Summer, Summer, Glorious Summer

High hot days and cool windy nights. Twilights that never end. Bats zig-zagging in the dusk, feasting on flying termites. Blueberries. Huckleberries. Blackberries, still warm from the sun. One for you, one for me. One for you, one for me. Fingers stained a permanent purple.

Sticking your head into a dinner-plate-sized rose and breathing in the pear scent. Crunching toes in dry grass. Listening to the bumblebees lumber from salvia, hyssop, lavender, collecting bright yellow pollen on fat black legs.

Sitting on the edge of a mountain-fed river, strong and tired and hungry from swimming. Hot rocks warming wet swimsuit, the sun dry on your back. Listening to nothing but the water catch and fall on rock. Remembering this warm summer moment for the winter ahead, storing it as an insect for the dark months to come.

Mint picked and pressed into lemonade. Five o’clock and the smell of charcoal filling a neighborhood. No reason, no reason at all to go inside and go to bed. There is no work, there is no tomorrow. There is only summer.

Pinch Me

About a month ago I got some exciting news that I keep meaning to share on ye ol’ blog. And then…I didn’t share it. And didn’t again. And then I realized I kind of didn’t want to share it, lest it actually be a fragile thing that would dissolve under the harsh daylight of reality. It’s not even that big of a thing–but to me, it feels impossible. I’ve confirmed dates and exchanged emails and sent in paperwork so apparently the impossible is happening and I don’t need to worry about frightening it away.

You remember Hedgebrook? I was accepted to one of their Master Classes. I applied back in February thinking I probably wouldn’t get in–but hey, no harm in applying, right? (My general philosophy for life: “Might as well give it a shot!” Success rate is mixed.) In April I was told I was on the waitlist…and a day later, I was in. This particular Master Class requires a work-in-progress, so I’ll be focusing on the Never-Ending 2nd Draft. In June it’ll be 10 days on an island in the midsummer woods, with my own little cabin, sharing the time with five other writers and an instructor to guide us all along.

I’m excited and nervous. This’ll be the first time in almost 10 years that I’ve devoted a large chunk of time solely to writing. And even the last time I did that–in college–my time wasn’t 100% devoted to writing. There were other classes to attend and papers to write and jobs to sit through and card games to play and Grey’s Anatomy to binge watch.

At Hedgebrook, it will just be me and my writing. No cooking, no dog walking. No internet, no TV. Nothing to distract from the words on the page. Which is TERRIFYING. Nothing to distract from “this is working” or “this is all garbage burn it now quickly burn it all down.”

I said I’m a writer. Now I’m putting those words to the test.

Winter Reading Recap

It feels weird to even THINK the word “winter” when Seattle hit 80 degrees last week. Part of me thought, “Screw it, I’m too late, I’ll skip this recap.” But then again… how can I pass up on talking about the books that kept me company during the 4pm dusks, the crazy windstorms, the rainiest winter on record? The books that you cozy up with next to a fire–those are the books worth talking about.

I’m continuing the trend of 2015 and reading ALL THE BOOKS. Ok, maybe not all. But a LOT. I read five books in March alone. Which I realize for some would probably not be defined as “a lot,” but for slow-poke me is something to brag about.

So I’m not going to tell you about ALL the books I read this winter, because we’d be here for ten years. Instead, you get the highlight reel.

Where’d You Go, Bernadette by Maria Semple

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I sometimes do this thing where everyone and their mom recommends a movie/TV show/book, and I say “Ok cool!” and never actually get around to viewing/reading it. That happened with this book. So many people told me how fun it was, and I said “Ok cool!” and never got around to reading it.

Why do I do these things??

Where’d You Go, Bernadette is written in the form of emails, school newsletters, classified correspondence, and random interjections by Bernadette’s 15-year-old daughter. Which COULD make for a terribly annoying book, but Semple pulls it off. This is fun. It’s a quick read with characters who seem at once outlandish and totally relatable. The book is set in Seattle, and man, does Semple nail this city. Or at least, a certain population of the city. Having grown up in Seattle, in a similar community to what Semple describes, the descriptions hit close to home.

