Talk to me about how you free up time and emotional space for your work, how you say no to distractions, requests, and so on when you really need to focus.

I was going to show a little snapshot of my work-in-progress—my pinboard full of drawings and sticky notes, the stacks and stacks of research books, the 150 single-spaced pages that make up the book so far—but as many of you tease me about all the time, I’m just not one who likes to talk about my work until it’s done. So rather than sharing a photo of my work, I’ve shared some of Joseph Campbell‘s (notes we came across as we were cleaning out his Greenwich apartment). I’m fascinated by works-in-progress and seeing a person’s thought process. I like how organized and balanced Joe’s ideas are, and I like the little arrows on this next one…

My New Year’s resolution was to have a first draft of my book by the time my boys were out of school for the summer. I suppose that’s still possible, but I’m not going to rush it. I want to get this right. I want to get it as close as possible to how the story looks in my imagination. (Do you know what I mean? You know how our ideas seem amazing and bigger than life until we start to scribble them down?) So I was well on my way to meeting my deadline when a fabulous new idea gripped me, and it’s taking some effort to really explore it and rework the shape of the book to include it. I need all the time and focus I can get that doesn’t belong to my family, and this means I have to be disciplined about not adding any more to my plate.

I suspect many of you struggle with this same problem. Each month I get hundreds of requests to read new books, provide blurbs, submit essays to anthologies, edit this, promote that, speak here, introduce this person to that person, write a letter of recommendation or a proposal, and so on.  There are only so many hours in any given week, and it’s easy to carve it up and give it away thirty minutes at a time. Pretty soon, you’ve given away any time you meant to devote to writing your book, and if you’re not careful, any more favors you say yes to will have to cut into your family time.

I’d love to hear what works for you. How do you keep out the distractions when you need to focus? And how are you doing on those goals you set back in January?

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I hope to see many of you this month at the Backspace Writers Conference (I said yes to this commitment many months ago). I’ll be on two panels (one literary fiction panel and one mystery panel) and then I’m staying through cocktail hour. The Backspace Conference is a great meeting of writers, agents and editors with all kinds of practical advice. If you’ve never been before, I hope you’ll consider attending. Friday, May 25th at theRadisson Martinique (32nd and Broadway) in New York City.

A few thank you’s… Thanks, as always, to those who’ve reviewed UP FROM THE BLUE at Amazon and GoodReads, and to those who ordered the new audiobook. Thanks as well to these bloggers for reviewing the Norwegian and Dutch editions of the book: Les Mye (Read Much), Bokanmeldelser, Bieb Blog Vlissingen (Flushing Library Blog), and Ly Books (Read a Book). Your words mean so much to me (and I get such a kick out of how Google translates them)!

One last note… On Wednesday, Mr. H and I will have been married for 20 years, and for 25 years he’s been my best friend. We’re not big on celebrations in our family, so the most we’ll do to celebrate is go out for dinner. But what I really like are the ordinary days—hearing about his day, going for walks, sharing a cup of coffee, working in the yard together, laughing, calling the dogs up on the bed, and just enjoying the company.

UP FROM THE BLUE is available as an audio book today!

You can get it on iTunes and Audible.com.

It’s also available at these bookstores, though all the links seem to be broken:http://www.harpercollins.com/book/buy.aspx?isbn13=9780062208675

Do you listen to audio books? I’d love to hear why or why not.

My kids were into audio books when they were young. We’d listen to them on long car rides, and my youngest liked to fall asleep to the Harry Potter CDs. In fact, he listened to that series so many times, he developed a British accent!

I’m a visual person, for the most part. I like to see the words, re-read my favorite lines, dog-ear pages, scribble in the margins. But it’s tricky when your work day is reading, writing, editing, and then the thing you like to do to relax is reading, writing, editing. That’s a lot of eye strain. Sometimes, at the end of a long work day, I wanted so badly to read for pleasure but it gave me a headache and my eyes couldn’t focus. That’s when I first started dabbling in audio books, mostly the classics I could get for free.

Later, I found another reason to choose audio books over paper books: sometimes other people simply read a book better than I do. Seamus Heaney reading BEOWULF with his driving pace (verses my stumbling over the Old English) shows off the genius of the poem’s rhythm; if read right, you can actually hear the rage, the marching, the testosterone. Leo Tolstoy’s ANNA KARENINA is also much better as an audio book because, unlike me, the paid reader knows how to pronounce those Russian names. And think of all you can do while you listen to a book: laundry, dishes, a long drive, a hike in the woods.

UP FROM THE BLUE is coming out as an audio book this month. (April 10th!) I’m  looking forward to getting a copy of it because I haven’t actually read it yet. Over the six years it took me to write and edit it, I tended to break it up into problem-sections and couldn’t read without a red pen in hand, ready to tweak a sentence. When it was published, I held and admired it, but that was all. I think, though, that it would be nice to hear it as someone else might read it, without the pauses for self-criticism and the instinct to stop and correct it some more.

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I went on two business trips last month and they were both fabulous in very different ways.

