end. A couple of visits to Eastern Washington and then the Oregon Coast the last week of June, and I will have done 30-ish events in support of Love Water Memory, which released on April 2. Thanks to everyone who has shown up, spread the word, clinked glasses, laughed at my jokes, and of course, purchased books.

My band, The Rejections, performed at two events, and you can hear some of our music here. We will continue to play gigs this summer, including for The Chuckanut Radio Hour in Bellingham, WA on June 20, and at Eagle Harbor Books on Bainbridge Island, WA for First Friday Art Walk on August 2.

This summer, I will settle down to work on the next book. I don't know enough about it yet to tell you much, except that once again, it's inspired by real events that I found too intriguing not to write about. More to come. I'll be teaching at writing conferences this summer and fall, so take a peek at my events page if you 're interested. Soon, believe it or not, we'll be cranking up the promotion cycle for the paperback of Love Water Memory, due out in January 2014.

Matt and I continue to enjoy Seattle (especially in summer), our friends and family, and now, playing music together again at long last. I hope you have a really terrific summer, and get out there and do the things that make you feel most you, and most alive. That's my goal!

Changing the World

2013-04-21T10:45:00.001-07:00

Reposted from Amy Sue Nathan's wonderful blog, Women's Fiction Writers, published April 16, 2013:

Author Jennie Shortridge says: Writing For Women Is One Of The Most Powerful Ways To Change The World

Posted on April 16, 2013 by Amy Sue Nathan

There’s much ado about women’s fiction, women authors, and women in general these days. On one hand, reports that confirm how many fewer books by women get reviewed in major publications and some women writers putting down other women writers is horrible. Okay, on two hands it’s horrible. But on that imaginary third hand, it’s bringing a lot of amazing women writers together. A band of brothers has nothing on a band of women writers.

Author Jennie Shortridge shares her thoughts today, in a show of camaraderie with other women writers, and in celebration of her new novel, LOVE WATER MEMORY.

Please welcome Jennie to Women’s Fiction Writers!

Amy xo

Author Jennie Shortridge says: “Writing For Women Is One Of The Most Powerful Ways To Change The World”

In the year 2013, “women’s fiction” is still believed by some to be a pejorative term. The “chick lit” craze certainly didn’t help. Some early books in that category were as deeply revelatory as Catcher in the Rye, but got bedazzled in the marketing machine to scream: “Only buy me if you are female!” And begat a generation of pastel-covered books meant to categorize the stories of women’s lives as fluff, even when the messages inside might be strong as steel.

The novels I write are categorized as women’s fiction, even though my latest, Love Water Memory, has both a male protagonist and a female protagonist, and is the story of a harrowing brain disorder and its aftermath. You could imagine John Irving or Nick Hornby or Garth Stein writing about such a thing (in fact they’ve written about very similar things).

And yet, I’ve decided to come down on this issue exactly where novelist Elizabeth Berg does. To paraphrase Ms. Berg, when asked if she minded her work being categorized as women’s fiction, she said something like, “I love women! I love writing for women. Why would I mind?” (Why indeed, when women buy the vast majority of books?)

But here’s the real reason why I love writing books for women (and men, because plenty of men read my books): Writing for women is one of the most powerful ways to change the world.

Scientific studies show that college students who read fiction develop more empathy toward others than their counterparts. Those of us who’ve always read fiction know this innately. Our sensibilities, values, and core beliefs are formed and informed by the novels we read as teens, young adults, and even now.

In this new society of hardwired, head-phoned technoids tuned in electronically alone at their devices, actual human connection is eerily on the decline. We may tweet or text characters on a screen, but we can’t feel the impact of what we say or don’t say unless we can look into the other person’s eyes.

Women are biologically engineered for empathy, and yet we often get subtle (or not so subtle) messages that empathy and compassion are not as important as power and might. Don’t believe it. If more leaders of corporations, governments and religious institutions were women, integrating compassion into decision and policy making, our people and our planet would be far better off.

When women write women’s stories, we share ideas and experiences and revelations about solving problems, about surviving and thriving through difficulties, about love and the power of compassion and understanding.

And that changes the world, one reader—female or male—at a time.

Love Water Memory and four other acclaimed novels, as well as a writing teacher and avid volunteer. She is co-founder of Seattle7Writers, a nonprofit collective of over sixty published authors in the Northwest who work to give back to their community. Find her onFacebook, Twitter, her blog JennieSez, and atwww.jennieshortridge.com.

