Memoirous

And now this from a recent NYT article : The scientific research on the benefits of so-called expressive writing is surprisingly vast. Studies have shown that writing about oneself and personal experiences can improve mood disorders, help reduce symptoms among cancer patients, improve a person’s health after a heart attack, reduce doctor visits and even boost memory. Now researchers are studying whether the power of writing — and then rewriting — your personal story can lead to behavioral changes and improve happiness. Duh. Those of us who have been writing get this. Whether it is strictly fiction or memoir-ish we know that we are eternally returning to those moments in our past that we haven’t got past, that we are still struggling to figure out. My character’s pain is often the pain I felt out on the school playground, my MC’s loneliness is—yup—my loneliness, my insecurity. That is the real stuff, what I’m hoping to inject into my writing. At this bl

Over a year ago I wrote a short short—about 1,200 words—and began to submit it—about 30 times. I began to feel stupid. I think that comes with the rejection territory. You question your existence. Why am I even doing this? Why did I even write that sentence? You tell yourself—just quit already! For those who don’t get it: writing is hard work. I know exactly what I need to write, how I want it to turn out—it’s getting there that’s the problem. I keep crashing and having to go back to the beginning. Now times this feeling by about 100. I have about 50 stray pieces in process—either submitting, revising, or just getting it down on paper, all concurrent, all at once. It’s like brain streaming or having too many tabs open in your head. Then! You get a bone thrown at you. Your work finds resonance somewhere. “The Machine Has No Clothes” that short short finally found a home with Carbon Culture —a journal at the intersection of literature, art, and technology. When I saw

Stevie Nicks=Landslide What was in her head? Did she know she was writing an enduring hit? I remember when this album came out and the song “Landslide” was popular. Obviously it was about first love. Now 40 years later (I know, crazy, right) the song is as big as it ever was. And, now it’s about life changes, how things crash and burn and yet we still go on. It is about relationships that ignite and then burn out, about the best job you’ve ever had and the worst work you’ve ever done, it is about parents getting old, sick, and dying, about children growing up, forgetting to call, then calling to come back and live in your basement. It is about seasons. Every step of the way you hope you’ll find love and a little bit of comfort. Did Stevie Nicks ever imagine that her song would resonate through so many generations and renditions? Did she imagine that one day she would be older? She might have aged, but she can still hit the notes. I know in 1975 I hadn’t yet

Also in the news—welfare recipients in Kansas are barred from movies, camps, and amusement parks—BUT they can buy a gun. Kansas bans welfare recipients from seeing movies, going swimming on government’s dime Republican Gov. Sam Brownback signed House Bill 2258 into law April 9. The measure means Kansas families receiving government assistance will no longer be able to use those funds to visit swimming pools, see movies, go gambling or get tattoos on the state’s dime. The measure also limits TANF recipients from withdrawing more than $25 per day from ATMs. HELLO! What if you need to repair your car? If like most people your TANF goes into the same bank account as your direct deposit—then how can the government really have a say in how you spend your money. And, when was the last time you saw someone on food stamps buy lobster? Ever? It sounds like wishful thinking. But my point is, as a writer and someone who honors the written word, how do they do it: calling the bi

In the news. Last fall I got a Kindle Fire—and now I spend way too much time playing solitaire and watching YouTube videos. A subscription to the Washington Post came gratis with the Kindle. And, I just read that they are doubling down on their search for that missing Malaysian airjet. Isn’t that how they always refer to it? The headlines are part of my subconscious. Yet—where are the girls? I haven’t seen any headlines about the missing girls recently except— one year on 219 Nigerian schoolgirls are still gone . That a lot of grieving parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters. If only the international community could put its resources behind the search for these girls. “Malaysian Transport Minister Liow Tiong Lai told reporters that the next phase of the search was expected to cost about 50 million Australian dollars (about $39 million in U.S. currency), according to Reuters.” I wonder how much has been spent looking for the missing girls?   Goodluck Jonathan,

