Writing With My Hair On Fire

The Joy of Repeating

2013-11-03T13:15:00.002-08:00

The Joy of Repeating

Emily’s eager voice comes through the other end of the phone.

“Mommy, I was wondering if...maybe...you know...if it’s okay with you...because Bryn’s mom already said it’s okay...so I wanted to know...if it’s not too much trouble...” Her voice fades out into the distance, and I smile on the other end of the line, knowing what she’s about to ask.

“Just tell me what you want to ask me, Monkey.”

“Well, Bryn wanted to know if maybe I could stay and spend the night at her house and then tomorrow we could come to my house and we could have a sleepover there and maybe we could go to a movie or something or we could watch something on Netflix and do we have any popcorn?”

Dave sits in his chair next to me, his feet propped up on the ottoman, our brindle lab mix, Desi, snuggling by his side. He chuckles and nods his head in agreement, mirroring my actions as though we’re one body with two heads. I think to myself that I’ve heard this conversation before, but that time the twelve-year-old voice on the other end of the line was mine.

I said yes, of course, to a squeaky chorus of “She said yes! She said yes!” from the other end of the line.

A friendship that’s lasted almost forty years so far began that way, too. Ginger and I were like two opposite sides of the same coin. Her blonde curls the opposite of my brunette shag haircut, her bright blue eyes in every way different from my dark brown ones, and yet the friendship that we forged during the winter of 1976 in Miss Byerline’s third grade classroom and on the frozen playground of Center School in Lenox would survive marriages, the births of four children and the loss of one, her parents divorce and mine moving us over a thousand miles apart, the death of a woman we both called “Mom”, a breast cancer diagnosis, two mastectomies, chemotherapy, and a reconstruction, a spinal surgery and a forearm rebuild, our fathers’ heart attacks, years when we spoke only on holidays, and ones where we were as inseparable over the phone as we once were on that elementary school playground. What I didn’t know all those years ago, while we protected each other from the threats from Barron Kern that he’d whitewash us in the snow if he caught us, was that this friendship, this magical, strong bond that we’d created, would be the sustaining force of my life.

In Emily and Bryn, it happens again. Emily’s long, dark hair and deep brown eyes are the opposite of Bryn’s blonde curls and laughing blue eyes. Like Ginger and I, their interests diverge, but they find common ground in a friendship that knows nothing about differences. The next evening I hear them in the basement, their little girl giggles calling to me up the stairs in a way that makes my heart grow and ache at the same time. I bark down half-hearted warnings to turn off the lights and go to bed, but behind my stern voice is a grin turned up on one side and a knowing shake of my head. This is what best friends should do.

Forty years ago, Ginger’s mom called up the stairs to her bedroom with the same words, the same tone, and likely the same smile. We lay side-by-side in her twin bed, staring up at the Andy Gibb poster on her ceiling, drinking lime Kool-aid that we’d made with three times as much sugar as the packet instructions called for, and dreaming of our somedays. Our hands still smell of horses from working in the barn behind her family’s house, and my cheeks are still red from the wind whipping at them while I watched Ginger skillfully ride Dixie around the ring and maneuver her over low jumps. My boots sit at the end of the bed, and there’s a combination of hay and manure stuck to the bottom of the left sole from when we mucked out his stall together. Tomorrow, while I’m at my gymnastics team practice, cleaned of barn debris and dressed in a navy blue leotard with red and white stripes that run from under my wrist down to my hip, Ginger will be out in the ring again, she and Dixie riding circles in the soft, brown dirt, jumping the fences, and feeding the big dairy cow in the meadow under the grey winter skies of western New England.

After school on Monday, when Emily heads to her middle school play rehearsal, Bryn will return home to walk her basset hounds, Sadie and Sunny. Emily will sing, dance, and smile on the stage while Bryn circles the neighborhood with her charges. When Bryn’s chores are done and Emily’s rehearsal over, they’ll be on the phone with each other again, calling and texting and talking like only best friends do. They’ll talk about the boys they like, what they’ll do on the first snow day of the school year, and why having much older brothers is both a blessing and a curse.

And when I descend the stairs and find them in the basement, the glow from the television screen is the only light in the room. On the floor below it, they snuggle side-by-side in sleeping bags, both finally asleep and maybe dreaming of their somedays. I switch off the television, grab the glasses of half-drunk milk, and walk back up the stairs thinking about their future, of all the joy and pain that they might see one another through over the next forty years. And I hope that the bond that Ginger and I found in one another will repeat in them, that Emily will be by Bryn’s side on the day she marries the love of her life, and that Bryn will be the one to lighten Emily’s suffering when a tragedy befalls her family. That this friendship, this bond, this magic, will last a lifetime because this is what I know, after all of the fear and the joy, the grief and the celebrations, the faith and doubt: as Robert Frost said, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”

Communion: A Boy and His Dogs

2013-09-04T12:02:00.002-07:00

Communion

It wasn’t so much that he said goodbye to them. It was more like he communed with them.

Alex knelt on the floor beside Lucy, our yellow lab mix, and touched his forehead to hers, his fingers stroking the sides of her face. Both of them, with their eyes closed, understood that this was the last time they’d be like this for a while, and if dogs could cry, I’m certain Lucy would have sobbed. Desi’s brindle stripes stood out against the red chair that she’d melted into. Her long body was spread over the back cushion, one back leg underneath her and one dangling toward the seat in a hopeless gesture. Her head lowered to her front feet and cradled by the arm of the chair, the look in her eyes spoke volumes. The six-foot-tall young man that moved to her side and kissed the top of her head barely resembled the squealing little boy he’d been almost nine years ago when she bound into the room to surprise him the day we brought them home.

We’d sat Alex on the couch when he came home from school that day in 2005, instructed him to close his eyes and hold out his hands, and deposited a ball of warm blonde fluff into his small palms. Lucy relaxed in his hands, pointing her tiny brown nose up at him, her whiskers twitching with curiosity.

“This is Lucy. Lucy? Alex. Alex? Lucy. What do you think?” I asked him with tears in my eyes.

“I love her! I love her so much!” He lowered his face to hers, both of them breathing in the scent of the other, memorizing the smell of unconditional love.

“I hate to break this up, but there’s one more thing...” I trailed off as the door to the family room opened and Desi bounced into the room. All long, gangly puppy legs and tail wagging in circles like churning helicopter blades, she ran right for him. Her white toes and chest gave contrast to the black and brown brindle stripes of her coat, and a warm pink tongue hung from her mouth. I scooped her up and put her in his lap, and within a moment she had her little puppy paws up on his chest, covering his face in tiny, frantic kisses. A boy and his dogs.