In Bloom

2013-04-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

Writers are a bit like gardeners. We plant seeds, lots of seeds, and hope they'll sprout and take hold in the muck that fertilizes such things and helps them grow. Like gardeners, we don’t always succeed. But when we do, and the result of our meticulous tending blooms, it’s a moment of such pride and satisfaction that it’s hard not to grin and gape and call out, “Hey, everybody! Look what I did!”

So, um, hey, everybody! Look what I* did!

Love Water Memory goes on sale Tuesday, April 2!

Please come celebrate with me at an event near you.

*And because of course I didn’t do this alone, big gratitude and huge hugs go to my fellow gardeners:

Stephanie Rostan, Karen Kosztolnyik, Jennifer Bergstrom, Jennifer Robinson, Mary McCue, Natalie Ebel, Ellen Chan, Christine Foye and everyone at Gallery Books.

Erica Bauermeister, Randy Sue Coburn, Garth Stein and all of the writers I’m lucky enough to write and work with and hang out with in the Seattle7 and everywhere.

Tim Mooney, Jay Miazga, Stan Matthews, Kaila and Scott Raiby, Lynne Kinghorn and Margaret Meineke for technical assistance.

My bandmates in The Rejections, who’ve worked hard to make my launch extra special with a live performance and a special download coming soon to my website: Matt Gani, Paul Mariz, Stevie Kallos, Garth Stein and Ben Bauermeister. And special guest in Denver, Peter Fletcher.

All of the independent booksellers who faithfully serve and support readers, writers, and books, without politics, agenda, or fail. If I listed all who have been especially kind to my books and me, this page would never end.

My family: my dad, my sisters and inlaws, my nieces and nephews, my aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins. (I’m not kidding. They’re all amazing.)

And always, my dear, sweet husband. If you wonder why I write so often about love, well. There you go.

Help Wanted

2013-03-26T14:07:00.000-07:00

A week from today (April 2) is the day Love Water Memory will be officially published and available to readers (except for in Barnes & Noble stores, read the NYT story.) This is my fifth book, my fifth labor of writing love. When people ask me which of my books is my favorite, I ask, “Do you have children?” There is no favorite. There are only stories that arose from particular periods and moods and thoughts and skill levels I possessed at the time. They are each precious in their own way.

Love Water Memory started with a newspaper clipping and a question. The true story was about a man who went missing for six weeks before his fiancée found him states away with amnesia. She brought him home and they continued their love story, even though he no longer knew her. “I remembered her heart, but not her face,” he said. I thought, "What on earth happens next?" And then I wrote my answer.

My beautiful (thank you, Simon and Schuster) book is in danger of going missing. With a cover that was designed to be picked up and touched, it will not be on B&N tables and shelves. Yes, we have wonderful independent bookstores that will sell the heck out of it (thank you, indie booksellers). And yes, it's available at all online outlets, including B&N.com, but roughly a third of potential readers are lost now, because in some parts of the country, the only bookstores they have are B&N.

I hope you find, read and enjoy the book. And if you do enjoy it, I hope you share it with your friends and tell people about it, because this one is going to need a little extra help out there in the world. I’ve always been able to count on the kindness of readers, and I do now, more than ever.

I dedicated this book to my three sisters, but as always, it’s dedicated to you, too, because without you, there is no book.

Links you can post to spread the word:

www.jennieshortridge.com

http://authors.simonandschuster.com/Jennie-Shortridge/65784755

http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781451684834

http://www.amazon.com/Love-Water-Memory-Jennie-Shortridge/dp/1451684835/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1364330990&sr=8-1&keywords=love+water+memory

The Next Big Thing Interview Series

2013-03-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

Authors are a creative bunch. One such creative type, Mary Biddinger (Prairie Fever, St. Monicas, and O Holy Insurgency) started a self-interview series called "The Next Big Thing," whereby writers administer the Q&A below to themselves, then tag others to do the same. It’s been zinging around the Internet, building a fine collection of interesting insights from a diverse group of authors about their books. I mean, self interview? Bring it on.

I've been tagged by two writers to participate: Laurie Frankel, author of the intriguing and brilliant Goodbye For Now (soon to be a major motion picture) and Atlas of Love, and poet Denise Banker, whose luminous book of poetry is called Swimming the Colorado. Both of these women are dear friends and exceptional writers, and I hope you will discover that for yourself by reading their books.