What Time Is It? Once upon a time I heard this story: In a small town at 12 noon the fire house always tested its emergency siren, you know blowing out the cobwebs and making sure everything worked—in case there was an emergency. Also at 12 noon the bells in the carillon began to play. At the diner the waitress dropped another pot of coffee for the lunch time crowd. And, at the local school the children were excited for lunch and recess, which happened at 12 noon. In a way the whole town moved in a type of ballet, all doing their individual routines in synch with each other, according to the clock. Then one day the announcer at the local radio station was set to retire. For thirty or so years she had sat at her desk reading the news, time, and temperature and playing records. At her retirement party the whole town came to wish her well. As they sat around chatting the fire chief and priest and the owner of the diner all lamented to her that they would miss

Imagine a time before Thai. Before bureks, pierogis, pho. That was me growing up in the 60s and 70s in the land of meat and mashed potatoes. I think the most exotic thing I ate before age 23 was pizza. Americanized pizza. Since coming to Chicago in 1982 my palate has experienced a food revolution. Down the street from me is a gyro joint and then down the block is the best Thai food ever—Siam Noodle. Once when trying to decide with local friends where to eat I began to talk up my favorite noodle place—of course, there are hundreds here in Chicago—and the person on the other end of the phone equally advocated for theirs. Come to find out we were talking about the same restaurant. We have here in Uptown one of the BEST Ethiopian restaurants. Eating Ethiopian is an experience on par with transcendence. This weekend I visited the Lebanese Bakery a bike ride away in Andersonville. They sell the cheapest lamb and potato pies (also the spinach and feta are out of this world) for le

Dust of Eden, a novel by Mariko Nagai Book review This past weekend I read a small novel in verse by Mariko Nagai called Dust of Eden about the forced evacuation of people of Japanese ancestry from the West Coast to internee camps situated within the formidable interior—mostly land unsuitable for much else. While reading I was struck by how similar the story read next to the historical novel I wrote, Beyond Paradise , about a young girl and her family and their experiences within internee camps in the Philippines. War brings about strange, uncontrollable circumstances. In both instances these were civilian camps, not military or POW. In most cases the people were rounded up and ordered to live within confined spaces for an undetermined amount of time. So there was very little information and a lot of speculation about what the future might hold. The internees were told they could go back as soon as . . . but no one really believed it. Because no one knew what the ou

After 27 years of marriage I finally bought a tea kettle. Our first electric tea kettle was a hand-me-down and lasted approximately twenty years. It had a revival after we repaired the plug, but eventually the wiring in the cord went wonky. We continued to try to use it by arranging the cord a certain way to get everything to connect. Our second kettle we bought used from a thrift store. It also lasted a number of years. The electrical went out on it too, but again we continued to use it by clicking it down a dozen or so times until it engaged and cooked water. So finally, after 27 years of domestic life, we bought a brand new kettle. In the Story of Stuff we learn about the interconnected nature of stuff. We think we’re buying a bottle of water without realizing all the eventual consequences. And then we give ourselves cancer if we re-use the plastic bottle too often. Throwing it in the garbage has its own negatives. Recycling gives it the biggest chance of coming back a

Hausfrau When I first met Jill Essbaum she was a poet. Now nearly a dozen years later she is still a poet—plus a bestselling New York Times author . The above link describes Jill as a writer of erotica. I know people who write erotica and usually they don’t use their real name. (Hey! No judgment here—these gals are making BIG money writing racy eBooks. Friends who by day write children’s lit and by night pay the bills under a pseudonym.) More than for looking for sex in all the “wrong” places, Jill loves to uncover a pun. Word play is her forte. And, let’s face it, innuendo is one of the easiest ways to get one’s attention. It sounds like I’m writing one thing and really I’m saying something else. That kind of writing engages the whole mind because it makes you question—is it her or me who’s thinking about . . . ? In many ways Hausfrau is straight forward. It is literature and sexy. It is suspenseful and allows for word play—such as the scenes where the questioni