So? I’m finished. What’s next?

We planted trees in the backyard on Friday night—a tiny Magnolia with shy, pink blooms, and a straight and sturdy Pear. GB dug beneath gray clouds while I waited for the sky to unfurl. I pitched in wherever I could; this was, after all, 36×37 assignment #35: Plant a Tree.

Here’s proof:

This is my shovel, this is my foot

I’m glad I got this photo, because I really did try. In all honesty, though, I’m a little short on brute force, and when it comes to digging, I’m largely unsuccessful.

I’ll admit, then, that the scene mostly looked like this:

…and this

…and this

He We didn’t have much time to work before the sun set, but it was enough time for me to thank GB for being so supportive and for helping me with the project this year. (You can read my first post and the explanation of 36×37 here.) If I thought he was my best friend before the last 365 days, I know it with all my heart now.

I tried to tell him so as he scooped soil back into the hole. I hoped he could tell I was sincere.

It started to rain. He didn’t pause, he just kept planting.

~*~

Magnolia tree

At its start, this project was really just a cover for my early mid-life crises. I hypothesized the lengths I thought I’d need to go to keep from smacking my head against the predictability of daily routine. I thought I’d need big doses of adventure to keep myself from growing old and stale. What I didn’t realize was that I’d been planting and harvesting adventures all along—even in the smallest things, like sipping a new Greek coffee, or planning a quiet evening out with GB, or whispering bedtime stories with the boys. The big-time adventures—like flying the Light Sport aircraft and doubling down in Vegas and taking trapeze lessons and standing on the state line—were great, truly. But when I started to look for new experiences, I realized I don’t need to work so hard to create them. They find me, they find us, until it’s absolutely intoxicating.

I did right to bring my family with me on this year’s adventures. They were essential, because all along I understood how much they are the critical ingredients to my happiness. It’s so much better to see life’s surprises together, and no matter which direction I look, I will always land on my family’s faces.

Just as importantly, this blog became a place to seek out a community. I had no idea the blogosphere was full of such remarkable people. Now I’m rich with friendship—the face to face kind, and the screen to screen kind, too, because I’ve found both to be equally important. I’ve met good people, excellent writers and story tellers, all with a love for experience. Best of all, I’ve become entrenched in dozens of funny, insightful, engaging, ongoing conversations. No small talk here.

It was so much more and so much better than I expected.

~*~

Pear tree

This morning, at breakfast, I had an idea.

“You know what we should do this year?” I said. “We should start a box. And every time we do something new or interesting or different, we should find a token of that moment, bring it home and put it in the box. At the end of the year, we can look at it all together. I can blog about each one so we have a quick record of each…”

And now, I finally know what the next phase of 36×37 will be. Forget the race against time. Forget the numbers. We’ll just look at this life together and see what we can squeeze out of it.

…As for assignment #36? I did it. And I ate the most gorgeous ice cream birthday cake to celebrate.

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Luv Songs.

(via static.technorati.com)

Love: Hard to describe.

So hard, in fact, that the Greeks have four different words for it: Storge (love of family); Philia (affection between friends); Eros (sexual attraction) and Agape (unconditional love).

That linguistic breakdown helps, but it still doesn’t get it quite right. Love is too large and nuanced to divide into simple quarters. Each relationship would need to pick and evolve its own title to represent itself fully.

Consider: How is your relationship like anyone else’s? It isn’t. Therefore, let the writers in the room line up and shoot me for saying this: Words are too pedestrian to do the job.

That’s where music steps in as the great, bold communicator of the heart. With the right lyrics, composition and requisite bass drum, it can trap you in an emotion like you’re seated in a room, thinking eerily: “I’ve been in this place before. I’ve been here, and everything is exactly as I left it.”

So. On this great Hallmark Holiday of love, I give you a Valentine’s Day soundtrack of the most universal “rooms” I can think of. (We’ll stick with the Eros/Agape wings of the house today—after all, they’re the fussy little architects behind the strange confection of February 14.) May you find a room that suits you so you can sit for a while. Then may you stay put or move on as Cupid dictates.