He’d find comfort in them through the years of his childhood and young adulthood. They were there when he had his heart broken for the first time, when his grandmother passed away, when Dave moved to Colorado five months ahead of the family for a new job. The three of them had seen difficult days together, but their presence was resolute. They existed as the one constant for the boy who loved them in a string of months and years filled with heartache.

So on this last day, when the car was jammed from roof to floor with microwave, mini-fridge, clothes, books, and childhood memories, this was our grown son’s final task before we pulled out of the driveway for the eight hour trek to Fort Lewis College in Durango. The girls aren’t as perky now as they once were. Lucy climbs the stairs more slowly than she used to, and Desi’s once dark snout is covered with the white hair of advancing age. But one thing is still the same: they are still his puppies in every way that counts.

He never said a word. No murmurs of goodbye or missing them. He just knelt down that way, his forehead pressed to theirs, his soft kisses left on their fur. He unfolded his long limbs from the floor, brushed past his Dad and I in the hallway and walked out onto the back deck. We watched him there, the sliding glass door closed behind him, at the edge of the world he knew but about to step off into a new one. Surrounded by the flutter of leaves and the chirps of squirrels running from tree to tree, he stared blankly out into the grass, the garden, the swing set Papa built for him when he was just five years old.

I turned to my husband and pantomimed a knife stabbing through my heart and turning round and round in jagged circles.

A week later, Alex is in his dorm room four hundred miles away.

They’re still looking for him.

The Backwards Revision Epiphany

2012-02-02T19:23:00.000-08:00

I can't believe that it took me this long to figure it out. I've been revising the same way for years, and just today did I finally figure out that I've been doing it all wrong, all this time. At least, I've been doing it wrong for me.

Over the years, pretty much every writing class that I've ever taken has taught me that when it comes to revision, start big and work your way down to the small details. The funny thing is that the best writing is the details, and if those are wrong, the rest of the revisions that I make have to be revised again, and I still end up frustrated that parts of a piece that I know should be working simply aren't. What I learned, and what will completely change my life and my work as a non-fiction writer, is that I needed to turn that advice on its head.

Non-fiction is a funny thing, because those of us who write it and specialize in memoir or personal essay are often the protagonist of our material. Even when we don't write about ourselves specifically, we write about the lives, joys and struggles of people that we know well. Because of that, it's often difficult for us to extract our narrator selves from our writer selves. The material is so intensely personal that our attachment to it is unbearably strong. I've struggled over the years to distance myself enough to see the work in a more objective way. I've started many pieces that I never finished, because I wasn't happy with the way that they turned out, but couldn't fix them because I was unwilling to "kill my darlings."

I took a different tack today, almost by mistake, and it was a revelation. Rather than focusing on revising globally (working on the "big ideas") of the work, I started with sentence level revisions. Changing verbs from passive to active, working on constructions, deleting adverbs, making weak verbs strong verbs. I worked only on sentences: not paragraphs or pages or everything all at once. What amazed me was that as I did this, I was able to be objective! I wasn't working on changing big elements of the story, I was simply picking out every word and adding, deleting, or changing them. I revised the sentences one by one, tedious work, but worth every minute. As I looked back over what I did today, I realized that I'd improved this piece in one day more than I've ever improved another piece of my writing after months of work! As I continue to work my way up to the bigger things, I can only imagine that by the time I get to the really big elements, I'll be able to see the piece with a far more detached and professional eye. It'll change my life.

There's a reason for the old adage, "There's more than one way to skin a cat." For most people, what I've been taught likely works just fine, but for me, it caused anxiety and stress that I didn't even understand. Whatever you do, find the way that works, not for everyone, but for you. Try as many different approaches as you can, and wait for the epiphany to unfold.

The First, Biggest Challenge of Grad School

2012-01-24T18:21:00.000-08:00

After I drop my daughter off at school in the morning, shower and dress, I take a steaming cup of coffee into my home office and get to work. I open my Mac laptop, click on Word, and a blank page appears on the screen in front of me. Now...what to write?

Over the last few years, enrolled in undergraduate writing courses, I've been able to rely on assignments to feed my writing. Rarely has a professor looked at me and said, "Okay. Go write something. Whatever you feel like writing." This is a new experience, and one that I'm finding more than a little intimidating. This semester, my "assignment" is to write short pieces, many of them. Topics are completely open, but the finished pieces need to be self-contained (a beginning, middle and end), and range from a paragraph to no more than five pages. Those of you who have been in writing classes with me, or who taught those classes, know that writing short is not my strong suit.

More than one professor has told me that I'm a "book writer", someone for whom the long form is the most comfortable fit. A lover of detail and setting, even when I try to write short pieces, they turn into longer ones. Whenever I work on something that was originally intended to be short, someone that reads it will inevitably ask me if it's going to be book length. "No," I reply. "This one's really going to be short." They look at me, bewildered by my answer. "Are you sure? I think this needs to be long." Sigh.

So, even though writing short is a difficult thing for me, doing just that for an entire semester will help me to grow immensely as a writer. My longwinded tendencies have to be shoved into a drawer, as I create short pieces that actually end. I'm starting with the longer ones, four or five pages, and working my way backwards to the shortest of them. Provided that I can think of enough short topics to write about, this should be a great experience for me.

The blank page stares back at me, and it knows that I'm struggling. It teases me, taunts me with it's open space, knowing that even finding a topic is elusive. I grab an old journal and dig for inspiration. Something catches my attention - a snippet of an idea that I never followed, or a line of dialogue that I wrote down on the train. I write one sentence, maybe two or three, and stop. I save the document and continue digging, mining for new ideas while the others marinate. Right now, getting plenty of ideas down is half the battle. The war awaits...

Cookie Mania

2012-01-23T08:13:00.000-08:00

For Girl Scouts all over the United States, cookie season kicked off yesterday! It's no different in my house, as Emily sets her sights on her order goal for the 2012 cookie sale. In Colorado, all troops are selling cookies directly this year - there are no order sheets here! My dining room table is covered with colorful (and tempting!) cases of cookies of every variety. Tagalongs, Trefoils, Thin Mints, Savannah Smiles, Samoas, Dulce De Lece, Thank You Berry Munch, and Do-Si-Do's are piled high, just waiting for the buyers to snatch them up.