And now, for the self interview.

What's the title of your book?

Love Water Memory. That was not my first title choice. It was The Amnesiac’s Love Story. My publisher thought, and probably rightly so, that title sounded too much like a Lifetime TV movie or a thriller. In the midst of trying really hard to think of a new title, I woke in the night, twice, with these three words: love, water, memory. I ignored them the first time, but when they came back the second time, I jumped up and wrote them down, sent them to my agent and editor, saying, What do you think? And they loved it.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

It’s a mystery wrapped in a love story about an amnesiac who remembers nothing, and her fiancé, who remembers too much.

What genre does your book fall under?

I would call it simply fiction. A novel. The publishing business has many categories, even for non-genre fiction ("genre" typically meaning scifi, mystery, romance, thriller, etc.) This particular novel is in the category of upmarket hardcover fiction. See? Means nothing. Let’s move past genres and categories, and just read good books.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

This book is published by Gallery Books, a division of Simon and Schuster. I am represented by Stephanie Kip Rostan of the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency. I love them both.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

A Seattle Times article in February 2007. The headline was: “His memory fails him, but his heart won’t forget.” It was about a man who suffered from a rare condition that steals his memory and makes him flee his life, over and over, and about his fiancée, who goes to get him. It made me want to know what would happen, so I wrote a book to find out.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Hmm. I always try to turn this question around and ask readers, because they have such definite ideas. I already see Lucie and Grady and Helen and all the rest as real people, so it’s difficult. But, off the top of my head, how about Cate Blanchett for Lucie (with one of her brilliant American accents)? I can’t even imagine who might play Grady, who is half Native American and has the long lean body of a swimmer. Can you?

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I think about 18 months? I lose track. Meaning, I don’t want to remember. But usually, it takes me about a year to a year and a half to do a first draft, then anywhere from a few months to another year or so to do revisions.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Love inspired me to write this book, the power of it, the difficulties inherent in it, and the sheer beauty of it when you let it in.

And now my tags:

When my first book was published by NAL/Penguin, I attended regional bookseller tradeshows and met the loveliest young woman working in the Penguin booth. Jeanine Cummins was kind and helpful and gave me a human connection in a big publishing world. She has since written three wonderful books, including her latest, just released novel: The Crooked Branch.

At another regional tradeshow, for another book (I don't remember which), I met the amazing author Susan Jane Gilman. What a lovely force of nature she is! She's currently on deadline for her new book, so she will post at a later date, but in the meantime, check out Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven.

Swimming Pool

2013-01-27T11:00:00.000-08:00

If it were just my cup running over, it would be one thing. But it is my salad bowl, my kitchen sink, no, my imaginary swimming pool that runneth over today.

This is my life.

Earlier this month, I spent two days in Vancouver with my film righting partner Joan Macbeth, working on a treatment for my novel When She Flew. Her condo is across a narrow strip of water from Granville Island, where we ferried to buy groceries and Indian food for lunch. We ended our time together excited and buzzing with new ideas.

The following week, I took the ferry again, twice, to Whidbey Island. The first time was to enjoy the company of a dear friend from the Bay Area, and talk about creating a writers retreat space in her home. The second time was to appear at Hedgebrook's production of a scene from my forthcoming book, Love Water Memory, and scenes from my friends' books as well, Carol Cassella and Erica Bauermeister. My words came out of actors' mouths. I was astonished and filled with a kind of joy I had not yet experienced as a writer. I imagine it's something like what songwriters feel when the audience sings along to their songs.

This past week, I performed with our new band, The Rejections and the Trailing Spouses, at Elliott Bay Books for Erica's launch of her gorgeous new novel, The Lost Art of Mixing. Along with Stephanie Kallos, Garth Stein, Ben Bauermeister, Paul Mariz and my hubster Matt Gani, we played "Paperback Writer" (although Erica's book is in hardcover) and the old Robert Johnson number "Come On in My Kitchen," to honor the cook heroine of the book. Playing in a band is my first love, creatively. I was always in one from age 16 to 30, when I met Matt and we became an acoustic duo. Full circle doesn't even come close to how gratifying this experience has been for me.