The first was to the University of Central Florida in Orlando. I was so excited about this one because my good friend, Darlin’ Neal, is a professor there (and author of this gorgeous book), and I couldn’t wait to spend time with her. I was told my itinerary would include a luncheon with students, a reading in a large lecture hall, and then dinner with the staff of the school’s literary magazine. The day before I left for my trip, I was packing and emailing Darlin’ about details when she forwarded me some specifics about the luncheon. In the note was a suggestion to keep my speech under 30 minutes. My what??! To me, luncheon has always meant eating, but in this forwarded note I saw that I was a part of something called “the distinguished speakers” series, the previous speakers including astronauts, film directors, CEOs, and the president of Poland. I quickly threw whatever into the suitcase (i.e., no pajamas or walking shoes) and got to work on that speech, which I think went okay. The students at UCF were smart, vibrant, focused, funny, and asked the best questions.

Later, a group of us went out for Vietnamese food, which was all kinds of fun because the formal stuff was over by then and I could just relax and play. The next day, we took Darlin’s dog on a four-mile walk, a really great time before I was due back at the airport. A little rushed, but that is my life lately. And now I’ve got a plaque saying “distinguished speaker” that Mr. H finds as funny as the plaque I got at a former job calling me “patient” and a “good listener.”

My second trip was to Portland, Maine, where I was on a panel with Jessica Keener and Leora Skolkin-Smith for a book festival sponsored by Maine Reads. A weekend of amazing talks and revelations! Many thanks to Sarah Cecil, Karen Baldacci, Judy Gelman, Vicki Levy Krupp, Alma Katsu, my kick-ass panel mates, and so many fine and fascinating book lovers who made it a great experience! I stayed an extra night to finish judging a contest at Fictionaut and then drove home with a broken GPS system, which required me to do some old fashioned navigating (with frequent calls home to troubleshoot when I veered off course). Great time but good to be home with my family and pets and writing again.

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Let me close with some thank you’s to LaLaLovely, the Good Book Fairy, WLBZ, Bethany Duvall, Caffeinated College Kid, Shannon’s Book Bag, Central Kentucky News, Bookseller Recommends, Peace Love Lungs, Talking with Tim, Bieb Blog Vlissingen, and Camille Kimball.

In 2006, when I still ran my blog off of the Publisher’s Marketplace site, I posted some thoughts about the James Frey/Oprah Winfrey fallout. I used to have to erase that blog every three posts to clear space for new ones, so I had no permanent record of the things I talked about then. But recently, my blog was re-posted, in light of the Mike Daisey/This American Life fallout, along with a fascinating debate about truth and memoir. Here is my original post, which Camille had saved from my blog for the past six years. And here is her response. I think it’s a fascinating discussion and I’m not entirely sure where I stand on it all. If you have thoughts about the debate, one way or the other, I’m sure Camille would appreciate you posting comments on her site.

And that’s it. Have a great April, everyone!

We all have horror stories in this business, but today I want to hear stories about the good moments that keep you going, that make you feel like your writing matters and that it was worth it to work so long and hard on that story.

Recently I got the nicest surprise—a charm bracelet from someone who was moved by my book. The charms include a bear, an apple, a ruby, a cup, a newborn, and all kinds of other surprises drawn from Up from the Blue. It’s one of the nicest presents I’ve ever received, and I’m going to link Nancy’s website, NMC Originals, in hopes that some of the goodness flows back to her.

Our business requires much of us with no guarantees of success. We dig deep into often painful territory, rewrite and often throw out what we’ve worked on for hours, take tough feedback and the inevitable rejections. Often, what keeps us from giving up are those who make this road a little easier—responding to our writing, sharing tips and encouragement, opening doors.

Recently, the esteemed Robert Gray wrote an article for Shelf Awareness about literary friendship, and I’m very grateful to be included in that essay, along with some people I adore: Jessica Keener, Patry Francis, and Leora Skolkin-Smith.

Strangers matter, too. Thank you to The Foreign Circus Library, The Florida Review, The Year of Writing Dangerously, and to Norway’s KK magazine for the nice words!

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Haven’t talked about my kids here in a while. Last week, they played a song on the radio with their School of Rock house band. The audio is here, along with some great photos taken by Tracie Smith. The radio station is WRCN 103.9, and the deejays you see in the photos are Frankie Dee, Henry K, and AJ Pero (drummer for Twisted Sister). It was a great opportunity for the kids, and they had such fun!

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Let me end with an announcement of a book I was honored to blurb. Deborah Henry’s startling debut, THE WHIPPING CLUB, brings us inside a hidden page in Ireland’s history. When Ben Ellis, a Jewish journalist, becomes engaged to Irish schoolteacher Marian McKeever against their families’ wishes, Marian’s discovery that she is pregnant fuels fears that this may be one too many stresses on their upcoming marriage. Her uncle, a Catholic priest, convinces her to disappear into the Mother Baby Home where she can deliver her child in secrecy and give him up for adoption.

A decade later, haunted by her guilt and a sense that she and her husband are growing apart, Marian searches for what has become of their son. The search leads to a corrupt system of orphanages and industrial schools for boys, where fear and humiliation are used to force the children into submission.