~*~

Hopeful risk taking

Or, sullen denial

Elated discovery

Wistful Longevity

Unraveling

Getting the bad news

Stunned heartbreak

Low-down, busted dejectedness

Obstinate resolve

loneliness, longing and regret

Moving on

(Happy Valentine’s Day to All)

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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JayZ and I have something in common…

JayZ (from drwizard.files.wordpress.com)

We have a running joke in our house about rappers who disappear from the scene, then appear on some glitzy awards show a few months later with an “I’m Back!” tribute to themselves.

It drives GB crazy.

“Back from what?” he asks the TV. “Where did he go? Did he go somewhere?” We both scoff happily because please, how ridiculous.

So. [Clears throat.] How’s it going.

Raise your hands in the AAAAAAAIR. Because I’m BACK!…from 36×37 assignment #24. [Cue backup dancers.]

(I’m also back from assignments #25 and 26, which I’m hoping to write about later this week.)

While I’m putting those thoughts to screen, I hope you’ll enjoy the guest-post I wrote last week for my wonderful and esteemed writer-friend Amanda (of Amanda’s Wrinkled Pages). Special thanks to Amanda for publishing it, and for introducing me to her loyal readers, all of whom I look forward to visiting in the blogosphere as soon as I catch up from being away.

(If you haven’t had the chance to stop by Amanda’s blog, please do. Not only is she a fantastic and inspiring writer, she’s also a cool chick with a quick sense of humor and a salt-of-the-earth personality. She’s an excellent read, and I do hope you’ll visit her often.)

(Also, my warmest thanks to last week’s guest bloggers. Sunshine, Todd, Wendy, Jane, I’m truly grateful you were willing to share your words on these pages last week. You were exemplary house guests, and I’m glad you ate the ice cream, although I’m not surprised you left the Riesling poached pear sorbet. I’m with you…it sounds better than it tastes.)

Anyway, without further ado, here’s the piece I wrote about finding inspiration in unexpected places…

~*~

The Cub and the Ad Girl ~ by 36×37

I remember meeting Jennifer. I liked her right away. When I walked into these sprawling corporate offices for the first time, there she was, tapping her pen against her notebook. She was short like me, with curly hair, a friendly, bespectacled face and an opening for a position I really wanted.

We shook hands and chatted about the summer heat as she hustled toward a table. We talked about the job, of course, but mostly we talked about writing. Tone. Style. Voice. Pace. Active voice vs. passive voice. In her notebook, she sketched an organizational diagram and told me how writing played a part in this corporate culture.

My ears hummed happily. I sat up straighter and tried to look professional.

“We follow the AP Stylebook,” she said brightly. “I know you know what that is!”

I had no idea what she was talking about, although I suspected it had something to do with the Scripps School of Journalism. We were both Ohio University J-school brats: she’d spent her years there as a journalism major; I’d spent mine in its advertising program. Until now, I didn’t really need to know AP Style, but given the look on her face, I could see it would be best not to disclose that.

So I think I nodded a little.

She grinned. “Good. We live and die by the AP Stylebook here. It’s the corporate communicator’s bible.” She said my second interview would be a series of writing tests, so I bought the Stylebook that day and studied it feverishly.

I received the job offer over the phone while I was on vacation, eating sugar cereal at a beach house on Hilton Head Island. After shrieking my acceptance, I hung up, walked onto the balcony overlooking the sea, and dialed my then-boss. “I resign, Bill,” I said. Then I laughed and wished him luck.

It was a proud moment. I quit a horrible job for a great one, and I did it while gazing, suntanned, at the dunes and rolling tide. Everyone should have that experience at least once.

~*~

Jennifer cut her teeth as a cub reporter at a suburban news publication here in Columbus. When I say she was gifted, that’s what I truly mean. One local community loved her so much that it hosted a celebration in her honor. (I’m not kidding. They called it “Jennifer W______ Day.”) She’s the only person I know who actually has the key to a city. When she left the newspaper for a corporate gig, she brought her reporting sensibilities with her.