Yesterday morning, Em and I loaded the wagon with cases of cookies and set out around the neighborhood. This is the first year that Coloradoans have been able to get their cookies immediately, and they couldn't have been happier. Most people responded, "You mean, I can order them, and have them RIGHT NOW?" I pulled the wagon, walking behind the little girl that used to ride in it. She's growing so fast that I can hardly believe it. We've gone from onesies to flared jeans, pink t-shirts to training bras. How does the time go by so quickly? Before I know it, she'll be starting middle school, then high school, then college. I watched the breeze ruffle her brown hair, watched her smile and giggle when a homeowner said that they'd love to buy some cookies from her. These moments are important ones, as she learns the value of hard work, of pounding the pavement in search of a goal and reaping the rewards. I remember my own days of selling Girl Scout cookies in Stratford, Connecticut. At the time, I believe cookies were still about $1.50 a box, and it seemed like an enormous sum in 1973. Regardless, selling those cookies left me with a feeling of pride and accomplishment, and I hope that Emily will get the same thing out of this experience.

We left a lot of Smoky Hill homeowners with boxes of cookies and huge smiles, but the biggest smile was on Emily's face, as we counted up the money at home and figured out how many boxes we'd sold. If you see us out there, dragging the wagon behind us, stop and say hello. Buy a box of cookies or two, and help us to remember these magical moments of being mother and daughter - bonding over cookies and a job well done.

The Wisdom Project

2012-01-20T09:13:00.000-08:00

The semester is in full swing and I'm hard at work on the reading and writing for the first submission which is due in a couple of weeks. I'm also working on my interdisciplinary studies class for the semester, and I'm really quite excited about it. The class, Creative Writing Pedagogy, allows me to create any type of creative writing class that I might be interested in teaching, and among my tasks for the semester is coming up with a series of 12 lesson plans that would comprise a full class. I thought long and hard about what I wanted to do. I'd love to teach, and the options for what kind of class I could create were endless, but the choice was an easy one for me: I'm creating a memoir writing class for seniors.

My workshop, tentatively titled "The Wisdom Project" is something that I can teach to seniors in many different settings, including senior centers, community centers, assisted living facilities, and more. My goal is to help seniors to learn how to record meaningful snapshots of their personal experiences that can be passed on to future generations. The wisdom that our seniors hold within them is priceless, and that information is integral to the history of our country, and to their own families.

By the time that my beautiful Mom, Margaret Lane DeChario, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease, so many of her memories were either lost to her or so intertwined with others that it was nearly impossible to record them in any kind of meaningful way. While I remember some of the stories of her life, there are far more others that I never had the opportunity to learn. A project like this, that might have preserved them for my siblings and I, our children, and generations still to come, would have been something that we would have cherished forever. What a gift it would be to be able to give that gift to other families!

At some point, I'm interested in following this project with the creation of a business as a personal historian. As such, I'd have the opportunity to interview families and create audio, video or written stories or books that comprise some of the important memories that we build our families on. I'm hoping to ask my father to be my guinea pig, creating the kind of history of personal experiences that I was unable to gather from Mom. Every now and then, when I least expect it, he pops up with some obscure memory that has me enthralled and amazed. It's time to write them down, to record his words, and have something that I can give to my children someday. Something to cherish forever - a piece of Dad that will live on forever.

Goodbye, Cambridge - Hello, Berkshires

2012-01-14T19:27:00.000-08:00

The Lesley University MFA students scattered to the winds this afternoon. Warm hugs, smiles and promises to keep in touch dwindled as the day went on and less and less of us were still there. I was one of the last to leave, hanging on to every remaining minute, I attended graduation, said my goodbyes, and walked out of the empty quad for the last time. Just before I got to the street, I looked back over my shoulder to imprint the place where I spent so many hours in the last 10 days on my memory.

I'd heard that MFA residencies tend to form close bonds, creating relationships that last through long, sometimes lonely semesters at home, each of us huddled in front of laptops in our individual places in the country (and abroad). In such a short but intense period, it's amazing how close you can become with a group of people that you otherwise never would have met. I'm awed by the talent and the generosity of the students here - so willing to let me into their exclusive circle and make me one of their own. I worried, before I got here, that I might not fit in, but I'm glad to say that I was wrong. It's easy for me to imagine the happy reunions that I'll have with this new writing family when I return for the next four residencies.

It's time to move on, to cap off my time here with a couple of precious days with my best friend of 36 years and her beautiful family. I get to see them so rarely, and I'm so excited to wrap Ginger, Ken, Ashleigh and Paige in a huge hug and nestle into the Berkshires for a couple of days before I make my way back home. What a great way to end this magical experience.

Goodbye, Cambridge. This is a trip that I'll always remember. When your trees burst with leaves, your flowers blossom, and the sun warms your streets, I'll be back. See you in June.

Message from Home

2012-01-13T19:00:00.000-08:00

Imagine my surprise and delight when I returned to my room this evening after a long day at residency and found the message light blinking on my room telephone. For a split second, I was worried, wondering if maybe something had happened at home in Denver and that perhaps my family had been trying in vain to reach me. I picked up the phone and called the front desk. "The message light is blinking on my phone; did someone leave a message for me?" I asked. "No," the young desk clerk replied, "but you have mail." Mail? Someone mailed me something in Cambridge?

The curiosity was killing me, so I immediately descended the flights of stairs that I had just walked up and asked for my mail at the desk. Seeing my bewildered look, the clerk smiled and handed me a bright yellow envelope. The return address should not have surprised me. My son's beautiful best friend, Alex, who in maybe 10 years time might turn out to be the boy's soul mate, had taken the time to mail me a card, all the way here to Cambridge, just to make me smile.

I remember a time, not long in the past, when writing letters was commonplace. I wrote them often to friends, grandparents, and my own parents when I lived far from home. Then the internet stepped in, and the immediacy of electronic communication caused the epistolary form to wane. While we can still write letters and send them through email, those messages are a sorry replacement for a handwritten note. There's something timeless and beautiful about the craft of writing something special to someone in our own hand. It's careful, deliberate, and full of thought. Email is wonderful, but it exists in a brief moment of space and time that is fleeting. Cards and letters, sent through the mail and still hand-delivered to the recipient are tangible in a way that email will never be.

I've already dated this card, and added a note about where and when I received it on the back. I'll get home and add it to my memory box, as it is as strong a memory of my Cambridge experience as any other. This beautiful young woman whom I adore, took the time to tell me that she was thinking about me and wanted me to know. With her sparkly green pen, she filled up the side of the card with her thoughts, and likely more praise than I deserve, but she means it and I hope that I can live up to it. It is a gift of dramatic proportion to be thought of in that way. "Daughter-in-law", I love you, too.