And then our wonderful collective, Seattle7Writers, invited 100+ writers to join us yesterday for a one-day writing intensive, filled with mini lessons and individual consultations, strong coffee, donuts, chocolate, cookies, popcorn from the brand spanking new S7W popcorn machine . . . and lots and lots of people writing. Joy is too small a word for what happens when you gaze over the crowd and hear: clickety tick tick tick x 100.

At the end of the day we decided to shake it up and presented our Q&A session as a game show: Ask an Author. All of our participating authors were funny and fun and informative as Garth led us through our nerve-wracking paces, answering surprise questions in under 30 seconds.

And then I thought, here comes the coup de grace, when we give our end-of-year donations to two organizations we love: 826 Seattle and Powerful Schools. But before Garth handed over the big checks, he gave me such a lovely shout out, and I couldn't very well hide or pooh-pooh him, and then Teri Hein of 826 said another nice thing from the stage, and I let it all in, and my eyes filled, and I was exhausted and drunk with having accomplished so much, and so, so grateful for my life and my friends, and for the community I live in, and for all the things I get to do.

Amazing grace. How sweet.

New Book Smell

2013-01-02T10:55:00.000-08:00

I take the whole New Year thing seriously. I'm a sucker for opportunities to reflect and renew and take stock, to revisit old dreams, set new goals, find inspiration. And there's that feeling that—come January 1st—anything is possible, again. Sure, nature provides its own new beginning every year at spring time, but still, the new year holds its sway, as it did on Tuesday when hubby and I sat at the dining table and mapped out our paths for the coming year.

In 2013, that path includes the release of my new book, both thrilling and daunting, knowing the work ahead of me as I go out into the world to give public birth to it this spring. I loved writing the book, the story behind the story (listen here), and now the experience of working with my new publishing team at Gallery Books/ Simon and Schuster. On the eve of Hurricane Sandy, I visited New York to meet with them, and I was blown away by their incredible devotion to the book, and their intention to get it into the hands of as many readers as possible starting April 2.

This is how much they love it. They commissioned an artist to create this beautiful cover.

I cried when I saw it because it so thoughtfully reflects the story inside the pages. You can read more about the story here. If you pre-order a copy at the bottom of that page, your support will be noticed by the book industry, in a good way. Love Water Memory represents a brand new path for me with my writing career, and I'd love your help.

On April 2, there will be a launch party at Elliott Bay Books in Seattle. (Notice that I'm inviting you to come with plenty of notice?) Of course, if you can't make it, I'll be traveling through the Northwest and Bay Area and Denver to do readings and book clubs. I hope to see you somewhere, so check my schedule, which will be filling in very soon.

It's a brand new year and an opportunity to reconnect. As always, I thank my lucky stars for all of you who've been with me for all or part of this journey, and I wish you wonderful things in 2013 and beyond. Dream big!

Wedded

2012-11-30T14:03:00.000-08:00

For Thanksgiving this year, our family had something extra to be thankful for: a wedding. My sister Sheri, who hosts the meal in her rural Colorado home every year, announced that she and her long-time beau Ken would marry the day after Thanksgiving.

We'd all assumed their coupledom without marriage was the way it would be, and it was fine. It was good, actually. They embody the spirit of love in everything they do, not only in their relationship. They are both teachers and members of the art community, and if those two things don't say love, well. They just do.

But they decided to marry each other in front of the forty-some-odd family members who all trekked to the San Luis Valley for a sunny Colorado weekend. We carried furniture out of their living room and brought in folding chairs, took our seats amid white and silver decorations, each with a champagne glass in hand. We listened to music from Ken's brother Gordon on violin, from Sheri's daughter Morgan and her boyfriend Abe, who sang a touching song that Abe's father wrote to his mother. Matt and I sang the Etta James classic At Last. And Sheri and Ken spoke to each other and to us about what they mean to each other, about what love looks like in real life (the way a mother watches her daughter sing, for instance, Ken noted). The Kleenex box made the rounds.

Sheri helping Daniel weave.

Sheri showed us a small weaving loom she'd made just for the occasion. We were each to weave a few rows during the day, using a color of yarn we picked. By the end, they would have a record of everyone who'd been there that day, all up close and personal, yarn to yarn to yarn, much like the way we were seated together in their living room.

They wed each other with words and with family and friends and with rings made by another friend. And then it was time for champagne. And kissing. Lots of kissing.