Everything I learned about corporate writing, I learned from Jennifer. And trust me, she had her work cut out for her. When I started the job, my writing was a mess, both on the job and off. It—or maybe more accurately, I—was trite and undisciplined. I hated everything I penned outside of the office, to the point where I’d stopped writing altogether.

So Jennifer set to work. She established a rigorous “EYES2” program, which involved reviewing every single last thing I wrote under her tutelage. My pages came back bleeding under the merciless scrape of her flowing red pen. My skin was thin. Those critiques ripped me open.

Over time, though, my pages stopped hemorrhaging. The bleeding slowed to a gush, then to a trickle. Occasionally, Jennifer would stop by my desk, hand me a client letter I’d drafted, and say, “Fabu!” Then she’d nod and walk away to grab some tea.

If the page was completely ink-free, that was the best compliment I could ask for.

~*~

That was eight years ago. After three years, we both left the department for jobs with more reasonable hours. We still work for the same global bank, but I manage a small team of editors now, and she oversees a large team of writers. We had the chance to work together again last year. Now that she has moved on again, I miss her even more, because this time, we parted as friends without hierarchical boundaries.

In April, I started a blog because I wanted to write for myself again. After 10 years of packing away my creative side, I donned the clothes of a creative writer, just to see what would happen.

It was strange. My old voice was gone, murdered in its sleep.

The new voice was patchy and unsure of itself, but still it was there. I pulled it over my head, snuggled into it and liked how it felt. And so I wear it a little more each day.

Writing feels better these days. It feels familiar, like stepping onto a sunlit balcony and watching the tides while you say to someone nameless, “I quit, and now I’m free of you,” then hang up the phone to write some more.

It’s a proud moment. Every writer should have that experience at least once.

~*~ Find me on Twitter: @36×37
~*~ Visit http://36×37.wordpress.com

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A Rant…

Welcome to Day 3 of the 36×37 Guest Blogging Blitz!

I wish Wendy (from Herding Cats in Hammond River) lived nearer to Ohio than Canada. We’ve never met in person, but I spend my tea-time with her blog every weekday morning, and that’s enough to make us friends and neighbors—at least in my book. She’s an Ohio native, so she has Buckeye blood. Add her wickedly funny writing style to the mix? Almost too good to be true.

Wendy owns a book store with her father. She started her blog this year “as a way of keeping [her] writing skills sharp.” Her posts are crisp and well-appointed, to be sure, but they’re also warm, natural and unassuming. Her blog is, as she describes, “a mix of a little bit of everything – memories, everyday life, rants, cooking and gardening, to name a few.”

Speaking of rants, Wendy posted the following piece on Earth Day this past April. It’s a “rant,” indeed, and it’s hilarious.

~*~

From Herding Cats in Hammond River: A Rant

On this Earth Day, many people are thinking about R words: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle…I’ve been thinking about some other R words – mothers of teenagers will relate:

Please forgive me if I ramble.  I am in a rut.  I go back and forth between rage and resentment.  I’m on a roller coaster in retrograde.  Reproduction seemed like a good idea at the time, but I admit, I am reconsidering – sometimes I wish we were not related.

Pregnancy, When Children are Easy…

I remember when I could reconcile them with a rational explanation for my refusal of their request – now I must rail like a raving lunatic to reinforce the regulations.  I am not rigid.  I realize that my role has been reduced to that of a referee in charge of rebels on a rampage.  Instead of being receptive to my reminders, they recoil at the restrictions.  They are reckless, rude and downright rotten!

Whistle…

What about responsibility?  Is it realistic to require them to rinse their receptacles before putting them in the dishwasher (I suppose I should be relieved that they even retrieve them)?  Our living room is now a rec room – they recline, play Rock Band, blast rap music, and rebuff any rejoinders to “Turn down that racket!”  I have tried to reclaim repose from their rambuctiousness – they regard me with ridicule when I redouble my efforts at re-establishing the rules.  My rationality is ravelling!