There was one thing people hadn’t mentioned about this book–one thing that surprised me. At its heart, Bernadette has a message about creativity and success and what it means to be an “artist”–which is always going to involve some amount of failure. It’s about letting go of the past, picking up where you left off and starting over. Which can be a terrifying thing–until you realize that everyone does it, all the time, and most of the time things turn out alright.

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel

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See story above re: everyone recommending a book and me ignoring it. You’d think I’d learn. Right after finishing this book, I dispatched this tweet to the universe:

This was a beautiful, haunting book about the end of the world—or rather, the end of humanity as we know it. The two are NOT the same, and I’m always struck by books that make that distinction. (Oryx and Crake has a similar theme.) Civilization may end, but the world itself is gonna keep on truckin’, altered and 100% fine without us.

This book explores so many themes it’s difficult to sum up, but I finished with one distinct impressions: it’s a book that really gets it, that gets what it is to be human and see everything that’s broken in the world and also see the tremendous, almost-so-big-it’s-painful beauty of the world.

I was lucky to hear Emily St. John Mandel speak at Seattle Town Hall shortly after reading this book. She is obviously an insanely smart woman. It was interesting to hear all the different sources she pulled from to create Station Eleven, from the history of pandemics to Elizabethan England to Star Trek to Calvin and Hobbes. Like Austin Kleon says–steal like an artist.

The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin

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I don’t read much fantasy these days–which is odd, because thinking back on my childhood reading habits, I almost exclusively read fantasy. My grandparents introduced me to Redwall and I proceeded to read every single book in that series. I wanted to be Cimorene in Dealing with Dragons. And Harry Potter? What would summer have been without counting down the days to the next Harry Potter release? (Late apologies to my parents for insisting that they pre-order two hardback copies so that my sister and I could both devour it immediately.)

The Fifth Season made me realize that I need to read more “grown-up” fantasy. It winds together three separate-yet-connected stories set in a world beset by seismic and volcanic activity. Every few hundred years or go, a “fifth season” arrives–basically, a new “season” trigged by an earthquake or volcanic eruption that kills off most of the population. However, there are people called “orogenes” that can both trigger and control these earthly activities. Can you guess who our hero is?

Jemisin creates an enthralling, complex world full of political intrigue. The Fifth Season is heart-wrenching in parts, but it was so beautifully written that I couldn’t put it down. Apparently there is going to be a second book in this series…I’ll be first on the waiting list.

What have you been reading lately? Now that the weather’s warming up, I’m starting to take the books outside…if there’s anything dreamier than reading in a hammock, I don’t know what it is.

Rage Against the 2nd Draft

Last week I attended a talk by Daniel Handler at Hugo House. Handler was witty and intelligent and generous (and the topic, “bewilderment,” fascinating). During the Q&A, someone asked how many drafts he typically writes. If memory serves, he said three or four. What stuck out was his quip about second drafts:

You think, I’m just going to fix this crown molding. And then you step back and realize you have to burn the house down. –Daniel Handler

I laughed at the truth of those words; simultaneously, I wanted to cry and rage and despair at the truth of them.

I usually try and maintain a “glass half full” outlook, but here’s the truth: writing a second draft is really effing hard. At least, writing MY second draft has been really effing hard, and if that’s not a universal truth I don’t want it acknowledged because it’ll make me feel like shit.

I am actively angry at the words that blink back at me from the computer screen. I tweak them and move them and delete them and add them back in. Every once in a while there’s an “ah ha” moment of pieces clicking into place–that one chapter, that one scene, that one sentence finally doing what I want it to do.

More often than not, the words spit back, “That’s all you got?”

I have not met any of my deadlines for this draft. First I was going to have it done by the end of December. Then January. Now here we are with daffodils pushing dirt and the final chapters remain in their untouched state.