I write this because I was so moved that day by the simple beauty of love. And by each of the participants, who were fully there in support and to celebrate. And because Ken and Sheri are officially AARP age, not spring chickens, but so young and sweet and happy in their love, even after fourteen years together.

Later that night as the musicians in the family played songs, there came a request for a slow one, so Sheri and Ken could dance. Sheri asked us to play At Last again, so we handed out lyric sheets, everyone singing as the newlyweds took to the floor. Before I knew it, another couple had risen to dance, and then another. Pretty soon, every single person there was up dancing in the small living room.

Spontaneous love and celebration had erupted, once again. Gratitude and thanks to Ken and Sheri and our big extended family for the best Thanksgiving ever . . .

How Grateful Am I for Thee?

2012-11-20T15:02:00.000-08:00

Let me count the ways (with apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning).

1. I am grateful to those of you who read my books and find some insight, solace, confirmation or joy in them. Or just a good story.

2. I am grateful when above-mentioned yous write and tell me how my book(s) made you feel or what they made you think, even when it's not all good. Hopefully some good.

3. I am grateful to all you booksellers and librarians and publisher's reps and sales teams and marketing people and publicists, because you are the ones who convince the vast majority of readers out there to give one of my books a try.

4. I'm grateful to you whose decisions mean I even get to publish books: my agent and editor, the publisher and VPs and so many people I may never even meet.

5. I am grateful to my friends and family and husband for encouraging me to write, for supporting me when I do, for catching me when I stumble and cheering me on when I achieve a small miracle.

6. I am grateful to my teachers, the ones who challenged me and encouraged me. Except for my algebra teacher, but I suspect he doesn't care.

7. I am grateful to you, whoever you are, because you took the time to read this far, and I wish you gratitude and happiness and a large slab of pie on Thursday.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

My detective

2012-10-24T18:15:00.000-07:00

Detective Q knocked on the door yesterday, and through the glass panes, I could see that he didn't look at all as I'd imagined him from talking on the phone. No jet black hair, but shaved bald. Younger than I thought, and dressed in a Huxtable kind of sweater and jeans. Detectives don't wear uniforms. I'd forgotten. (I spent quite a lot of time with law enforcement when researching my fourth novel, When She Flew.)

He had that stiff formality that cops do when they first meet you, a kind of guard they put up because, believe it or not, a lot of people don't like cops. "Nice home," he said, nodding, glancing around. "I love it up here." He meant my neighborhood, high on a Seattle hill. He used to work Queen Anne when he was in auto theft.

We sat at the dining table and he explained that he was going to show me some photo montages. I wished he'd say "lineups," because of the dramatic nature of that word, but "montages" seems to be the new way. Or maybe the Seattle way. He told me all kinds of things, that people may have different hair color in the photos than the suspect I was trying to identify, that their skin may seem darker or lighter, and that I might not recognize anyone in the photos, and that's okay. But Detective Q had faith in me, I could tell.

Our suspect was already in the hoosegow, having burgled elsewhere or bought drugs or sold drugs or something. Apparently he has 12 charges stacked up against him so far. My correct ID would really make the case against him. And all I could really remember was a long arm of tattoos outside a van window, a long black sideburn and high hairline, an ugliness to him, and a foul loud mouth.

"Ready," I said, nervous.

Voila, six swarthy looking men appeared before me, all in orange jumpsuits. Four had low hairlines and looked too young, too ethnic. I discounted them. "It's between two," I said, trying to shape the profile I saw into a full frontal face. "Which two?" the detective asked, tapping the table with his knuckles.

I pointed.

"Why this one?" he asked, pointing to the upper right corner photo.

"His hairline," I said.

"You mentioned his high hairline on the phone as well," he said, flipping through his notes.

He was helping me, I gather. "I think it's him," I said.

"Think?"

"Think pretty strongly?"

"100%? 95, 90%?" I'd been thinking 85.

"90," I said, and he nodded briskly and gathered up the papers after having me sign below the photo.

I didn't want him to leave yet, but he was about to. I told him I'd once written a book about police officers, and that I'd had a reader from the Seattle force, a female cop. He knew her. "By the book," he said, nodding. And then he relaxed. He told me how hard he knew it was to be the victim of a crime, even a property crime, that it could feel like such a violation. He told me that he missed working our hill, because he'd really loved taking care of all of the people on it. They were a nice group of folks, he said, and he looked nostalgic. "We're going to do the best we can with this," he said.