Our Rockers…

It seems that my raison d’etre is to respond to their every requirement.  Attempts to recruit them to do a little work are met with reproaches about how “rough” it is to live here, and requests for remuneration.  I might have to resort to using a rake to rid ourselves of the rubbish!

Rake…

They are relentlessly ravenous!  They root through the refrigerator like raccoons, but refrain from eating real food when it’s set on the table before them.  It’s all I can do to restrain myself!  When I reprimand them, they are recalcitrant.

Raccoon…

I don’t relish mornings.  There is no respite as I rush from room to room reminding recumbent residents of the relentless passage of time.  They resent my role in getting them to rise.  It’s the same routine every day, regardless of my remonstrances.  It is a relief when they run out the door.

Alarm Clock…

Can I get a refund for this riff raff?  Is it too late to become a recluse?  A radical approach might be to set them adrift on a raft down the river…with my luck, I’d be caught red-handed!  Maybe I could raffle them off?

~*~

Remember to check out Herding Cats in Hammond River today. <–I’ve even added this handy link to help you out.

Now, for a 36×37 Assignment #24 Update: The ringtone. I hear it in my sleep. My right eye is twitching. I want my mother.

Come back, tomorrow—the always funny Jane from PlaneJaner’s Journey will take us through the weekend. Then I’ll greet you on Monday with more new content from me.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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From Todd Pack’s Messy Desk: “We’re not here to play airplanes, we’re here to play soccer.”

Welcome to Day 2 of the 36×37 Guest Blogging Blitz!

Today, I’m quite pleased to bring you Todd Pack of Todd Pack’s Messy Desk. This is indeed a great honor; not only does Todd serve up a consistently funny and well-written blog (which has been featured on the WordPress homepage four times in less than a year), he’s an all-around good dude, and such a fun read.

Todd is a Kentucky kid who spends his days in Nashville. He describes himself as “…more Mayberry and sweet tea than NASCAR and rasslin’,” and that’s exactly what comes across in his writing. He posts a lot about his family, particularly his kids, Thing 1 and Thing 2. When I asked him to pick a “Best of” piece to share with you today, he sent me this piece about Thing 2 and his soccer team.

~*~

I heard myself say this the other day to a couple of 4-year-olds (not mine):

“We’re not here to play airplanes. We’re here to play soccer.” I was trying my best to channel Mr. Rogers.

Thing 2′s soccer coach couldn’t make it, and he’d asked me and another dad to fill in. We were playing a scrimmage, and 2 of my 3 players had decided they’d rather be airplanes.

“Let’s just do the best we can,” I said. The boys nodded — one gave me a really sweet, really sincere thumbs up — and we lined up.

“What’s your name?” a boy on the other team asked.

Todd, I said.

He thought this was really funny, like I’d said my name was Booger.

The other dad blew his whistle (why didn’t I get a whistle?), and his team drove the ball down the field. Thing 2 was on my team, and he did his best to steal the ball, but his teammates had taken off, soaring low over the neighboring soccer field, swooping and diving toward the parking lot, their moms chasing after them.

Then, the boy who thought my name was funny thought it would be funny to bounce the ball off my bottom.

It was pretty fun, being a substitute soccer coach, but I’ll be glad when the real coach gets back. You’ve got to have a lot of patience and a good sense of humor to coach a bunch of kids, especially a bunch of 4-year-old boys.

I could handle it for an hour, but I don’t think I’d last a full season.

Those who can, coach. Those who can’t, bring the snacks.

~*~

Bonus!

As a side note, I should mention Todd Pack sent me photograph of a Roadside Shoe! he spotted at the Franklin Family Entertainment Center, a bowling alley and arcade in Franklin, TN. As if a Roadside Shoe! weren’t notable enough, turns out snow sometimes falls on Nashville.