The Freshman 15

2012-01-11T20:03:00.000-08:00

I hope that it's only 15. Pounds, that is. The coziness of my room at the inn withstanding, this residency has other things in common with a cruise ship. I expected a small room, but I didn't expect a full buffets for all meals, and free baked goods, coffee and soda all day long. And the food is fantastic. I'm not talking about the ironic kind of fantastic, the air quotes kind of fantastic, or the for-a-college-cafeteria kind of fantastic. I'm talking about the fantastic kind of fantastic. Steaks, pork tenderloin, seafood, carving stations, cooking stations, dessert stations and more. That's just for lunch. Add salad bar, sandwich bar, breakfast stations that feature omelets, quiche, pancakes, sausage, cereal, bagels, muffins, fruit and more? It's a virtual shmorgasbord, and an accident waiting to happen for those of us with little self control and no adult supervision.

And that's just on campus. My inn also has a pretty palatial spread each morning, and free coffee and baked goods literally from dawn to dark. Being the coffee hound that I am, I can't seem to stop myself from pouring a cup, and grabbing a molasses cookie or two (or three) while I stir the cream into the cup. I'm surrounded by temptation, and it seems to lurk around every corner, just waiting to exploit my moments of weakness.

When I talked to my daughter tonight about all of these wonderful foods and beverages offered to me, including the chocolate layer cake that was one of tonight's dessert selections after dinner, she gave me a very wise piece of advice. I should know it's wise, because I'm the one that taught it to her. "That's a 'sometimes food', Mommy."

At the very moment that we're convinced that our children never listen to a word we say, they find the most inopportune times to throw our wisdom back in our faces. :)

Mama Said There Would Be Days Like This

2012-01-09T19:37:00.000-08:00

Well, I've done it. I broke my New Year's Resolution and it's only the 9th of January. Be glad. I saved you from last night's pity party, and let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. I've built a bridge, I've gotten over it, and I've landed on my feet on the other side, so now, and only now, I can tell you the story.

Writers workshops are a curious thing. What do you love? Knitting, painting, sewing? Think about that thing, and then about the project that you were the most excited about when you created it. Got it? Now, imagine being in a room with 8 other people for an hour. Those 8 people are charged with the responsibility of telling you every single thing that they can think of that is wrong with it, and you sit silently on the sidelines and listen to the conversation. For an hour. You cannot speak, or defend your prized project, or tell anyone that you disagree. You just listen. For an hour.

It's bound to be the longest hour of your life. Trust me.

When I submitted my manuscript with my MFA application, my biggest concern was that people wouldn't get it because it doesn't feel "literary". It's funny. Really funny, if I do say so myself. I've seen people howl, hold their sides, take a moment to catch their breath. But literary? Serious literary work? Probably not. So, in addition to my fear about my application, even after I was accepted by both schools, I started to worry about the workshop. I was right to worry. My workshop was yesterday, and it was less than stellar, to be sure. All of my workshop peers, and my mentor, were professional, and gave me their best, honest feedback. It's taken me 24 hours to get to that frame of mind, but I'm there now.

In this new world where I reside, in this new context that I'm writing within, it's simply the wrong piece of work at the wrong time. It's still a story that is worthy of telling, that is funny and poignant and honest and self-deprecating, and above all, readable. But, it's not the MFA's story. As I wrestled with these thoughts last night after coming back to my cocoon to do a little (or a lot) unapologetic wound licking, I realized that I have an opportunity to have the best of both worlds. I won't let go of that manuscript, because it's a story that I believe in, and I'm proud of it so far. It has a very long way to go, but I'll get it there. However, there are so many other stories to tell. Those serious literary stories are within me, and the truth is that I write them all the time. For now, for this program, I'll shift my focus, keep working on my comedic manuscript in the background, and generate new material that's a better fit for this particular time. Meanwhile, I'll take everything that I learn during the next two years and use it to make all of my work, including the dreaded comedy, the best that it can possibly be.

Mama said there would be days like this, but she also taught me how to get through them. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and forge ahead. Tomorrow, alas, is new day.

Nestled in my Cocoon

2012-01-07T19:23:00.000-08:00

My room at The Irving House in Cambridge is one that I would have aptly described in my former life as a Realtor as "cozy". The pretty key word for small, this room is cozy to say the least. At just 7 feet wide by 12 feet long, it's approximately the size of my walk-in closet at home, a space I never could have imagined sleeping in for 10 days.

I admit to being a little shocked when I opened the door for the first time. When I reserved the room, I knew that the website said that it was a small one, and let me reiterate: they weren't kidding. It's tiny. I've had cut-rate cruise ship cabins that were bigger than this hotel room, and that's saying something. Quite literally, the room is just twice as wide as the door to enter it. With a double size bed, a nightstand, small desk and chair, it's pretty well full. I heaved my large suitcase up onto the bed to get ready to unpack, and looked around for a closet and dresser, somehow assuming that I must have missed during the 4 foot walk from my door to the bed. I hadn't. There were none. There's a two foot long bar hanging in the corner by the door, a makeshift closet in a tiny space. I'm here for 10 nights, and although I didn't pack enough clothes for every day that I'm here, the suitcase was full.

I improvised. I hung as many things as I could on the bar by the door, tucked my shoes under the little desk, and put the rest of my clothes into the nightstand, sans my socks, which are too bulky and have to sit on top of it. I began to wonder if I'd go crazy in this tiny, blue closet after 10 days of being cooped up in here.

As it turned out, it didn't take long for me to learn to appreciate the advantages of my new surroundings. The walls are painted a soft blue, the wood floor creaks softly beneath the carpet, and it stays warm during the day and cool at night. I'm using the fire escape outside the bathroom window as refrigerator, and it works like it was made just for that purpose. When I want a cold drink, I don't have walk down three flights of stairs to get one. I just open the bathroom window and reach out onto the fire escape. There's a little flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above the desk, which I have yet to turn on and likely never will. I in this roughly 84 foot square space, I really do have everything I need.

Residency is both exciting and exhausting. When I come back to my room at the end of the day and nestle into the soft bed covered in a down comforter and pillows like clouds, I'm at home for the moment in a space that seems less and less all the time like a closet, and more and more like a cocoon. When I think about my big house back home, as I sit here on the bed and write, I wonder for a moment why I ever thought I needed that much space to begin with. I love my house, don't get me wrong, but I love this little room near a rooftop in Cambridge in a very special way. For these 10 days and nights, it's my haven. My safe place to write and think and dream. My place to worry about what might happen in my workshop tomorrow, when 7 people whose opinions mean a great deal to me will spend an entire hour talking about my work and deciding whether it's good enough. Somehow, though, this space gives me comfort. When I'm in this room, nothing else really matters. For today, that's enough.