At this point I just want to be done. Every cell in my body craves to be done, to no longer have to think about narrative arc and character development and scenery description. And of course the irony is that it won’t be done until I sit down and finish the damn thing. Until I wrestle this untamable, obtrusive, offensive second draft into submission.

I could make excuses about being busy or sick or bored but really it’s just every time I open the project I am angry at the lack of progress, the lack of perfection. I am angry just thinking about it. “Burn it all down,” the back of my mind says. Burn it all down.

But for better or worse, five years of metaphorical sweat and (some) literal tears are not something to just throw away.

Sometimes we just need to acknowledge that this is really hard, what we do. It’s also a blessing and a lark and a joy, but writing is also really damn hard.

No glass half full–that’s just the truth. And like so many writers before me, I will shut up and push on and someday, somehow, finish the second draft.

Then I can move on to the third.

I Know We’re On a Road Trip But Please Let Me Read My Book

What’s that? Oh, that picture-perfect sunlit butte ahead of us? Yes, I see that. That’s really beautiful.

Yeah, sorry, I know my nose has been in my book for the past 100 miles. I know I’m missing out on a lot of things outside the car windows.

Ok. I’m going to go back to my book for a bit.

What? Yes, that’s a cool rock. Really nice rock. Back to the book now.

…no, you’re totally right–this is a part of the country I haven’t seen. I’m glad to see it! America the Beautiful, here we come.

Here’s the thing though: when else do you get hours of quiet and seclusion where there are no demands on your time? When literally all you can do is sit? Especially when you’re driving on rural highways — bye bye, cell service. No Instagram here. Since we don’t have one of those fancy newfangled cars with built-in TVs, I can’t binge-watch Parks and Recreation for the fourth time. The only thing you can do besides stare out the window is read a book.

Yes yes, I do like staring out the window. I love road trips. I love seeing the country change; I love pairing music to the passing landscape. I love the opportunity to talk, to take detours and pitstops and be open to adventure.

But this book is getting really good right now.

Yes, I see that waterfall.

Look, the protagonist just found out some key information and is about to–sorry, no time to explain. We have two hours of drive time left and I can totally finish.

Me and books and road trips will forever be a thing. I promise to look up every once in a while. But now I’m going to read.

Addendum: If there are any foals or alpaca farms or cool birds of prey I require immediate notification. I brake for cute animals.

(Written with a loving wink to my husband, who loves to point out basalt, and my father, who loves to point out Spanish moss.)

These Stories Run Deep

If Ireland is a thin place, Greece is a deep one. Walking through the labyrinthine streets of the Plaka neighborhood in Athens, you don’t have to know that people have walked here for 7,000 years–you can feel it. Cobblestones worn by millennia of footsteps, the smell of roasting meat, the hot fecund air sticking to your neck. That citadel looming above the city, the Acropolis, icon of Western civilization that millions flock to every year–that was once new. The people who lived here watched that being built.

In fifth grade we studied Greek mythology–and by “studied” I mean we colored pictures from D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths while our teacher read us the stories. The birth of Athena, the tragedy of Orpheus, the downfall of Persephone…I devoured each and every one like pomegranate seeds. When we moved on to the saga of the Iliad (a toned-down, child-friendly version, of course), I couldn’t get enough of the drama, the wit. My parents bought me a copy of D’Aularies’. I read it over and over until the spine cracked and the pages started falling out.

On Santorini, I sat on the black-sand beach and looked out towards the distant island of Anafi, imagined living here thousands of years ago, seeing Athenian sails billowing on the seas. In Crete I swam into the brilliant blue waves, remembering the sirens and Odysseus and his journey through these islands. At the Palace of Knossos I walked the kingdom of Minos, touched the stones, saw how such a place could inspire the Minotaur. I walked a city that saw the fall of Troy, that held contemporaries of Achilles and Helen and Agamemnon.