“Gotta wonder how anybody loses 1 shoe on a snowy day like that,” he wrote. “I wonder if the person wore his or her rental shoes home.”

Which, you know, is wholly plausible. At the end of the day, who among us wouldn’t want a good pair of bowling shoes?

~*~

Remember to check out Todd Pack’s Messy Desk today. <–I’ve even added this handy link to help you out.

Now, for a 36×37 Assignment #24 Update: I’ve got the shakes, but I’m still iPhone free.

Come back, tomorrow—the delightful Wendy of Herding Cats in Hammond River will be at bat.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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From Sunshine in London: “Which Part Do You Hold for Luck?”

Welcome to Day 1 of the 36×37 Guest Blogging Blitz!

Oh, you are going to love Sunshine. If you haven’t discovered her yet, you’re in for a treat. I stumbled upon her wonderful blog, Sunshine in London, in September and was immediately a rabid fan.

Sunshine is a South African who moved to London in September 2009. She’s a practiced people watcher, a skilled reporter of the absurd, and a talented humorist and writer. Throw all of those elements together, and you get a funny, beautifully written and always interesting point of view. I tend to avoid sipping hot substances while reading her posts, lest I spill all over myself from laughing.

Sunshine in London has a recurring feature designed to introduce her readers to Saffa (South African) and London slang words. When I asked Sunshine to pick a “Best of” piece to share with you this week, this was her perfect selection.

~*~

If you were heading off to a job interview and I said, “I’m holding thumbs for you!” how would you respond? If you were a Saffa, like me, you’d say, “Thanks. I need it.” If you were from anywhere else you’d look at me and frown. And if you were British, it’s likely you’d frown and you might say, “WTF?” (Why The Fums?)

Well, where I come from, holding thumbs means the same as the British “fingers crossed”. It means good luck, I’m wishing you well and every success. I used the expression when I was communicating with a work associate earlier this year, and she asked me what I was on about! I was quite surprised, as I thought it was a universal expression, but thinking about it, it must just be a literal translation from the Afrikaans expression. I’d be interested to know who else is familiar with holding thumbs?

So with all my job hunting, I’ve had Saffa friends holding thumbs for me, British friends crossing their fingers for me, and even a dear friend who said he’d cross everything he had in pairs for me!

There are a number of expressions and words that I use that make no sense here, and vice versa. I thought I’d run through a bunch of them:

• In SA, we wear pants, and underneath them, we wear underpants. In Britain, people wear pants under their trousers.
• I wear takkies, which are known around here as trainers or sneakers.
• A fabulous sunny SA leisure pastime is a braai, known here as a barbecue, or BBQ. Our Ozzie friends talk about barbies, but that’s the subject of another blog!
• What I call a geyser, is known locally as a boiler or a hot water system. If I asked someone here to come in and check out the geyser, they’d send over a doctor to look at my husband!
• Our flat overlooks a small dock, filled with yachts and boats. Most of the boats have people living in them. They have a communal ablution block, which I understand is known locally as a shower unit.
• I communicate via sms on my cellphone. Here, you send texts or you message from your mobiles.
• We have to be careful inviting people for tea here. It could mean afternoon tea or it could mean supper.
• Don’t get me started on flapjacks, pancakes, scones, crumpets – who knows what any of them mean! I don’t have a clue!
• If I do someone a favour, they could respond by saying any of the following: ta, cheers, brilliant, wicked.
• Are you stopping means are you staying.
• Where I might harp on about something – like job hunting! – others here might bang on about it.
• When I started my temp job earlier this year, a colleague asked me if I wanted a drink. I thought gosh, I know it’s important to fit in, but drinking at 11 o’clock in the morning? And at work? As I felt all my possible responses flash before my eyes, he said, “What’d you like, tea or coffee?” Where I come from, if I offered someone a drink it would usually refer to an alcoholic one, otherwise I’d offer to make you a cup of tea or coffee!
• There are a number of words here that mean very:
  • dead:  I was part of a small market research group a few weeks ago, and the wonderful market researcher, shy as a button, introduced the process to us by saying, “Right, it’s going to be dead informal.”
  • well: you could describe a good-looking person as well fit, or a bright person as well clever. My favourite explanation of this comes from one of my nephews. He believes that Jesus was definitely from London, given that God said of Him, “This is my Son, in whom I am well pleased.”
  • bear: I don’t know this one too well, but my lovely sons tell me that it’s used a lot by their young adult contemporaries. It’s bear cold out there, bruv.  I could write a whole blog about language of that generation – watch this space!