Bubble Days

2012-01-06T19:14:00.001-08:00

I don't think I can remember the last time that I had time to myself to just walk, and explore, and dream, and be. I got an early start today. Up at 6 and showered and dressed for breakfast at 7, giving me the rest of the morning to do as I pleased. Knowing that I didn't have to be at residency until 1:30 this afternoon, I did something rare: I took advantage of a day with no responsibilities pressing on the back of my brain, and I actually did something simply for the pleasure of doing it.

The sidewalks throughout Cambridge, Massachusetts are made of inlaid brick, most of which have been there since the late 18th Century. Worn smooth by time and weather, the stones are tones of sienna, crimson, ruby, russet and auburn, and to walk on such history is fascinating. I couldn't help but wonder who had walked there before me. Louisa May Alcott, Emily Dickenson, Benjamin Franklin, Nathaniel Hawthorne, e e cummings, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendall Holmes, and Edgar Allen Poe are just a handful of the renowned writers who grew up in this area, who went on to become some of the most revered American authors of any generation, whose feet may have stepped upon the very same stones as I did today. I did more than walk the streets of Cambridge: I walked through history.

Today was a bubble day. No cares, no worries, no where to go and everywhere to roam. My husband reminded me tonight that we had some bubble days when we visited France in 1999 and canoed down the Dordogne River, just the two of us, a picnic lunch and a lot of warm July sunshine on our shoulders. Though the winter in Cambridge is hardly like July in southwest France, this day had the same carefree quality. It was a day to absorb this miraculous time in my life where everything feels so unbelievably blissful. I walked through the grounds of Harvard University, marveling at the banners announcing that this is the school's 375th anniversary year. I passed babies in strollers, students with backpacks laden with schoolwork, professors with tartan plaid driving caps and worn leather briefcases. I wandered into the Harvard Book Store and browsed the aisles, running my fingertips gently along the bindings of weathered editions of Plath and Thoreau and Longfellow. I bought a sandwich at a coffee shop and ate it while I meandered along the streets, feeling the lettuce crunch between my teeth and enjoying the sting of dijon mustard on my tongue. I resisted the urge to throw my hat in the air in Harvard Square while signing the Mary Tyler Moore Show theme song, but just barely.

My journey, probably a total of five or six miles walked at a beautiful snail's pace, came to it's conclusion when I rounded a corner on Oxford Avenue and saw the sign that read: "Lesley University - Doble Campus." I expected my heart to leap when I finally saw that sign, but something unexpected and wonderful happened instead. My heartbeat slowed down, tears formed in the corners of my eyes and had to be brushed away with gloved hands, my body warmed and my soul followed. Amazing. Truly amazing. Just one look, and it felt like home.

I wish that there could be more bubble days, for all of us. Instead of walking to something, I want more moments in my life that are simply desinationless. Meandering, wandering, wondering. Drinking in the rare times in life that things are truly wonderful, and remembering to be grateful for simple miracles. What brought me here, to this moment, to this place, to this city, I may never know. But, I couldn't be happier or more thankful that the sun shined on the worn sidewalks of Cambridge today, or that I was here to enjoy it.

The New Airplane Frontier

2012-01-05T18:49:00.000-08:00

An airplane is an interesting place to be these days. My flight from Denver to Boston was 4 hours long, giving me more than enough time to reflect. Just before I started writing this post, I finished not one, but two packages of cheesy crackers. Practically unheard of now. The chief of the flight attendants, a grey-haired gentlemen in his fifties with a midlife paunch and a bushy white mustache looks to me more like an auto mechanic than a flight attendant, but I digress. As he comes around with his box of Southwest Airlines goodies and a wry smirk, he says to my seatmate and I, “Take a couple, ‘cause that’s all you get these days...”

The days of “Pan Am” are a little outside of my experience, but I clearly remember taking trips with my parents and being given an actual meal on an airplane, even if the distance of the flight was somewhat short. It might not have been the most delicious meal, but it was a meal nonetheless, and there was bound to be at least one tasty something on the tray. Then came the days of the sandwich, and I’d purposefully book my seat in the middle of the aircraft, so that there would likely still be turkey left whether the crew started passing them out from the front or the back, and I wouldn’t be left with something truly disgusting, like boiled ham. Those sandwiches weren’t much bigger than a silver dollar pancake, but again, it was food. Real food.

Those days are gone, and the memory is a nostalgic blur. When I was a kid, flying on an airplane was part of the vacation, not simply a way to get to the vacation. People used to get dressed up to take a flight. Not that the attire was too formal, but there were no passengers wearing the glorified pajamas that are currently adorning my person. No, they’re not really pajamas, but they’re close. My fleece top and velour sweatpants are probably more comfortable than my jammies, anyway. I wear this “uniform” on nearly every flight these days. I’ve eskewed fashion for comfort, and I’m not ashamed.

That’s okay. The attire of the flight crew has changed, too, so I’m in good company. The perfectly coiffed and model thin female flight attendants (read: stewardesses) wearing polished patent pumps and perfect pantyhose have gone the way of the dinosaur, and I say: “Good riddance!” For what reason I can’t seem to understand, I can’t get through a flight of more than 90 minutes without getting off the plane looking like I slept on a park bench and was rolled by a wino for spare change. It makes no sense, but that’s the way it is. I’m an ugly flier. So, why would I want to spend the whole flight looking at the epitome of femaleness? I much prefer the paunchy auto-mechanic/flight attendant, thank you very much.

Second Chances

2012-01-03T21:28:00.000-08:00

My beautiful friend, Colleen, stood at the front of the room, nervously adjusting the hem of her simple, black shift dress, clearly trying to hold back tears of nervousness, excitement, and pride. After an arduous six-month-long interview process, she watched the Douglas County Sheriff speak to the friends and family assembled in the room. He told us how these three inductees into the Sheriff's office were the best of the best, the only three chosen from a large pool of candidates to become members of the department. I watched her husband and children beam with pride, and I was incredibly happy to see her get her second chance.

After a couple of intense and difficult years, she had achieved her goal. She now has an excellent job, the benefits that her family needs right now, and another chance to make a difference in her community. I say, "another" because Colleen is one of those people that makes a difference every day, just by being the loving and wonderful wife, mother, friend and volunteer that she is. She is as devoted a person as I've ever met, and I couldn't be happier for her.

