sea salt

After my last piece "Dear Ray" was published, I received some great responses. Some said they went online to learn more about Raymond Carver. Others said they had experienced similar anxiety about having children. And most people commented on how personal the piece was. While I always appreciate (read: love!) feedback, this comment always confuses me. When I began to write seriously, I dove head first into the creative nonfiction genre. Not poetry. Not fiction. Not young adult literature. Nonfiction, nonfiction, nonfiction. It's always the truth - my truth - and it's always personal. Creative nonfiction isn't journalism. Yes, the nonfiction part of the label requires that I tell the truth. But I don't just report the facts. I convey what we call in the literary world the "emotional truth." This means I don't need to remember if his shirt was actually red or blue. I need to remember that the scent of it made me cry. I don't need to t...

One of the most distinctive differences in the way my generation has grown up, compared to our parents and grandparents, is that we are both more exposed to and protected from the harsh realities of war. People lazily protest with bumper stickers and others use the military as a political platform. Media channels tell us what they think we need to know, and then we turn off the TV and go to bed. But when it comes to our day-to-day lives, most of us could easily forget that we've been at war for 10 years. Try comparing that experience to those who lived through WWI, WWII, and Vietnam. I can't. It's just a different era. The war hasn't changed my ability to buy food. I'm not limited to the amount of sugar I can use in a week. I don't have a victory garden. I'm not filling a job that a drafted man left vacant. I'm not responding to a poster of Uncle Sam telling me he wants ME, and I'm not part of a new music movement with a powerful anti-war messag...

At my college graduation in 2005, I was showered with cards and wishes of "Congratulations!" I smiled, thanked everyone, and scratched my head. Why was I being congratulated? I went to college, did my work, and finished in four years. To me, it didn't seem that remarkable. My aunt tried to explain that it was a big deal, that I should see it as an accomplishment. But I wasn't convinced. To me it felt like being congratulated for going to work every day. I signed up to do it, I did it, and now it was done. What was the big deal? The same thing happened when we got married. Everyone was happy, and came with more wishes of congratulations. Again, I didn't get it. I knew it was a happy occasion, but where was the achievement in saying "I do" and marrying someone I loved? I didn't feel like we'd necessarily accomplished anything--we'd just committed to share a life together, something we really wanted to do. It didn't seem like a great feat...

I did it. I self-published. And I'm thrilled. Some books are less commercial than others, which makes them poor choices for agents and publishing giants. But these books can be the most timely, and thus the ones that need to be shared by any means possible. I believe mine is one such book, so I have swallowed the prideful idea that my book wasn't good unless I had an agent and decided to just share it. Download it at here - it only costs $2.49, and 25% of all sales go directly to the Alzheimer's Association. Please consider clicking the "share" options to spread the word via Facebook and Twitter, and if you get the chance to read the book, please write a review on smashwords.com. Thanks for your continued support! 

On this day, five years ago, my grandfather finally passed into peace after a long and painful battle with Alzheimer's.  Grampy has been the inspiration for much of my writing, including my memoir, At Ease.   To honor the memory of his life, struggle, and death, I've copied below a few scenes from my memoir. I love you, Grampy.  I still miss you... The Motorcycle My head was hot under the red helmet and I held my breath as Grandpa leaned in to secure the chin strap, the plastic clasp burning with summer heat. He bought the helmet for the grandkids to share, but while I was riding I pretended it was all mine. It was my turn to ride. My older sisters, Christine and Angie, had already ridden, and Julie had to wait in the driveway until I got back, since she was only eight and I was ten. I hoped Grandpa wouldn’t shorten my ride because she was waiting. As he lifted me onto the motorcycle, I stretched my legs to keep from touching the hot chrome of the exhaus...

I wrote a book.  A personal, complicated book.  A memoir.  I began it in college, under the guise of fiction (I figured since I changed the names of my family members, they were fictional characters).  Then I went to graduate school and wrote enough for a creative thesis (for an MFA, this is a book-length work in your chosen genre).  And two years after graduating, I finished it.* If you are not a writer, this is probably impressive.  If you are a writer, you know that this is much like a runner finally tying his sneakers.  It's the beginning - now you must run somewhere. The process of publishing a book, unless you choose to self-publish, is like dating, applying to a job, trying to make a new friend, or, really, anything that requires connection with another human.  This makes it exciting, exhausting, and often defeating.  You put yourself out there.  You wait.  Sometimes you receive a return call ...