These stories run through me and here are their roots. You can hear it in the crash of the waves, what these places have heard. A murmur of something unbroken, unchanged–stories that bind us through space and time. If I’m ever able to tell stories with a tenth of that impact, with an infinitesimal fraction of that power, it will just be a continuation of a tradition that started long before me.

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Walk, Read, Write

The way I see it, if I can manage to do these 3 things every day, I’m doing alright:

  1. Walk
  2. Read
  3. Write
The first one clears my head. The second two feed me.

I’m not adding any time limits or stipulations. One thing I figured out from 2015 was to be a little kinder to myself. If I just get in a 10-minute walk, a bus ride of reading, a page of prose…that is so much better than nothing.

Full disclosure: I did not finish the second draft of my book by the end of year, like I had planned. And while I’m a bit disappointed (and mostly like OMG WANT TO FINISH THIS STUPID THING), I’m not beating myself up about it. The ending of the book is…rougher than I had remembered. A lot had to be totally scrapped, a lot written anew. The main point is I’ve been working on it, almost every day.

Austin Kleon has a blog post about how we spend our days. Ultimately, how we spend our days is how we spend our lives. It may seem small, but focusing on just three things every day adds up.

Last week I was tired. Eyeball-ache tired. I hadn’t slept well, had a 9am meeting I was stressed out about, slept on my neck funny. I farted away my morning writing time on the internet and really didn’t want to walk the dog. But I pulled on my super-stylish safety vest and headed out.

A small sliver of crescent moon hung above the neighbor’s house. Towards the end of the walk, I noticed that the horizon was turning the most vibrant shade of cerulean blue. Only a week ago, it was still pitch black at that time. The days are slowly creeping longer, and I wouldn’t have noticed if I’d stayed inside.

Walk. Read. Write.

2015 Favorites

It’s not weird to me that 2015 is almost over — what’s weird is that 2016 is next. How is it that we’re suddenly in the future, where self-driving cars and computer watches and hover boards are all actual things that exist? And yet here at home, the height of normality reigns. I sit here in my sweatpants, drinking coffee out of my writer’s mug, while a cat purrs from the desk and a dog stares at me from the floor. These are all good things.

I’m excited for 2016. 2015 was a rough year in some ways, but it was also kind of magical. Restorative. There was a lot of travel, a lot of reading. I curled up into a cocoon and took care of me. And now I’m ready to bust out and say OH HAI to 2016.

But before we move on — a look back, as I do every year. My favorites from the past year — I’ll be eager to hear yours.

Movies

I did NOT want to go see this movie. I typically don’t like full-on action flicks, and one that was basically one long extended car chase…nooooo thank you. But I was cajoled… and five minutes into the movie, I was sitting there with my mouth open.

The visuals, the feminist plot, the crazy pounding music…I was hooked. I’d never seen any of the Mad Max movies before (and still haven’t seen the prior ones), so don’t know how Mad Max: Fury Road compares. But WHOA was it a kick to the nerves.

On the total opposite end of the spectrum: Inside Out. Thank you, Pixar, for creating yet ANOTHER movie that makes everyone in the theater cry.

Books

I just did my 2015 book re-cap, and I suppose all of those could be counted as “best of’s” for the year. But if I had to narrow it down… I’d go with The Sixth ExtinctionCreativity, Inc. and Half of a Yellow Sun. The first two because they kept me thinking long after I’d finished the books. And the last because — while it’s suuuuper depressing — it’s hauntingly beautiful and showed me a story I hadn’t encountered before.

Oh, and one more… I didn’t include this on my re-cap list, because it seemed like a bit of a cheat. But this year I re-read Watership Down, one of my all-time favorites. I read it on my trip to Greece (more on that later, I promise) — and I don’t know if it was the setting, or because it had been so long since I last read it, but I fell head-over-heels-in-love with this book all over again. Sitting overlooking a caldera, reading about the rabbits’ search for a new home, looking out to the endless sea and comparing this to the tale of Odysseus…that’s a memory that’ll stick.