I know a little bit about how she feels, as I'm embarking on another chance myself. Tomorrow I'll pack my bags and get ready to depart to Boston on Thursday morning, for a chance at the life I've dreamed of. While my chance is nowhere near as profound as hers, it's an opportunity to create something magical. The work will be hard, the hours will be long, but it'll be worth every ounce of effort.

So, I say to you, lovely Colleen: Let's hold each other's hands, and jump.

Virgo - Sign of the Neurotic

2012-01-02T10:57:00.000-08:00

Last night, while my husband, kids and I devoured left over Chinese food for dinner, we started talking about the Chinese zodiac and eventually, western astrology. Dave grabbed the computer and he looked up all of our signs, Chinese and otherwise. According to the Chinese zodiac, I'm a goat, and I live with two snakes and a pig. Look at the western charts, and my husband is a Scorpio, Emily is a Libra, Alex is a Cancer, and I'm a Virgo.

I hated growing up a Virgo. While other kids were the sign of the crab, the lion or the fish, I was the sign of the virgin. As a middle- and high-schooler, that was a good enough reason for a proliferation of jokes, with me as the object. Besides, it wasn't like Virgoes had lots of cool attributes like the other signs. If you were born an Aries, you have a brave heart; if you're a Libra, you're harmonious; if you're a Sagittarius, you're adventurous. Virgo attributes? Picky, fussy, perfectionist, and practical. Excellent.

It's hard to argue with fact, and although I don't believe that the attributes of different signs apply to every individual born under them, I see a great deal of myself in the Sign of the Virgin. I am all of those things, and more. I'm a perfectionist to my core, especially when it comes to my expectations of myself. I can't be happy unless I feel like I've given 1000% to every endeavor that I undertake, whether it's school, work, home, volunteering or something else. It's a sickness, really. They say that Virgo women, particularly, are great people to have on your side, because we're so dependable and love to take care of others. That may be true, but I was kind of hoping that someday my loved ones would write words like "vivacious" or "creative" on my headstone. "Here lies Gina - she was practical and dependable" just doesn't have quite the same ring to it.

For now, according to the ultra-reliable Yahoo! Astrology, it looks like it might be a breakthrough year for me, and I'm happy to take that as a good omen:

"This year is all about non-stop action for you, Virgo. With Mars spending the entire first half of 2012 in your sign, you may start to wonder if there will be any break in sight before 2013. The first quarter of the year will be under Mars's retrograde influence, a transit that could push you into a semi-neurotic workaholic mode. Be sure to give yourself plenty of physical outlets in order to channel all that excess Mars energy. When Mars turns direct in Virgo in May, you'll possess tremendous energy to make amazing things happen!

With Neptune moving back into your partnership sector in February, you'll settle for nothing less than your true soul mate; either that or you'll feel blissfully wedded to your spiritual nature ... or perhaps a little of both! In any case, this is the time of your life to realize how important it is to satisfy the longings of your soul. You've compromised, settled and rationalized trying to make the wrong relationship right for long enough. Now you're willing to wait for the real thing.

You'll be thrilled to know that Saturn, after putting the brakes on your spending over the last few years, is finally about to take leave of your financial sector. Any financial challenges you've had to endure since 2009 should come to an end this October. A change of residence or alterations to your current abode are possibilities under the next wave of eclipse patterns. June's full Moon lunar eclipse in your domestic sector is the beginning of many profound changes to affect both home and career prospects between late 2012 and early 2013. And then, the new Moon solar eclipse in November in your communication sector could bring new potential for learning, speaking, writing or travel opportunities."

Here's hoping!

Starting the New Year Off Right

2012-01-01T21:09:00.000-08:00

Did you make a New Year's resolution? I know what you're thinking, because I've thought the same thing many times in the past: New Year's resolutions are stupid. Everyone makes them; nobody keeps them. I think the problem with most resolutions is that we set unattainable goals. I've done that. I'm going to lose 40 pounds (which is never going to happen, because I love food and hate exercise) is a great example. So, this year, I made a new kind of resolution, and I know you can help me keep it.

I'm going to write every day. Every day, my blog of random thoughts will grow - sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. But grow it will, every single day. I'm going to honor those that I've lost by making the most of the life that I've chosen and the dream I've been chasing. I'm a writer, and it's time I started acting like one.

What's your passion? Your dream? Your vision? Whatever it is, do it. Throw yourself into it every day. Make yourself proud. Live your life as fully and joyfully as you can. Give yourself permission to spend at least a few moments each day doing one thing that makes you truly happy. After all, that's all we can really ask for in this life. To live every moment like it's a gift to be cherished. I'll do it if you will. :)

2012 - The Year of Opportunity

2011-12-31T10:18:00.000-08:00

As 2011 draws to a close, I can't help but reflect on all of the events of the past year, and look toward all that 2012 might bring. As always, it's been a year of ups and downs, triumphs and tragedies, loves and losses.

While we've seen our fair share of bad news in the past 12 months, as I look around at those I love and those I admire, I realize that we are luckier than most. We have a beautiful home, my husband has a great job, our children are healthy and happy, and I'm about to embark on the adventure of graduate school. Our burdens, by comparison of so many others, are few. This year, I resolve to be thankful. Every single day. Thankful for the blessings of my life, for the love of family and friends whether or not they are still with us, and for the opportunity to do what I love.

The last few weeks have been difficult by most any standard, as we said a premature goodbye to a beautiful friend. The wound is still raw, and our hearts are heavy as we watch her family go through the struggle of figuring out how to live without her. What we must remember, though, is that although her absence will always be a source of pain for us, to have had her in our lives to begin with illustrates how truly blessed we were. Every now and again, if we're very, very lucky, we have the chance to know the beauty and grace of God through His placing someone in our path that will forever change us. To have known a person like Dianne, to have been touched by her goodness, her generosity, her laughter and her friendship, is an unmeasurable gift. I will never forget her, and the things that she taught me will remain with me all the days of my life. As I move forward into the next year, it will be ever-present in my mind that I, as always, hope to be the kind of woman that she was.

Albert Einstein said, "Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow." That's a lesson that I will take with me into the New Year. Whatever the difficulties that you've faced during the last 12 months, let's all resolve to learn from the past, cherish every moment that we have been given, and hope for the best for not only ourselves, but for each other, in the days to come.

Love and blessings to all of you for the New Year and beyond!