Gripping, cinematic, and told with a poet’s touch, THE WHIPPING CLUB shows us the consequences of silence, of good people standing by, and of unchecked power. Ultimately, however, this is a story of survival, redemption, and the courage that is born of love. One of my favorite reads of the decade! Seriously.

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Hope to see some of you this month in Orlando, Florida and Portland, Maine!

Remember how we talked about our writing goals? How are you doing? Want to report any progress or any trouble you’re having with reaching them?

My writing goal is to have a first draft of my book before my kids are out of school for the summer, and my non-writing goal is to get back to my fighting weight ASAP. My progress so far in 2012: +6 chapters, -5 pounds.

Note when I say I’ve “written” 6 chapters, I’m talking about the kind of writing I wouldn’t dare show a soul. I tend to write in layers of themes and story arcs, combing through the manuscript again and again as I have new insights or better understand the relationships between the characters. This first go-through is without many of those layers and without the poetry, rhythm and emotion I demand in my final drafts.

Still, I’m happy with my progress and think it’s mostly due to my checkmark system. I have a chart that consists of this: My morning weight and daily checkmarks for not eating between meals, for 5 exercise breaks, and for hitting my writing goal. For someone who would do anything for a gold star in kindergarten, this is the right system for me.

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In other news, I’m happy (okay, ecstatic!) to announce that UP FROM THE BLUE will be produced as an audiobook by HarperAudio! The narrator will be Emily Durante, who’s narrated almost 100 books by authors such as Nora Roberts and Jacquelyn Mitchard. I’ve become so accustomed to the slooooooow pace of the publishing world that I was shocked to discover the audio business works at lightning speed. Four hours after I was told HarperAudio was interested, I heard from the producer, had a narrator, and a release date of April 10th (of THIS year)!

Some really lovely mentions of my book at The Entertaining Writer, Shannon’s Book Bag, and La La Lovely. Thank you! And I have some upcoming events in Florida, Maine, New York, and California. Details are over here in case you’d like to join me.

I’m going to end with news about someone LitPark regulars know well—Jessica Keener—whose book, NIGHT SWIM, is now (finally!) out in the world.  Reading this book was pure pleasure. It’s a poignant and sensual examination of a life and a nation on the cusp of change. Sixteen-year-old Sarah brings us a moody and burgeoning wisdom as she pulls us toward secrets we recognize—the desire to hurry past pain and loss toward adulthood, the pull to belong and yet not be absorbed completely into the will of others. In a delicate balance of rebellion and compassion, Sarah teaches us to listen and hold tight to our dreams. Please click here and check it out! It’s gorgeous!

What are your writing goals for the new year? They say the more specific you are, the more likely you are to reach them.

I’ve learned again and again that time doesn’t just materialize, that wanting something doesn’t make it happen. You have to create time for the things that are your priorities and commit to seeing them through. Other things will always try to grab your attention and if you don’t stay focused, weeks or months can go by and you’ve hardly moved forward. You are left wanting.

This fall I was making good progress on the book, and then I was asked to do an interview and then I was asked to write an essay and then I was asked to write another essay and then I was asked to blurb a book and then I was asked to blurb another book and then Christmas was here. I don’t regret any of these things, but I can tell you that I did zero work on my book during the month of December.

This same thing can happen every month if I let it, but I’m determined to get disciplined. My goal for 2012 is to have a solid first draft of my new book before my kids are out of school for summer vacation. I have mini-steps too, but I’ll keep those private.

So tell me about your goals. And then let’s help each other stick to them despite all that will surely try to steal our focus.

In other news, the Norwegian version of UP FROM THE BLUE is out this month. Like the Dutch edition, this title also translates to “the blue room”.  Fun to see such a different cover for the book, don’t you think?

There was a lovely review of my book here at Fiction Writers Review. I like the writing of it. Makes me think the reviewer will one day write a book of her own. I also talk about the difference between publishing and printing at BookMarket.com. Over on the Psychology Today blog, writers (including Alice Hoffman, Sue Miller, Pam Houston, Diana Abu-Jaber… and me) share some tips. And I was honored to see my book on this Best Of list by WHJJ radio host, Robin Kall.

I’ll end with a photo from last month’s reading with Alix Strauss at Huntington Book Revue.

The weather couldn’t have been worse, but it was the loveliest evening and great to spend time with everyone who came out. Oh, for those of you who missed this post on Dani Shapiro’s blog, a little gift for you.

What’s on your holiday wish list?

You might accuse me of being a scrooge for saying this, but I’m not nuts about presents. Or holidays.

Everyone in my family works hard. The last thing I want to do is make holiday time feel like more work instead of vacation. I like our house without the clutter of decorations. And as for gifts, we already have everything we need.

I’ve always preferred the joy of the ordinary and the unplanned. Mr. H and I go on a date once a week while the boys are in music rehearsal, but these dates never involve flowers or expensive dinners or dressing up. We often go for a walk or a drive or find a little cafe that serves good soup. Sometimes we’ll wander up and down the aisles of Home Depot or hold ferrets at a pet store. But mostly, we’re just hanging out. Make it fancy or expensive or formal in any way, and it’s no longer fun.