Music

One band dominated the year for me. In April, we flew down to San Francisco to see them play because they didn’t have any upcoming concerts in the Seattle area. And when they DID come to Seattle in August… yup, we went to that show, too.

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And if I’d had the opportunity to see Alabama Shakes a third time this year? You’d better believe I’d be RIGHT THERE. The bands two albums are good — but if you can, go see them live. Brittany Howard is a powerhouse. Watching her play and sing, I got the distinct impression that I was watching someone very, very special…like, one day I’d be looking back and saying, “Yes, you young whipper-snapper, I saw Brittany in her early days. Go ahead, be jealous.”

If I had to pick one favorite song…I can’t. So here’s two.

 

Moments

Man. I hadn’t fully realized until I did that #2015bestnine thing, but 2015 was an epic year.

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Walking along the Cliffs of Moher. Discovering a sunken tree-fern forest at Blarney Castle.

Floating on Lake Washington with my bestie. Sitting at a picnic table at Crystal Mountain in the later summer sun, reading a a book next to my mom. Fly fishing and actually catching fish.

Swimming and snorkeling in the Aegean. Taking shots of raki with a Cretan restaurant owner. Basking in the sunset at the Acropolis.

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Attending the Hedgebrook writing workshop with my friend Val.

Driving through central Oregon with no AC, sinking into the heat like a lizard, reveling in the beauty that is Painted Hills.

I did SO MUCH this year — yet it still felt balanced. I need to strive for that in 2016 as well.

Food

You guys, do you know about taramosalata? It is SO AMAZING and SO NOT AVAILABLE in this country. I ate it every chance I got in Greece and now need to find the ingredients to make it at home. Byron will totally hate its fishy taste…but that just means more for me.

Speaking of fishy taste — Irish smoked salmon. I don’t know why, but it’s different than other smoked salmon. It’s smooth and silky and subtly sweet. It’s like biting into a piece of the ocean. I ate my weight in it and would happily eat it every day if I could.

Other than that…this was admittedly a weird food year for me. I started seeing a naturopath, did some allergy testing, and as a result cut out dairy, eggs and a whole lot of other crap for most of the year. I’m starting to eat them a bit now…but for a lot of the year, I was basically eating vegan.

So when I ate cheese? I REALLY relished it. You guys, cheese is AMAZING. If you can, eat it for every meal, every day.

I also developed a deep appreciation for hot toddies in Ireland that continued through the year. Hot toddies cure what ails you. Hot toddies are a dollop of sunshine on a cold, damp day. Which is a LOT of days in the Pacific Northwest, which means they’re basically the perfect Northwest drink.

What are your favorites from 2015

2015 Reading Recap

In the past, I’ve done seasonal reading recaps — but even if I hadn’t done my blog hiatus, that wouldn’t be possible because this year I read 46 BOOKS. (52 if you include my “tried to read” list).

How you ask? NO CLUE. In 2013, I read 23 books. In 2014, it was 24. I really don’t know what happened this year. It’s not like I read a bunch of short books, either. (Goodreads says my average book length was 297 pages.) Maybe I was just hungry for words.

So this year you’ll get the highlights reel — the books that stood out.

My main reading goal this year was to read diversely. Inspired by a Book Riot video, I made a point of paying attention to the authors I was choosing and ensuring I wasn’t reading all white dudes. How did that shake out?

  • I read 23 books by women authors — so exactly 50% of the total books I read.
  • 9 books were by non-white authors — 19.5% of my total.

That second number definitely could be higher — but here were my numbers before I started “paying attention”:

  • In 2013, 30% of the books I read were by women authors. 1 book was by a person of color (so, 4.3%).
  • In 2014, 50% were written by women. 12.5% were written by a person of color. (I started this diverse reading experiment in October 2014).