Gina

We will open the book,

It's pages are blank.

We are going to put words on them ourselves.

The book is called Opportunity,

and its first chapter is New Years Day.

-Edith Lovejoy Pierce

Channeling Sally Field

2011-12-28T12:19:00.000-08:00

On my bedroom nightstand, there's a list. A long list. Separated by the days of the week, it includes tops, scarves, pants, shoes, even the right bras to go with each outfit. It's my packing list. In 8 days, I leave for my first MFA residency at Lesley University, and the packing list is keeping me from losing my mind.

I can control the list. I can plan for what goes into my suitcase, what outfits I might want to wear when I'm in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and what kind of an impression I might want to make, but the variables are endless. Since this is my first residency, I'm scouring pictures of previous residencies on the web. What do people wear? Do I need a "writer's scarf" with every outfit? Dress up or dress down? Jeans or dress pants? Skirts or sweats? All black or all color? How many boots can I fit into my suitcase? Will it rain? Snow? Will it be cold? Windy? Sunny? Icy? So many questions...

I remember planning an outfit for the first day of school in Brandon, Florida. We'd moved there when I was 13 from a small town in western Massachusetts, and I wanted to make a good impression. It was seventh grade, after all, and the pressure was on. I knew nothing about the kids, the school, or the fashions that I might encounter on my first day, and I was nervous. It was mid-April, and I'd be starting school nearly at the end of the year. Relationships between kids were more firm than concrete, and I knew I'd be the outsider. I'd met no one. I was the new girl, and I was terrified.

I finally settled on a dress that my sister had bought for me. It was tan and had flowers embroidered on the top, and it felt grown up. In my bedroom, standing in front of the dresser mirror, it made me feel confident, like I could fit in anywhere. In that first classroom on a hot and humid day in April, it just made me feel like I stood out like a sore thumb. Virtually every kid in the room was wearing jeans and concert t-shirts. Most of them proudly wore their white Nike's with the red swoosh on the side. They looked at me and snickered. Who did I think I was? What had I been thinking? It was my first lesson in the importance of flying under the radar, and I've not forgotten it.

I'm the new kid again. My audience, this time, will be more mature - mainly 30-, 40-, and 50- something writers uniquely focused on craft, rather than sweaty teenagers in a junior high classroom. But the old feelings emerge: I want to fit in. I want to be a seamless part of my new community. I want to build relationships and gain respect. Like Sally Field, I want them to like me - to really, really like me.

Teenage Wisdom and The Garbage Bag Christmas

2011-12-24T09:42:00.000-08:00

It took me a total of about 8 hours to wrap all of the presents for my children this year. If I were reading this and not writing it, I would think that would indicate that there had been a huge pile of presents in my basement, but if I thought that, I would be wrong. The truth is, there are two small piles for each child. Very small. We're talking really, really small. So, why on earth did it take so long to wrap them?

I guess I was hoping that my basement had some sort of magical powers, that I would come upstairs and busy myself with some task or other, and in the meantime a Christmas miracle would occur and turn those paltry piles into staggering stacks of Christmas joy. I spent a crazy amount of time down in that basement, staring at those presents and trying to figure out how to make "less" seem like "more". Could I wrap DVD's in shirt boxes? How many times could the box in a box in a box trick be pulled off in a single session of Christmas morning mayhem? I walked through the basement looking for things that I could wrap and give to the kids. Surely there must be things in that cluttered cavern that they'd never seen before? I searched for stocking stuffers. Maybe Alex would like a...few cans of ravioli? Would Emily believe that Santa had brought her...ramen noodles? At some point, out of money, time and options, I gave up. I realized that what there was, there was. I was dejected, depressed, disappointed.

After three Christmases as a full-time college student, we'd had some somewhat slim Christmases in the present department, but this year, just one week after graduation, although we'd finally made it happen, Dave and I had limped over the finish line, dragging one leg behind us. Getting through college as an adult and a parent required many sacrifices, financial and otherwise, from both us and our children. We'd forgone fancy dinners out, vacations, and other luxuries. We'd scraped and struggled and pinched pennies until they cried for mercy. We'd gotten there, but it was a long, hard road.

I pulled my son, 16 years old, aside. I told him that there were three really cool presents down in the basement for him, but little else. I apologized with tears in my eyes, told him that I was sorry that we couldn't do more this year, and hoped that he would understand. He just smiled and said, "Really? THREE really cool presents? Mom! That's awesome! Now I can't wait to see what they are!" At first I thought he was confused, and I felt compelled to restate my point. I explained, again, that yes, there were a few things down there that I knew he would love, but that they were nothing "big". No video game systems, no keys to a car, no plane tickets to exotic locales. And then he proved to me, not that I should have been surprised, that he is one of the most beautiful gifts that I've ever received. He said, "Mom, it's okay. Really. You know what? It's okay for us [he and his little sister] to not get everything we want for Christmas. You guys try to spoil us all the time, but sometimes we have to learn that we can't have it all. I'm excited about the cool presents that you picked out for me. It doesn't matter if there aren't a lot of presents. Sometimes we need a little perspective, and that's okay." God, I love that kid. That's my Christmas present. For all of the rotten things that people have to say about how self-centered and entitled today's teenagers are, one would have to assume that those people have never met Alex. I wanted to give him everything, and the reality was that he required very little. What I wanted, what I've always dreamed of giving them, was a Garbage Bag Christmas.

I was eleven years old, and no longer believed in Santa, but I loved Christmas all the same. My father might tell a different story, but as far as I was concerned, we lived a great life, not a wealthy one, but we had everything that we needed, and most of what we wanted. Like most parents, I suspect that mine kept us insulated from the financial struggles that they endured during our childhood, but I never knew it. There were always more than enough gifts under the tree, and Christmas was a time of family, food and tradition. The year that I was eleven, however, was the most extravagant Christmas of my life. The Garbage Bag Christmas.

My mother had just closed her first sale as a real estate broker, having purchased a Century 21 franchise and opened her own office in Lenox, Massachusetts. The check was a big one, and a major windfall right before the Christmas holiday. What we didn't know was that Mom had a big plan in mind. When we stumbled down the bedroom stairs, just past dawn on Christmas morning, we couldn't believe what we saw. My sister and I stood there, dumbfounded, staring at giant black Hefty bags, filled to the brim with brightly colored packages. There were boxes in every shape and size, ribbons, bows, and all the trimmings. I don't know how many gifts were in there, but there were more than my eleven-year-old eyes had ever seen. Mom had gone crazy buying presents, and it was a unwrapping frenzy like no other. Mom and Dad sat in their chairs with their coffee while the four of us tore into package after package, squealing and giggling with delight as tissue paper ghosts flew through the air and discarded bits of wrapping paper littered the floor. But the biggest smiles were on the faces of my parents that day. They were overjoyed. The Garbage Bag Christmas would go down in the family history books.