So what’s on my wish list? Just time. Time to sit with my family in front of the fire, time for walks, time to read, time to bake something when we have a craving for it.

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In other news, I was interviewed recently by PubSlush. Interesting guy and interesting questions. And UP FROM THE BLUE was featured in both The Dallas Morning News and the UK’s Book Hugger this week (they gave it an awesome review)! And New Books Magazine in the UK said this: “Thoughtfully written…beautiful and utterly convincing – 5 stars.” Cool to get some coverage more than a year from its publication! Also, grateful to the Clattering Keys blog for recommending my book as a holiday gift. Check out the full list; I’m in very fine company.

And speaking of fine company, I was invited to contribute an essay to a pretty cool anthology I’ll say more about soon. Other authors who are in on this project include Joyce Maynard, Jackie Mitchard, Ann Hood, Pam Houston, and Elissa Schappell. Last thing… thanks to the marvelous Jessica Keener, my book is at The Authors Bookstore at Red Room. They have a very interesting sales policy that benefits the writer so please consider doing your holiday shopping with them!

If you’re free on Wednesday, December 7th, I’d love to see you at the Huntington Book Revue. I’ll be reading and signing books with the incredibly talented (and funny!) Alix Strauss. Should be a good time!

Tell me 5 things you can see or touch at this very moment that make you happy.

I was having lunch at Panera the other day and found myself seated next to a whole table full of cancer survivors. They were clearly rallying around a woman who was just at the start of her treatment, sharing tears, laughter, practical tips, and a meal. It was an incredibly moving experience—a reminder of what we can and can’t control, a reminder of the role of friends and balance in our lives, a reminder to regard the moment we’re in rather than looking too far beyond it.

It’s a lesson that applies to our writing, as well—staying in the moment and keeping the support system close by—because it’s overwhelming to look too far ahead. There are so many chapters to write, so many hoops to jump through, so many people to please, so many opportunities for failure or disappointment. I recently got caught up in this mindset and all it created was a sense that I needed to hurry my writing and seek too-early feedback. A number of things brought me back to my senses, including the women in Panera.

When I forget all that’s down the road and remember where I am and what’s right in front of me, the joy is there. I am at a stage of writing that I love—time alone in my office with my grandmother’s typewriter, scented candles, heart-shaped rocks, rattlesnake tails, creepy research books, and a cat in my lap. I love the privacy of the first draft, the discovery of a new set of characters, the dance of figuring out where I want to take them and where they want to take me. I won’t rush this process.

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So, back to our 5 things. Why not bring them into our writing spaces, or if they’re already there, display them more prominently? And maybe it’s time to upgrade our 5 things—buy  ourselves flowers, bring the Halloween pumpkins inside, replace the lights with colored bulbs. Who knows? But let’s do something that reminds us to honor and find joy in whatever phase of our writing we’re in right now.

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Before I go, I’d like to say thank you to Graeme Daniels and Wayetu Moore for the thoughtful discussions of my book. I hope folks here take some time to check out these fascinating blogs.

One last thing: I’m doing a reading at The Huntington Book Revue, my favorite indie bookstore on Long Island. Wednesday, Dec. 7th, 7pm. Would love to see you there!

Does it help you to know the behind-the-scenes nuts and bolts of the book business, or does that make it all seem more depressing?

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I debated whether to bring the nuts and bolts of royalty statements here because so many people are protective of their sales numbers. But I’ve been pretty transparent throughout the process of trying to write and sell my book, thinking that knowledge of this business empowers writers, or at least makes us not feel so alone. So here goes… nuts, bolts, and numbers.

My debut novel came out the last week of September, 2010.

In April of 2011, I got my first royalty statement. (In the literary world, these statements come every April and October, hopefully accompanied by a check.) The April statement only showed sales from the book’s release through the end of December 2010.

The sales page was filled with confusing headings (royalty rate, gross units, reserves, and so on) as well as loads of numbers and percentages. I had to call my agent to decode the thing, but the short of it is this:

From the end of September 2010 to the end of December 2010, my book sold 31,000 copies. Most of those sales were paperback; fewer than 2,000 were for the e-version of the book (Kindle and Nook).

Now for the financial figures, the great humbling for writers…

Here’s a sample of a royalty statement (not mine and not my publisher) that I think has some really helpful highlights on it.

Okay, so your book is sold to readers for one price but that’s not the amount the author gets per book. You (the author) really get pennies per book. After the pennies are added up, you start subtracting for your advance (the original sale of the book), your agent’s fee (15%), returns (there were 157 returns of my book), and something called reserves (which I still don’t understand but it’s something like a holding fee).

The first statement also didn’t include foreign rights sales because those contracts came in late. But, hoorah, there was a check, only much smaller than the already cynical math I’d run in my head. In other words, no one’s going shopping; that money goes into the family checking account to pay for such glamorous things as electricity, groceries, and debt.

So now it’s October, and while I await another royalty statement and hopefully another check (please oh please I hope the Rosie O’Donnell show in March gave a bump in sales), I know where the real payoff comes from—it comes from you guys. The richest asset for any author is a community of other readers and writers, loving books and valuing the creative process.