Tears came to my eyes. All this time, since the break-in, I've been swearing that I don't feel violated, I know it was just a stupid random act, that I'm not scared, that I'm okay. And tears came to my eyes, and he kept talking about taking care of people and how people don't understand cops very well.

I shook the detective's big beefy awkward hand when he left. He said he'd call the DA from his car and get this thing rolling. I watched him walk away, and I felt safe again.

Recovery

2012-10-18T23:08:00.001-07:00

My home was burgled a couple of weeks ago, in broad daylight, apparently by people so desperate for drugs they were willing to climb onto our roof and smash a skylight and windows to get in at 4:30pm on a Saturday. They took precious items, musical instruments and jewelry, the former expensive, the latter not so much. They took our laundry basket to haul their loot. They took my husband's running shoes and my yoga pants and medication out of my bedside table drawer.

And somehow, they didn't take our souls. They didn't get our trust, or our resolve that humans are for the most part a decent bunch. They didn't make us fearful. Their actions were so bizarre and random that we figured we were just the unlucky ones in their path.

Detective Quinones called yesterday to let us know that one of my husband's prized guitars had been located in a pawn shop, the owner there having called them immediately, figuring this guitar was not your average pawn shop item. Detective Quinones plays guitar, and understood how precious this one must have been to us. He told me the long story about the desperate people in the van, who after stealing our things fled and were immediately involved in a hit and run. The vehicle has been returned to its owner (it was stolen, of course), and we will get the guitar soon. We may get our other things, eventually. Most likely not all of them.

But they didn't get anything important. We didn't let them.

Addendum/Serendipity

2012-08-22T11:22:00.000-07:00

I was looking for a particular photo this morning and to my surprise, found this, the senior photo I mentioned in my last post, the photo that got away. I wanted this one in my year book, but my mother's choice of me smiling like my typical "good girl" self got in. But this, this is who I wanted to be at 17. She still looks a little mysterious and sexy to me, but she also looks challenging and as though she might not suffer fools, and I wonder now if that wasn't really what I was after all along.

Hello. It's so good to see you.

2012-08-15T18:03:00.002-07:00

Exactly three weeks after I took a tumble and smashed my face into concrete (see previous post) I had to have a new author head shot taken for pre-publicity for my new book (shameless self-promotion: Love Water Memory, out April 2, 2013). Yes, in August I needed a photo of ME for a book not coming out until April.

I'd been postponing with the photographer all three weeks as bruises turned purple, green, then yellow, as road rash scabbed and flaked, as skin beneath came red and angry to the surface. As swelling subsided. As my wounded self regained confidence.

When I was a tiny kid, two, three-ish, I became desperately frightened of cameras, of the flash bulbs, particularly. All photos of me from that era show me screaming and red-faced, teary eyed and snot nosed, holding my arms over my face as though the camera is going to explode in it.

By five I seemed to have recovered and marched joyously to the little seat in front of the big standing camera for my kindergarten shot. I was wearing a dress I loved, blue with white and red polka dots, and at the last minute I decided my pixie bangs would look far more stylish swept to the side. The photo turned out darn cute, but my mom was not happy with my impromptu hairstyling.

I became increasingly self conscious in school photos, as adolescents do, but by the time it was senior picture time, I was determined to look sexy and serious, grown up. All things I was not. Unbeknownst to me, I'd eaten tainted chicken at a friend's house the week before and was in the beginning throes of salmonella, which accounts for the sweaty pale face, but even that was okay because I was wearing my denim halter dress. Or rather my sister's denim halter dress. I mostly filled it out.

When we got the proofs (which took about as long back then as it did for the salmonella to have its evil way with me before retreating), I chose the one I loved: me, sitting in the grass, leaning back on one elbow, nostrils flared, not smiling, but dead sexy. My pasty complexion was camouflaged by the filtered light of tree leaves.

My mother hated it. "This one looks like you," she said, indicating the goofiest of the bunch, me with a big toothy smile, full face, my hair all weird, the sexiness of the dress cropped out. "You can have the one you want for the yearbook, but I'm ordering this one to hang on the wall."