What I realized last night, was that although I remember the seemingly never-ending pile of presents, I don't remember a single thing that I got that year, or really any other. I remember all of those Christmases; I remember being excited and opening my presents and loving them. However, not a single memory exists of a Christmas when there were not a lot of gifts to be opened, although I've no doubt that there were some of those. Perhaps I noticed at the time, but as the years have gone by, those memories, if they existed at all, have faded into the rest of my life's tapestry. The memories have become interwoven with all the others, but only the most important ones still live in the forefront of my mind. I remember being happy, and seeing the smiles that lit up my parents faces. I remember opening the living room door to see what had been left by the fireplace. I remember being allowed to have a small glass of wine with Christmas dinner, in the Italian tradition. I remember lasagne and garlic bread and a prayer around the dinner table. I remember Christmases spent with my huge Italian family, and barely understanding the myriad of conversations happening all around me at one time.

Maybe someday, The Garbage Bag Christmas will happen in my living room, too. But until then, I will revel in those little moments of being a parent that mean so much. Watching the faces of my children light up as they unwrap one of those truly special gifts that came from my heart, and knowing that they will remember the smile on my face all the days of their life.

Have a wonderful, joyful and blessed Christmas.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Guilt-Mas

2011-12-23T11:09:00.000-08:00

Almost every day now I open the mailbox, and find Christmas cards inside. I know, it's the season, isn't it? December 23, and I'm reading cards and Christmas letters from far-flung friends and family. They've taken the time to send something out to me; sometimes just a card with a signature, and other times a personal note - some long, some short. It's about this time each year that I realize that it's too late. I've missed my chance for holiday greetings.

This year I have plenty of excuses, to be sure. Final papers, graduation, guests in town, getting ready for Christmas at my house, running the Holiday Shop at my daughter's elementary school, and grieving the loss of a friend all count as good ones, I suppose. But I have a great excuse every year. I didn't get a chance to buy the cards; the stamps to mail them weren't in the budget; I ran out of time; etc, etc, etc. I'm a Christmas card failure and I know it.

My father, 79 years old and living in Florida, sent me a Christmas card that arrived yesterday. He's on a tight budget, living on social security and little else, but he takes the time and makes the investment each year to send a Hallmark card that he's picked out just for me. No generic boxed cards for Dad. Oh, no. He's nothing if not meticulous when it comes to choosing just the right card, a new skill he acquired after my mother became ill and was no longer able to do it. He'll spend an hour or more at the Hallmark store, picking out cards for each of us children and making sure that they contain just the right message. I admire that about him; in fact, I used to do that myself. The truth is, I haven't seen the inside of a Hallmark store in about 7 years. I'm not sure there are even any of them in my area. Life has been a blur, and the leisurely meanderings through the thousands of cards in the card store have become a thing of the past.

I'll talk to him on Christmas Eve by Skype, while he's at my sister's house having dinner. There will be love and blown kisses, Merry Christmas wishes abounding...and then...the inevitable. From somewhere in the background, while someone else is talking, he'll say it. "I didn't know about _______(fill in the blank with any miscellaneous missing piece of information). Gina must have written that in the Christmas card I never got." It's his pet peeve. I get it. Really. He has every right to be a little miffed at me. It's just one card, after all. One of these years I'll be prepared. One of these years I'll remember, in time for it to arrive before Christmas Eve. One of these years, I'll hear the excitement in his voice when he tells me that he got the card that I sent. One of these years, things will go as planned, the tree will be ready early, the gifts will be wrapped before Christmas Eve, the boxes of gifts will be shipped on a day that doesn't require "air delivery", and I'll resume all the Christmas baking that I miss. One of these years.

Filling Up the Days

2011-12-21T21:32:00.000-08:00

For weeks I'd looked forward to these lazy days, filled with nothing but precious time with my children and catching up on the dozens of hours of neglected TV sitting idle for months on my DVR. My life during the last few years had been so busy that for some reason I believed that once graduation came and went, I'd have no idea how to fill the countless hours previously occupied by classes and homework. It was a great plan. I couldn't wait to enjoy these few leisurely weeks before my first graduate school residency.

Except that I'd forgotten a few things. Like Christmas, and laundry, and cooking, and errands, and cleaning, and organizing my life in preparation for residency. When Dave turned up sick on Tuesday, barely breathing through the congestion that had suddenly filled his head and chest, and Emily developed a fever of 102 degrees by 2:00 p.m. on the same day, my visions of curling up by the fire with a mug of steaming coffee and a great book began to fade. I suddenly remembered all of the hard work that had filled up the days of the last two and a half years: Dave's days. While working full-time and becoming my biggest cheerleader, he'd also taken on the role of chief cook and bottle washer (among many other things) here at home. Although I did what I could, he made it easy. He cooked, he cleaned, he did the laundry and ran kids from one practice or meeting to another. He took care of paying bills and washing dishes. Taking out the trash and shoveling the driveway. In short, he did it all, even dog tired after long days at work. He is my hero.

As I sit here, the snow is falling outside at such a rate that I wonder if we might be waist deep in the white stuff by morning, and I'm glad. There's laundry to do, freelance jobs to apply for, sick loved ones to take care of, presents to be wrapped. My days will be full, and I will be grateful, because for these last couple of years I've lived in a beautiful bubble created by a man that is everything to me. A man that has always been, and will always be in my corner - the loudest of my cheering section, the most devoted to my dreams, the most loving of them all. My days will be full, but I hope that at last Dave will get at least a little bit of the break that he deserves. He's earned it.

Welcome to my blog!

2011-12-20T12:48:00.000-08:00

Here I sit at my desk, looking out over a snowy cul-de-sac, and wondering where this year has gone! On Sunday, 19 years after planning to take a "short break" from college, I walked across the stage to shake hands with the President of Metropolitan State College of Denver, and receive my Bachelor's degree in English and Creative Writing with highest honors! In just a few days, it will be Christmas, then New Years, then I'm off to Cambridge, Massachusetts for my first graduate school residency at Lesley University. So much is going on, and there are many things about which to write. Thanks for reading, be sure to subscribe to my blog, and I promise to keep you entertained into 2012 and beyond!

Gina