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Some thank yous to people who posted about my book: Dear Reader, Beautiful World, Fayetteville Free Library, Girlfriends Book Club, Heidi’s Books, Pregnancy Books Review, ALTAFF, Letters for Lucas, and Michelle Wegner (What an honor to be in a stack with Heart of Darkness and The Velveteen Rabbit!). So appreciative of all of you. Word of mouth means everything to the life of a book!

And speaking of word-of-mouth for books, a few regulars here have some exciting new books to share: Nathalie Boisard-Beudin’s ON CLOUD 285, Greg Olear’s FATHERMUCKER, and Jessica Keener’s NIGHT SWIM. Adrienne Crezo has launched LitStack, an online hangout that somehow has the feel of being in an indie bookstore. And the incomparable Brad Listi has a brand new, hour-long author podcast (which is fantastic), called Other People. Please check out all the talented work!

Later this month, I’m going back to my home state of Virginia for an exciting inauguration of Club Read. Hope to see lots of you there!

What have you learned from life’s biggest trials?

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Notice the spurs on the rubber boots?

In 2001, we’d only been living in New York for a year. Our boys started pre-K and Kindergarten that fall. Our youngest (I’ll call him Small) was into costumes and our oldest (T) had started a collection of cicada shells. My husband had just built a clubhouse in our backyard, and I was beginning to find time to write again.

Each year when the 9-11 anniversary hits, I try to avoid the news and the reminiscing. But this year it seemed enough time had gone by that I might go back and see what I wrote when it was still fresh. You’re welcome to read it.

September 11, 2001

When the woman who runs the gym tells us a plane has hit one of the twin towers, I’m thinking a cessna. We all are. Something small. And a sense of queasiness about what the falling debris from the plane might do to a person walking along the sidewalk below.

We’re all on the treadmill in a women’s gym, warming up until our aerobics instructor turns up.

“Strange about the plane,” I say to the woman next to me.

I find out she works at the airport. “Especially on a day as clear as this,” she says.

We’re trying to listen to the radio but it’s hard to hear over the machines. My mind is already on to other things—what to do about the little one’s bedwetting, to step up the night-training or just invest in a rubber sheet—when I think I hear something peculiar. “Did they just say a second plane hit?”

The woman who works at the airport looks ill and gets off the treadmill. We all turn our machines off. No one says a word, we all just pack up and leave.

On the way home, I’m nearly hit by an ambulance going way faster than I’ve ever seen an ambulance go. I turn on the radio and there are call-ins—people saying where they are in the tower and asking the deejay to tell the rescue workers where they’re trapped.

Before long I’m glued in front of the TV. I see what’s happening now, though it’s not registering. I feel far away like I’m under water, like I’m half-asleep or watching from the inside of a balloon. I see the attack on the Pentagon, where my dad regularly visits, and then the TV goes out. We get our signal from the twin towers.

Back to School

I head to my kids’ school. I need to do something. The sky is absolutely clear and bright blue. Why do I keep thinking this?

At the school, I let the administration know I can help look after any kids whose parents don’t show for pick-up time. The parents are beginning to gather in the parking lot. Normally, this is where we all share stories, a common complaint is how we never get a moment’s peace with our spouses because the kids interrupt any grown-up talk with their constant chatter. Today, we’re looking around, doing a mental head-count. Who’s missing?

We try to look cheery for the kids and encourage them to just play with each other as we wait to see if everyone is picked up. Several times I surprise myself by having the peculiar thought of what a beautiful day it is.

It’s hours of waiting, but slowly they come—many covered in white soot who walked all the way here from the Financial District. One of the moms was on the 60th floor when the first plane hit, and had made it to the 30th floor when the second plane hit; another was next door when it collapsed; another took a cab all the way home, though she had no money, having lost her purse in the mad rush. We hear from Alex’s parents who are in Italy celebraing their 10^th anniversary that they’re stranded because there’s a stop on incoming flights. And Cammie’s mom (a cop) calls to say she’ll be working overtime; she’s staying to set up a makeshift morgue in Brooke’s Brothers.

When D–’s mom shows up, we ask, “Have you heard from Wade?” Not yet. He was scheduled to give a computer presentation that morning at Windows on the World. “Just let us know if you’d like us to watch D–,” I offer.

I go home with just my two. Driving home, I realize why the sky seems so perfectly blue. We live near two of the busiest airports in the world but there are no planes flying.

That Night

I try desperately to make things normal for the boys and not let them hear  the news on the radio. I’m restless until David walks through the door. It seems to take forever.

After dinner, we sit on the front porch, watching to see who comes home. Our neighbor, Da-woo, made it out of the towers but doesn’t have his sight back completely. We hear that someone who’d just come to Special Friends day at the school didn’t make it. Over and over, we all ask, Any word from Wade? Is he home yet?

Small brings out a shoe box filled with a rubber band ball, army soldiers, wine corks, a dried gecko, and the plastic chess rook he found today. His hair smells like his teacher’s perfume and I know he’s been well-hugged at school. He’s chattering about his birthday, which isn’t until next summer, but he’s already got a good idea for it. He wants a raw egg cracked on his head. I say, Okay. Τ lets me wiggle his loose tooth and tells me what color the Tooth Fairy’s wings might be. The boys talk constantly, and now I have no desire shush them. There’s this rush of birds flying over our house, and no planes flying so the sky is quiet. It’s amazing.