So it DOES make a difference. And I have to say — I discovered some authors I probably wouldn’t have otherwise, and absolutely loved. In fact, two of them have made the 2015 highlights reel…

Wait for it…

The Sixth Extinction: An Unnatural History by Elizabeth Kolbert

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Let’s start things off on an upbeat note, shall we? The Sixth Extinction lays out the argument that the earth is in the middle of a massive extinction event (there have been five other such events that we know of), and this one is being caused by humans. FUN, HUH? I’m not going to pretend that this is an uplifting read–but it IS an interesting one, and I think an important one. You’ll never look at frogs or bats the same way again, let me tell ya.

Wonderbook: The Illustrated Guide to Creating Imaginative Fiction by Jeff VanderMeer

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This book took me a loooong time to read. Like, a year. BUT. That’s because it’s A) physically large, which means I can’t take it on the bus, and B) DENSE. I would read two pages and then just sit for ten minutes, chewing them over. A guide to writing science fiction and fantasy (or really any type of “imaginative fiction”), Wonderbook is one of the most in-depth writing guides I’ve encountered. Most talk high-level theory — how to find motivation, how to find story ideas, how to “be a writer.” Wonderbook says: “What is a beginning? What should be in the beginning? What about the middle? The end? How do you build your world? How do you flesh out the characters? What info do you hide and what do you reveal?” It’s incredibly in-depth — and for me, came at a pivotal time in my book edits.

Let’s Pretend This Never Happened: A Mostly True Memoir by Jenny Lawson

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I read most of this book on a plane and struggled not to annoy strangers with my awkward snort-laughter noises. Jenny Lawson is The Bloggess, who apparently is a rather famous Internet Person, but I was not aware of this when I picked up Let’s Pretend This Never Happened. I was drawn to the cape-wearing, skull-holding mouse on the cover. And if that weirdness appeals to you, you will most likely enjoy this book. A lot of it focuses on Lawson’s childhood in rural Texas — a childhood which involved baby raccoons wearing homemade jeans, turkeys following children to school, and live bobcats being thrown at boyfriends. What’s not to love?

Almost Famous Women by Megan Mayhew Bergman

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This is a quiet little book of weird, surreal stories. It is, as the title would indicate, about almost famous women — women who teetered on the brink of long-lived fame but never quite made it, for one reason or another. And these stories are fascinating. Did you know there was a wealthy British heiress who dated Marlene Dietrich and raced speed boats and operated an island in the Caribbean? Or that there was a set of conjoined twins who toured the vaudeville circuit in the 1920’s? When I finished each story, I’d run off to Google to learn more.

Creativity, Inc.: Overcoming the Unseen Forces That Stand in the Way of True Inspiration by Ed Catmull

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I read this book as self-assigned “work homework” — but ended up totally enthralled. Written by one of the founders of Pixar, Creativity, Inc. asks the question: how do you inspire creativity in a corporate environment? But the book is so much more than that. Catmull eloquently yet simply explains his viewpoints on creativity, storytelling, and how we perceive the world and others in it — all of which encouraged me to reevaluate how I tackle those issues. Plus, there are great behind-the-scenes details about the making of the various Pixar movies… and who doesn’t love a Pixar movie?

City of Thieves by David Benioff

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Earlier this year I started dabbling with a historical-fiction story, and a friend loaned me this book as a good example of the genre. I devoured it — a couldn’t-put-down, stay-up-all-night kind of read. It tells the story of Lev Beniov, a young man living in Leningrad during the Nazi siege, and his adventures trying to secure a dozen eggs in a city that is literally starving. It’s a masterfully told tale — made even better by the fact that it’s based on true events. (The author is Lev’s grandson.) And even though some horribly gruesome events take place, the book overall manages to have a lighthearted feel. No clue how Benioff pulled that one off.

The Universe Versus Alex Woods by Gavin Extence

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Like We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, this was a surprising book; it went places I didn’t expect, and I liked it the more for that. This is the story of Alex Woods, a boy who’s struck in the head by a meteorite, and as such has a rather unordinary childhood. He eventually befriends a Vietnam veteran, Mr. Peterson, who shares with Alex his love of classical music and Kurt Vonnegut. I don’t want to tell too many details, as I don’t want to spoil anything. But in a nutshell: this book dealt with some unexpected moral complexities and handled them in a compelling, non-preachy way.

Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson

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Book Riot had been preaching this book up and down, so I finally picked it up. At first I was skeptical — I hadn’t realized that the whole thing was written in verse, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get into it. But as it turns out, Woodson is a great writer — you don’t even notice that you’re basically reading one long poem. Brown Girl Dreaming tells the story of Woodson’s family, of her childhood split between South Carolina and Brooklyn, and of her burgeoning love of writing. I think it’s technically considered a children’s book, but don’t let that stop you — this is one everyone can enjoy.

Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

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I read quite a bit of Adichie this year — including Americanah and We Should All Be Feminists — but Half of a Yellow Sun gets the honorable mention for being such a total gut punch. I mean that in the best way possible; this book grips you and won’t put you down until the last page. Set in the 1960s, Half of a Yellow Sun follows several points of view through the Nigerian Civil War (or, as the characters in the book would call it, the Biafran War). Adichie is a freakishly good writer; she creates characters that evoke both love, pity and disgust within the span of a few paragraphs. So, you know, real people. And even though you know how the story will end, you’re placed so solidly in this world that you hope maybe, just maybe, it will end differently.

What books stood out to you in 2015? I’m wondering if I can hit 50 next year…

I Am a Writer

A few weeks ago I attended a “Winter Salon” at Hedgebrook, a literary nonprofit that supports women writers. I went up for the day, took classes, listened and learned.

I keep trying to describe the day to people and keep falling short. It seems no matter what I say, I can’t accurately describe the feeling there. So I’m going to try again and start small. Very small: pomegranate arils.

Hedgebrook practices what they call radical hospitality: “everything you need to nurture your soul and your creativity.” When we arrived for lunch after our morning classes, shaking our heads dry from the driving rain, we found long tables laid out with real silverware and cloth napkins. Each place setting had a winter salad dotted with pomegranate arils. It can’t just be me — there’s something decadent about those little red jewels. Pomegranates are only in season a short while, and their round, lumpy exteriors always seem such a hurtle to getting the fruit inside. But here they were laid out before us, waiting to burst between our teeth. The rest of lunch was a hearty, comforting affair — chicken soup and tomato soup and squash soup and buttery galette and brownies and gingerbread — but when I picture it in my mind’s eye, those arils are the things I see. Their presence said, “You are welcome.”

After lunch, the teachers talked about women writers supporting women writers — how elevating one elevates all. As the conversation unfolded, I looked around the room. There were writers there, like me, scrambling to figure out a path in this weird, wordy world. There were writers who’ve been published many times over. There were white-haired writers who didn’t care an ounce for the career portion of things — they were there for the love of writing.

The feeling you get at Hedgebrook is one of validation. Here is a place that says, “What you do is important, and we are here to support it.”

I’m lucky — so lucky – to have people in my life who take my writing seriously. My husband helps me carve out time and space to write. My parents always ask how the book’s going (usually with a kick-in-the-pants from my dad). My best friend encouraged me to start this blog.

Sometimes I’m not sure I take it seriously. Don’t get me wrong — I work hard. I get up early and write and I participate in writing group and I spend time (and money) to attend workshops. But when people ask me about my work — I stutter. I stammer. I mutter something innocuous and turn the conversation. I don’t feel like a “real” writer because I’ve never had my name in print. It doesn’t pay the bills. It feels like a hobby, something done in secret.

My afternoon class at Hedgebrook was with a writer named Ijeoma Oluo. Something she said has been rolling around my head for the past week and a half:

“It takes a lot for people to call themselves writers. You just can.”

So I’m trying to embrace that.

I am a writer.

To that end–I’m changing the name of this blog, to my name. I’m not hiding behind a nom de plume anymore. You can find it now at ldoxford.com.

I am a writer. These are my stories.