There is a delightful commercial on television in SA for a fast-food chain. It features a young, Afrikaans couple sitting on a bench together on the porch of their home in a small, rural town. To impress her, he’s memorized the menu of the coffee offering of the chain, and he recites them one by one: “Macchiato. Cappuccino. Mocha. Americano.” With each word, his girlfriend gets more excited and amorous. Eventually she lumbers her heavy arms around him, snuggles into his neck and says, “Ooh, I love it when you talk forrin.”

I had a telephone call this morning from a telecommunications service provider. We had a brief and disastrous encounter with them when we arrived in London, and would never go with them again. The caller said, “I believe you were a former customer of ….?” To which I said, “Yes.” He said, “Oh, you were for years?” And I said, “No. Not for years. I said yes.” So he said, “Oh. Are you still a customer then?” It reminded me of the paper plane conversation I blogged about a few weeks ago, but made me realize once again, that in these parts, I sure talk forrin!

Sunshine signing off for today!

~*~

Remember to check out Sunshine in London today. <–I’ve even added this handy link to help you out.

Now, for a 36×37 Assignment #24 Update: What up, y’all, I’m still iPhone free! And even though I’m writing this on a Saturday night, before I’ve even officially kicked off the assignment, I still know it’s true because if it weren’t, my future self would have swooped in and deleted this sentence and fessed up to her failure.

See? Big props to Future Maura for being two days clean.

Come back, tomorrow—the hilarious Todd Pack of Todd Pack’s Messy Desk will have the floor.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Daft Punk is playin’ at my house, a-my house.

I have some pimping to do. That’s why I’m wearing these shoes—so you’ll know I mean business.

(google image from http://www.trade-show-guru.com)

As you’re reading this, I’m working my way through 36×37 assignment #24—or what my friend Supergoddess has dubbed my week-long “techie break.” Instead of blogging or tweeting or texting or facebooking or checking work e-mail and the like, I’m doing other dorky/awesome things I’ll tell you about next week.

That’s where the shoes come in; I need to pimp what’s going to happen here while I’m away.

1) I’m not here, I’m there.

I’m guest-blogging today at Amanda’s Wrinkled Pages (Twitter: @amandahoving). Amanda has completed a novel, and now she’s preparing to send it aloft to a handful of agents. Meanwhile, she has asked a few bloggers to write about finding inspiration in unexpected places. I’m honored and excited that she thought of me for the series, and I’m looking forward to meeting her readers. Be sure to visit Amanda and me today, then take time to spin through her excellent blog—it’s truly one of my favorites.

(Don’t worry, I’ll remind you at the bottom of this post. That’s right; I tend to keep my pimp hand strong.)

2) And while I’m there, a few guest bloggers are here.

They’re watching the house. They’re keeping the shop. They’re checking the mail and feeding the fish. I’ve stocked the freezer with delicious Jeni’s Ice Cream, and I’ve ordered them to make themselves at home. I hope you’ll be neighborly, chat them up a bit, then stop by their places for a while.

Here’s an at-a-glance of what’s coming this week. Be sure to check back daily; you don’t want to miss a word from these funny and illustrious friends:

Tuesday – Sunshine from Sunshine in London

Wednesday – Todd Pack from Todd Pack’s Messy Desk

Thursday – Wendy from Herding Cats in Hammond River

Friday – Jane from Planejaner’s Journey

3) And now, for something that is seemingly everywhere…

FYI, I’ve hidden an Roadside Shoes! Easter Egg in one of the guest posts! I hope you enjoy it.