9-12

We decide to send the boys to school. I figure the teachers are in better emotional shape than I am, and I feel obsessive about being near the radio. All day I’m absorbing bad news and ratcheting up my level of fear. I need to do this. These spooky fighter jets are the only planes in the sky, and it feels like we might learn about war first-hand in our privileged and protected country.

After school, we bring D– home with us. Her mother’s down where the twin towers used to be, hoping to hear from Wade. Our neighbor and D–’s best friend, Madison, joins us. And soon the kids are in the back yard in their bathing suits, playing with the hose and cups of water. Everyone is laughing because they don’t know what’s happened yet. And I take D–’s picture because I don’t know if she’ll laugh like this for a long time.

Madison’s parents, who plan to take D– overnight, stop by for dinner. We all sit in my kitchen that night eating macaroni and cheese with no sides. Everyone feels sick.

We Thought We Wouldn’t Tell the Kids

I cried for the first time today. Up until now, I’ve just been throwing up. And hugging everyone. My God, how much hugging everyone’s doing—strangers, neighbors, friends. I cried after I dropped the kids at school. Cried at the traffic light, cried at the next one. I’m driving home and someone’s car is shaving creamed with the message, “Die, Arabs, Die.” I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

Τ‘s best friend is Moroccan (and Muslim) and her family is just as scared and devastated as we are. I’m nervous for them.

It feels like all I do is listen to the radio and listen to stories of friends’ close calls and wait by the phone for news from Wade. It’s my dad’s birthday, and I still haven’t been able to reach him. I leave a message on his machine.

When I arrive at school for pick-up time, D– is sitting on the teacher’s lap, looking blank. I dreamt last night that Wade was at school when I picked up the kids. It’s starting to sink in that I’m not just sad for his daughter and his wife. I miss him.

I haven’t wanted to tell the kids about what’s going on. I like the idea of preserving their innocence and not burdening them, but it’s getting more difficult to keep what’s happening separate from them. As we’re waiting to collect our kids, we’re told one of the dads freaked out today, running through the schoolyard screaming, “She’s missing! Oh, God, she’s dead!” His wife worked in tower 1. (She actually escaped but was too stunned and confused to make it home… turned up days later.)

The second meltdown was my son’s Kindergarten teacher who broke down in class and then decided to explain her breakdown by telling them that “bad guys aimed planes into buildings on purpose.”

It’s also getting hard to explain the kids missing from class to attend funerals for those who had just visited school for Special Friends Day. They are simply picking up pieces of the story around them.

Τ has a lot to tell us about planes and bad guys hiding and smoke and fire all the way home. He makes it sound like there will be bad guys hiding in the toy box in their room. And when we get home, I decide to try to contain the fear by showing them a still photo of one plane heading towards one building. It works. It all seems much less scary and much less related to their daily world. I only wish I could feel, or at least act, like all was fine and safe.

At night Small feels “teeriful” about someone trying to hurt people on purpose. During prayers, he thanks the firefighters for saving everyone. I let him go ahead and believe everyone was saved… and that the firefighters are still alive. He also prays for the men who crashed the plane. He has a bigger heart than I do.

The Games Kids Play

We are learning about some of the games the kids play at recess these days: Τ and two of his friends are building a trap for “the bad guys,” one green to hide in the grass and one sand-colored to hide on the beach. There are lots of cop-and-robber-type games with high-stake punishments. One boy wrote a letter to the president telling him he wanted to help rebuild the towers because he’s a good builder.

Today I’m going to clean my house, really scrub the hell out of it, cook and freeze tons of food. Play music really loud. I have to do something. No more waiting by the phone today.

D–

The neighbors and I continue to take turns looking after D–. Her mom spends most days at Ground Zero. She had to bring a plastic bag to the armory containing Wade’s toothbrush and hair samples she collected from his comb.

The Messenger

I saw Wade two days before the towers went down. He was in his red car, and I was standing beside it in the road. We talked about our kids, their teachers, an upcoming party, and ballet lessons. I have such vivid memories of him sitting on our living room floor, putting together a little track for a wind up car to drive on. At first, I was certain he’d come back. I thought there would be so many rescues in those early days. I didn’t know yet that everything, even desks and computers, had turned to dust. It’s been three weeks. 

D–‘s mother, Roxanne, is not a crier. Not really a nurturer, that was Wade’s job. I haven’t seen much of her because she’s been down at the site every day. When I finally do see her, I ask her what she’s told D–. What on earth do you say to a four-year-old?

“I told her, Daddy’s coming home soon,” she says. “When she asked about him again, I told her he hurt his shoulder and he can’t come back just yet.”

“Oh, Rox,” I say.

And she starts crying. She doesn’t know what to do, and now D– says she hates her dad for not coming home.

“Do you think he’s coming back?” I ask.