Of course, when the yearbook came out, guess which photo appeared. I was crushed. I'd so desperately wanted to look like someone I was not. Thus began an adulthood of hating photos of myself, of being too critical, of stiffening up so much in front of them that I did that weird snarl-smile thing that Chandler did on Friends in the episode about his not being photogenic.

And now I need to have photos taken regularly, because that is what authors do, for book jackets and websites. I had to figure out how to smile in front of a camera, just a natural smile, just a friendly face for readers to connect with. And this is what occurred to me, finally. We are beautiful to those we love (as they are to us). So I started looking into camera lenses as though I was looking into the eyes of someone I loved, smiling at them they way I would upon seeing them for the first time in a long time.

Hello, I think, looking into the lens. I love you. It's so good to see you.

Grace

2012-07-15T09:57:00.000-07:00

It’s not pleasant to fall as an adult. Let me just say that at the outset. I have tripped a few times over the past few years, say over a curb or uneven sidewalk, and gone to the ground, grazing my hands and knees on gritty concrete, the raw sting an admonishment to watch what the hell I’m doing. Mostly, my ego is the thing that takes the worst beating.

Not now. Now that I know what it is to dive head first down concrete steps, hands full so I take the brunt of it with my face? Now I have no ego. I am washed clean of it by blood and gravel and more blood and fear and picking myself up to walk crying down a busy street (no cars stopping, not even though my two hands were pooled with blood), turning right, walking up that street toward friendly neighbors’, watching them try to figure out who I was though they know me quite well, then everyone, more neighbors, some I know, some I don’t, rushing to lie me down, to run for ice and wash cloths and clean water and shushing and cooing and cleaning and touching, and me crying, sobbing, trying to feel with my tongue if my teeth were all there. “I’m sorry,” I kept saying, and they’d shush me some more. “Thank you,” I kept saying, and I’ve never meant it as much.

Thank you world. Thank you for kind people, for resilient bones (women, take your calcium), for efficient funny ER nurses, and for these ugly abrasions and contusions that mean I am alive, and that I have survived everything, so far, that life has thrown at me.

When a Wheel Comes Off

2012-06-06T19:41:00.000-07:00

Sister S and I woke at dawn on Friday to catch our flight with sister C to visit our youngest sister, T. But before we even left for the airport, C called, sounding cruddy. "I've been up all night," she moaned. "I'm sick. I can't go." We tried but couldn't book a later flight for her; everything was full. And after six months of planning! So S and I went anyway, but it felt all wrong.

We were a little red wagon with one wheel missing. The four of us have been together in life for over 50 years now, and were heading to Florida to celebrate that fact, it being the year of T's 50th birthday. But without C, we wobbled.

When S, T and I met up at the hotel, we collectively fretted. Should we have rescheduled? When we canceled her flight, should we have kept the return flight, in case she could make it later? We walked on the beach, had drinks by the pool, went out for dinner, but it felt as if we were cheating on her, somehow. "C would love this," we said at the beach drum circle, at the warm turquoise rise of the sea. C has always been our Sister of the Outrageous, in word and adventure, our party starter. Without her, we were a little on the quiet side.

Like most sisters, we have our issues and grievances, old wounds and irritations. We've had fights and riffs and snits, but even so, that's how we are together and we seem to have found a way to be ourselves now, inside of all that, and to accept each other. Ours may be an imperfect container with a few cracks and bumps, a little plastering over in spots, but still, we it's ours. We're as familiar with each other's pet peeves and needs and quirks as we are our own. We know that S will need naps and T will have difficulty making decisions, and I will be bossy, among many other annoying behaviors I've accumulated in life, but without C's off-color language in, say, a restaurant, it just wouldn't be right.

Within hours, she'd booked a flight for the next day, hoping she'd feel well enough to make it. She would arrive at 9 pm or so. "Don't wait for dinner," she said, though we wanted to. So, after our dinner out, the three of us went shopping, procuring C's favorite beer—Corona with lime—then headed back to the hotel to wait for her. As her arrival time drew closer, we called room service.

When she arrived, you'd have thought she'd come back from the dead. "C's here!" we exclaimed, rushing out into the hallway. "We have beer! And a cheeseburger and fries!" Paltry offerings for her first night in Florida, but C didn't care that she'd missed anything. She just seemed happy to be squished into our hotel room, the three of us watching her eat and talking about what we'd seen and done that day, what we could see and do the next.