Excellent.

Now. Look at me, then look at my pimp shoes. If they don’t remind you to read my guest-post at Amanda’s Wrinkled Pages, maybe this link will.

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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That’s not a bad idea.

(courtesy of lookslikehome.files.wordpress.com)

Hmmm.

You know, my friend and fellow blogger, Harsha (H is for Happiness), offered an interesting idea last week when I posted “Read ‘em and Weep (Occasionally)“: Given that so many of us tend to geek about books, why not start an online book club?

I’m into the idea! But I’m trying to suss out how it would work. Here’s what I’m thinking:

1. Select a blog host for the month, and let the host choose the book. (The host doesn’t need to be a blogger; we could always use a guest-blogger format to cover the discussion.)
2. Use social media to broadcast the title, author, meeting date and meeting location (blog URL).
3. On the day of the discussion, the host would post a brief summary about the book, then end  with a list of discussion questions readers can answer in the Comments section.

Seems easy.

Or, if we’re looking for a real-time discussion, we could live blog or live Tweet it.

If you’re interested, or even if you just have sideline ideas to share, simply comment below or e-mail me at 36x37blog@gmail.com (@36×37 on Twitter). If there’s enough of a response, we’ll get literary. I’ll make the cyber baked goods if you bring the cyber Chardonnay…

M.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Story: Read ‘Em and Weep (Occasionally)

image courtesy of http://www.liladelman.com

There are 10 women sitting in my living room. We’ve polished off a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a gallon of hot rum-infused apple cider, a host of tasty treats, and this month’s book selection, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows). I chose it at my mother’s recommendation because it was so well received by her friends. It’s a story about a Channel Islands book club formed by accident during the German Occupation in WWII.

(I love the irony of a book club reading about a book club.)

This is our fourth meeting, and although we’re still quite new at this, we’re already comfortable enough to talk about our books—the characters, the plots, the themes—and share how they apply to our lives. Tonight’s discussion has been a good one. We’ve blown through all 15 discussion questions, and now we’ve come to the last one. I’ve added it myself, because I think it’s important.

I pretend to be serious as I clear my throat. “#16: The Guernsey Literary Society has a name. Do you think our book club should have one? If yes, what should it be?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for months!” Our founder, Leslie, says. “I keep wondering if I should bring it up.”

We nod collectively. A few options make their way to the floor:

• Sexy Librarians
• Sexy Drunk Librarians
• Sexy Drunk Librarians with Snacks
• Books on Heels

“Read ‘Em and Weep,” Sara suggests.

“Oh, I like that. We should say something about crying. We do that a lot here.” Which is true. We’ve read a few tear-jerkers.

“Or how about Read ‘Em and Weep (Occasionally),’” Melinda adds. “Because we don’t cry all the time.”

This is also true. Mostly we laugh, go off-topic and laugh some more.

It is decided. Once we pick the name, we forget about the book and just start talking. Lynn tells a personal story. Then Jen. Then Melinda. We all give solicited and unsolicited advice, swear a little and laugh again.

Quietly we congratulate ourselves, because this is shaping up to look like friendship, 10 women strong.

~*~

I think about friendship a lot.

When you’re young, it comes so easily. You both like Barbies. You both like Batman. You both like to roll from the top of the hill to the bottom, fist-bump over your mom’s chocolate cupcakes, and spin out together on your Big Wheels.

Then it’s not easy anymore. She flirts with your boyfriend. He’d rather play basketball than ride bikes across the lawn. She talks about you behind your back, and it smarts. Suddenly, your friends are jerks.

Then it’s easy again. Kind of. Your friendships take a little longer to build. Mostly, you buddy up with people who live near you. The kids in your dorm. The kids in your major. They like the same bands you do. You hang out at the same clubs. You visit their houses on summer break, and call their parents by their first names.