She used to. But all day, she’s around the other family members with their plastic-wrapped signs asking, “Have you seen my mother/my uncle/my son?” She’s seen on the news how not one victim was rescued. And she knows that Cammie’s mom has moved from the Brooke’s Brother’s morgue to Staten Island, where she searches through the debris for body parts. (Cammie now stays late with the After School program.)

“You have to tell D–,” I say.

“Tell me how. Tell me how you crush a child like that?”

“You say it like this,” and I make something up that sounds simple and comforting. It’s not that hard when you don’t have a little girl in front of you about to get crushed.

“I’ll tell her that tonight,” she says. “Will you meet with us at school and talk to her afterwards? You’re good with talking to kids.”

I say sure.

The next day, I pull D– out of class—her teacher’s expecting me—and we walk around and eat Cheez-It crackers and wait for Roxanne.

When Roxanne joins us, we all sit at a picnic table outside of the classroom. The kids are giggling inside. D– doesn’t like to sit.

“I hear it’s been different at your house,” I say. “Someone’s not been coming home.”

“My daddy.”

“And your mom told you what happened?”

Roxanne whispers to me, “I couldn’t do it.”

“You didn’t say anything?”

“I read her the book, Freddie the Leaf.”

Freddie the Leaf is a great book. It’s about a leaf dying. It’s different than being told your dad’s dead.

“Do you want me to tell her?” I ask.

“Please? Would you?”

“Yeah. I can do that.” I turn to D–. “D–, I know why your dad hasn’t come home. Would you like me to tell you?”

“My dad?”

“I know you’ve been waiting for him, and you’ve been upset. And your mom has been waiting and looking for him too. Because she knows that if he could come home, he would.”

I’ve lost her. She’s four and she’s bored, even with this. It’s too much talking. But she’s still sitting, so I keep going.

Her mother stares at her. “D–, pay attention. Do you know what Mrs. Henderson’s saying to you? She’s telling you where your daddy is.”

She’s listening again. I’ve already been told she knows nothing of the accident, that she isn’t to know that a plane’s involved (as she has to use planes often to visit relatives), that she believes in heaven and says prayers at night.

“D–, your mother has been looking for your daddy and she asked the police to help. The police said, there was a terrible accident at the building where your daddy works. Many people got hurt and some people died. D–, your daddy was one of the people who died.”

Too fast. I didn’t give her time. I didn’t create a cushion. I look at D–. She looks like she’s not paying attention.

Roxanne has now moved beside her and is holding her hand. “Did you understand that? Daddy has died.”

“It means he can’t come home again, D–,” I say. My body language is tender, sorrowful, but the words are too hard.

“He won’t come to my house?” she asks.

“He can’t come home anymore.”

“Can I still wear my Barbie slippers?”

“Yes,” her mom says. “You can wear the Barbie slippers he got you, dear.”

“Can I have a playdate at your house?” she asks me.

Then she’s up again, walking back to her classroom. I had more to say. I wanted to tell her the good news, that her mother is here, that she is safe, that her Daddy is watching over her. But she’s eating Cheez-Its and turning the knob to her classroom.

“D–!” Her mother is embarrassed. Her child isn’t grieving like we expected her to. She isn’t giving us a chance to hug her while she cries—something we know how to do. Roxanne carries her back, but D– won’t sit.

I put my hand on her to get her attention. “Remember when you say prayers? Do you put your hands together like this?”

“No. I put them this way.” She weaves her fingers together.

“Do you want to know something very cool?” I ask.

She’s interested.

“Do you know how when you want to talk to God, you can put your hands like this, and he hears you? Even if you make just a tiny whisper?”

She’s looking straight at me.

“And you know how God can hear you and help you, even though he lives in heaven and you can’t see him?”

“You know that, don’t you D–?” her mom says.

“Your daddy lives with God in heaven now. And guess what?”

Looking.

“When you want to tell him something, when you miss him, you can put your hands together, and he’ll hear you. He can help you even from heaven. And he loves you just like before.”

“What did the police say again?” she asks.

She’s heard. It’s going in. I tell her again about the police, and the terrible accident at his work. I tell her how her mother’s been looking for him, and how the police found out he was one of the people who died and that he can’t come to their house anymore.

“What did the police say again?”

And I tell her again about whispering to her daddy, and I tell her how she can show him things, and she bolts up and runs over to a pile of leaves. She asks me to help make the pile bigger because she wants to show him how high she can jump. Then she shows him how she can lodge a Cheez-It the tall way between her back teeth and crunch it from the sides. For that moment, I’m not thinking about how my world is shattered, though it is. And it’s not.

Memorial Mass

Wade’s service is held on October 13^th at the Church of the Advent.

Small Vampire

In the back of everyone’s mind as we choose Halloween costumes, we wonder, will this be the next terror attack? Are they going to go after our children? Should we stay inside tonight?

We try a party first. It’s the weekend before Halloween. The boys go to a party at their Kung Fu School. Their instructor has them line up along the wall. “Are you going to have fun?” he asks. They say, “Yes, Sir!” All activities at the party require that they remain in that line. Kids are asking to go home early.

Halloween night, a small vampire knocks on the door. He opens a pillowcase and I drop in a Rice Krispie treat. He just stands there. I drop in another, but he doesn’t't move. I say, “Have a happy Halloween” and he says, “Thank you,” but still stands there. I put another Rice Krispie treat in his pillowcase when I realize I’m standing on his cape.