We clinked beers and breathed a collective sigh of relief, all of us. Now we could get this party started.

Heaven for Women Writers

2012-03-29T09:05:00.000-07:00

As posted today by the good folks at Open Road Media Group, publisher of Hotel Angeline: A Novel in 36 Voices, a collaborative novel by the members of Seattle7Writers (my peeps).

Hedgebrook, a Women’s Writing

Community—Advantage, Female

Editor’s Note: Author Jennie Shortridge (When She Flew and other novels) speaks out on behalf of Women’s History Month. Jennie is a co-curator and contributor behind the epic, inventive novel *Hotel Angeline: A Novel in 36 Voices**and a co-founder of the Seattle7Writers.*

The conversation over wine in our seriously awesome (and mixed gender) Seattle7Writers group might go like this:

Female writer: “I just got back from Hedgebrook and it was incredible.”
Male writer: “Oh god, here we go . . .”

Another female writer: “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go! I need to apply next year.”

A third female writer: “It was the best writing experience of my life!” Male writer: “Why do women get a whole writers’ retreat to themselves? It’s 2012, for crying out loud.”

Yes, he’s jealous. Hedgebrook on nearby Whidbey Island is indeed a writing retreat and community for women only. It opened in 1987 under the direction and vision of Nancy Nordhoff and Sheryl Feldman. Hedgebrook provides six sweet, small, well-appointed cabins; forty acres of forest and farmland to wander; a rugged beach nearby; and a farmhouse kitchen for delectable family-style suppers using local Northwest ingredients. Each participant shares all this with five other women and can talk about writing together. In a word? It’s heaven. And to those female residents from around the world who are chosen from the ever-growing pool of applicants, it’s free.

Why women only? While the founders and staff feel a personal passion for supporting women writers in this very generous way, I know that others think our society should be beyond that by now. Women in 2012, after all, have taken their place alongside men in the working world (um, still for less pay), in the political world (in numbers still slim), and in the arts (again, still for less pay in most cases, and in terms of reviews and attention, nowhere near equal).

But that’s only part of the conundrum facing women in the creative arts. Forget that we don’t get the reviews and attention, the larger advances. We’re used to all that, as much as we continue to work to change it. What we don’t get in life (as many women will agree) is a wife! What we don’t get is someone who anticipates our needs well enough to leave our minds open to creative pursuit (though well-meaning partners often try). We still nurture and nourish our loved ones, fitting in our writing around them, and often a job to boot. It’s not in our biological makeup to ignore the needs of others, thus making it only our fault that we put our creative endeavors aside to help.

And that, Virginia, is why I believe in Hedgebrook.

At Hedgebrook, your small cabin has just enough of everything to maximize comfort and minimize housework: one plate, one bowl, one coffee mug, one wine glass, one pan . . . and yet the resident writers are also challenged to use a small wood stove for heat (with supplemental heat available), to visit a bathhouse for bathing (heated tile floors, two roomy showers, a clawfoot tub—it’s hardly a challenge), and to integrate with the natural world in so doing, walking from cabin through thick forest along old animal trails, often in complete darkness. And when it gets dark on Whidbey Island, it can feel like being in the center of a black hole for city slickers. (Yes, flashlights are provided, as are toilets and sinks in each cabin.) In the journals that record each resident’s experience, found in each cabin, the stories are rife with newbie anxieties and missteps, but more so, the final reflective thoughts on these writers’ last days at Hedgebrook. Even experienced and famous writers discover what it was they came for, whether they knew they were looking for it or not. In real life, women rarely get the time and space to even think in those terms.

For me, the thing I didn’t know I went looking for was myself—my own authentic voice in my work, after nearly seventeen years of working in the world of “what it takes to get published.” It wasn’t that it wasn’t there, but my trust in it had grown shaky. The publishing world is a tough place to maintain your own creative vision, but if you don’t, why write? It came to me in so many small details at Hedgebrook: the way light broke through tall trees to spill across my desk, a cold wind-snapping walk on the beach in search of sand dollars, the laughter and wisdom of the other women in the room at supper. And finally, the two does who stood outside my cabin on the snowy morning I had to leave, just watching me with big deer eyes, saying, “Pay attention. Take this with you.”

It’s a gift everyone should receive, regardless of gender, of course. But I’ll revel in the fact that because I’m a woman who takes my writing seriously, Hedgebrook gave it to me.