Then maybe you pair off. If you’re lucky, your significant other is also your best friend. Eventually you get a job, and you make semi-friends at work. You start a life, and there’s no time for anything else. At first you don’t notice. And then one day, you feel it: you’re lonely, and there’s no one you can call to say so.

“It’ll get easier when your kids are in school,” my mom said once. “It’s an even playing field then. You’ll be in a place where you all have something in common.”

But I want more than just kids in common. Friendship needs a wider foundation than that.

~*~

The older I get, the more I value the people I know, and the more I expect from them. Are you authentic? Interesting? Do you have your own opinions, and do you care about other people? Can you be honest when I ask how you are? Great, let’s have coffee. I’ll buy, and we can chat for hours.

It’s taken time, but I’ve started to focus on stringing together a group of people with something in common: wit that slays, an undercurrent of compassion, and honest, firm opinions that inspire me to think and learn so much more—as much as I can. I want the nearly-tangible sense that we’re all old enough now to see what’s important. Online or in person, that’s what I want all around me.

At 11PM I close the door on my last guests, slip off my heels and usher the empty glasses to my kitchen sink. The house is silent, and while I whistle something nameless to fill the quiet, it occurs to me that what I’m trying to build was in my living room tonight: Good people with kind hearts, and the willingness to open up, just to see what happens.

I’m looking forward to more hours like these.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Story: Dinner at James Thurber’s House

Courtesy of http://www.thurberhouse.org

Satirist/cartoonist James Thurber hailed from my hometown. His childhood home, The Thurber House, sits quietly on Jefferson Avenue in downtown Columbus. It’s now a museum, classroom for aspiring writers, and gathering place for the Columbus literati.

My mother, an accomplished reader and general lover of the arts, has her finger on the cultural pulse of this city. A few weeks ago, she called to ask if I’d join her for the November 10  installment of the Fall 2010 series Evenings with Authors , which on this particular night would include dinner with New York Times Best Selling Author Lisa Scottoline, author of 17 legal thrillers and a successful Philadelphia Inquirer features column.

I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never read Lisa. Legal thrillers aren’t really my genre. But how could I say no to dinner with an author? And how could I say no to an evening with my mom?

~*~

Lisa is 10ft from us. She has shaken hands with all 20 dinner guests, and now she’s chatting with us over pasta. The only thing strange about this is that it doesn’t seem strange at all.

Lisa tells us she started writing 20 or so years ago. She quit her job with a prestigious Philadelphia law firm to stay home with her newborn daughter. When she and her husband divorced two years later, she decided to write to help scrape together a living.

“For the first five years, I saw nothing but rejection,” she says. “By the time I sold my first novel, I was $37,000 in debt. The best rejection letter I ever got was from a publisher who said, ‘We only accept a certain number of writers each year. Even if there were room, we still wouldn’t choose you.’ I see that guy about once a year, and when I do, I remind him how wrong he was.”

~*~

And so. A fan is born. Based on personality and storytelling ability alone, I think Lisa is fabulous. I can’t fathom the idea of rejection falling at her doorstep, let alone five years of it. How did she stand it?

The more Lisa talks, the more I think of the artists I know who quit because they couldn’t take the rejection. No more pen to paper. No more pointe shoes across the stage. Dusty piano keys, trumpets in the closet. Brushes rolled up and packed away.

I wish I could point them to Lisa. If she’d given up on herself after just four years of rejection, she would have walked away from a career that put into circulation 9 million copies of her words, and a TV option for one of her novels. More importantly, she would have walked away from a chance to spend every day doing the thing she loves to do most.

I doubt Lisa ever thought her career would turn into something so prolific, especially not while she was staring down the barrel of rejection. But she knew she wanted her place at the writer’s table, and so she carved it for herself, word after word, day after day, novel after novel after best-selling novel.

Maybe art is like the lottery: It’s really hard to win. But how could you know if you never buy a ticket?

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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