The boys call their grandparents and tell them about their costumes and their loot. (We decided to take the risk and leave the house afterall.) Grandpa tells Τ how to eat candy corns stripe by stripe but his attention span is short when it comes to phone calls and he simply sets the phone down and walks away. Besides, he’s not into candy corns; he’s into Milky Ways.

Girls’ Night Out

Once a month for the next year, the other moms and I go out for Mexican food and mixed drinks with the goal of helping hold Roxanne together. For the most part, we don’t talk about what happened but we talk about who ordered the best-tasting drinks and we realize it’s not just Roxanne we’re trying to hold together.

Orange Alert

We have color-coded alert days now and today is orange because of the anthrax scare. On the news, there is talk that our mail may be tainted with poison.

When Artie the mailman arrives, he says, “Crazy world. I’m going to have to quit if things don’t change.”

Once I shut the door, I inhale the stack of mail and wipe it along my inner arms like those magazine perfume ads. It’s the waiting and the fear that’s making me crazy. If something bad’s going to happen, I wish it would go ahead and happen.

At night, when we lie in bed, David and I have started to talk about moving further from the city. It may be a false security but the idea is starting to take hold.

The End of the School Year

By the end of the year, so much more has happened than the fear and sorrow of 9/11. The boys had tea parties; took apart broken machines; learned to whistle and tie shoes; played Lego and The Beatles; tried sushi and curry; read Rowling and Tolkien and Dahl; and the June morning when Small turned four, we cracked a raw egg on his head.

It was not, by any means, a terrible year. We’ve learned to be thankful for the small and ordinary pleasures—the boys giggling and waving from the window, walking into a warm home, the smell of dinner cooking, the sound of the boys talking to each other from one bunk bed to the other when it’s time to sleep. But as the school year comes to an end, we can’t help but notice that the teachers look ten years older than they did at the beginning of the year. So do I.

Drives

We’ve been casually looking for our dream house these last few months. We thought our first house (this is our third) was our dream house. It had hardwood floors, exposed ceiling beams, bay windows, stained glass, a stairway so wide you could lay sideways in it, built-in china cupboards, picture rail, crown molding. It was breathtaking but it felt like we were pretending, playing house. It was too big. It had too many bedrooms. It swallowed our furniture, and we kept finding ourselves hanging out with friends on the floor of the kitchen or on the crumbly back steps.

What we’ve learned is we like any place we are together, and we like cozy nooks. But we’re also craving a little more space outside, something woodsy, more tromping grounds, not so many wires in the sky.

We have these dates where we grab sushi and tea and just drive. We’re looking for something not so big, not so perfect, and tucked into the woods—something we can fix up, but only a little, so it stays small and the grounds stay wild and unruly.

The Move

I’m cleaning out the boys’ room and on the tops of the dressers, way up where I can’t reach, there’s all this peed-on underwear, which I know is Small‘s because he’s the one who wets the bed.

All day, as I pack for the move, I find evidence that I haven’t been watching them all that closely. Dental floss is knotted around doorknobs and handles, attaching one thing to another. And of course, there’s the “secret laboratory,” which I found shortly after our house went on the market: a hole the size of a softball they dug through the plaster in the wall. We’ve patched it but it’s not pretty and it looks like the boys have tried to scratch their way back in.

We’ve talked about the move, how it’s a good thing for our family. And the boys seem okay with our frenzied 30-second cleans and being shooed to the lawn as strangers go through our house. Still, I wonder if Τ remembers his face pressed against the window of the car as we left our last house, or understands the hard truth that when a grownup tells him he can always call or write his friends, it means those friends are gone forever.

Under a stack of magazines I find a t-shirt that’s been cut up with scissors. The cuts have been patched with Scotch tape, as if I might not notice the damage.

I carry the shirt around until I find the boys. They’re in the living room in a fort they’ve made out of packing boxes. Small‘s in costume, wearing only underpants with two undershirts tucked into them, one in front and one in back to look like a loincloth. He’s standing in a box holding a pretend-spear over his head.

Τ sees what’s in my hands and quickly tells me, “That’s Small’s shirt,” as if that frees him from responsibility.

“And it’s cut because—?”

“Werewolf attack.”

Τ casts a suspicious look at his brother, who’s busy stabbing something with his spear, and seems to wait for the verdict. He’s hoping I’ll punish the little brother and not notice who did the skillful scissoring.

I fold the shirt and hand it to him.

“Better find a box to pack this in,” I say. “I hope you have as much fun in the new house.”

New Starts

We were not the only ones to move a little further from the city. In fact, every one from our Girls’ Night Out group did the same by the end of the year—some all the way out of state. We’re all looking for ways to shake off the fear and to have a fresh start.

And maybe the move wasn’t about false security after all. We’re busy making this space feel like our home, finding good spots for the rock and seashell collections, making good use of the empty boxes, and finding all the best climbing trees.

A new school year has started, and when I look at the class photos, I’m glad to see there’s still innocence there. And bright futures ahead.