sea salt

#ReadingWithJolene is a new series that celebrates my love of words. I'll share books I've recently read aloud to my baby daughter Jolene, why I wanted her to hear them, and how I hope to become a better mother and person in the process. There’s not much you can do with a newborn. In the early weeks of my maternity leave, I found myself bored for much of the day - completely exhausted, but bored. Jolene slept extremely well, an incredible gift for which I will always be grateful, but that meant I only had a few moments with her each day while she was actually awake - and those were usually consumed with feeding. Now and then I would pull out a couple books off the shelf and read to her while she dozed in my arms. I adore the Nancy Tillman collection, as well as the classic Eric Carle board books, but Jolene was never really alert - I was reading because I needed something to do with her, because I love words, and because it felt like the kind of thing a good mothe...

Note: I wrote this draft on July 17, and emailed Jodi to ask if it was ok to use this beautiful picture of her. I did not hear back from her before receiving the news that she died on August 2. Instead of revising this post to reflect on her death, I've chosen to post the original, which reflects on her life. * A few months before I began my MFA program at Lesley University, I received instructions to read the first essay submissions of the writers who would be in my first workshop. I had been accepted for the nonfiction writing track, so everything I read was a personal essay. Everything was true. As the submissions came in and I began reading and editing, I realized I was an outlier. With the exception of one other writer, I was the only one who hadn't written about being abused in some way. The essays shocked me, saddened me, and made me feel strangely guilty that I'd grown up with loving, protective parents and relatives who would never dream of hurting me...

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...

Three years ago today, on my laptop in a one-bedroom apartment near the beach, I started this blog . I had no idea what I would say, or why I needed a blog, but I felt compelled to write consistently, and write with the courage to share my writing with the world. Along the way I had a few bumps: months of fear when I felt I had nothing to write, days of self-doubt when I wondered if I shouldn't be writing so honestly, moments of panic when I thought nobody was reading. So much has changed since that first post. Someone else lives in that one-bedroom apartment near the beach. I lost a few people I loved, and I married my best friend. I got published again, and then again, and I started new blogs. I moved away, and I moved back, and I discovered more and more about who I really am and what I hope to do in the time I have on this earth. But one thing hasn't changed: the reason I write. In that first post I wrote: As I write, submit, teach, connect, and change, I hope I lear...

A few days ago Kevin and I sat ourselves down in the spare room and forced ourselves to sift through boxes and bookshelves, crammed with so many things and memories we had been packing, unpacking, and packing again every time we move. While we're pretty good about throwing away things we really don't need (I cringe every time I see a preview for the show "Hoarders," and I've never been able to watch a complete episode), there was a lot of physical and emotional weight to lose. Notebooks from high school, textbooks from college, silly notes and photographs from so many roommates. The Chiquita banana keychain my father had given me got to stay, and so did a Coke bottle from Italy, but a stack of coasters went into the junk pile along with a handful of floppy disks. Kevin had to confront a tall pile of music books, while my biggest challenge was a stack of boxes full of cards. I've always loved saving cards. As a sensitive person, a writer, and a very devot...

“The fish is cooked really well. And the mushrooms have a perfect blend of oil and salt - not too much of either.” Our waitress beamed when I said this, and hurried off to bring the next course. My husband Kevin and I looked at each other across the small candlelit table and waited until the waitress was out of earshot before laughing. I wrote a few notes in my notebook, sitting conspicuously next to my plate, and Kevin took a few pictures with his iPhone. We were at a special, sold-out, reservations-only chef’s tasting at a new bistro about to open in Jamaica Plain. A glowing review from an influential food critic would probably help the future of the restaurant. For $10 each, we sampled 8 plates of savory and sweet creations. From candied brussel sprouts to rabbit ragu, to honey caviar and hazelnut mousse, we felt totally in…which meant everyone else was out. And literally, too. The doors were locked and passers-by peered in the window at the cozy arrangement of tables and coupl...

 As many of you know, I've been lucky enough to have a close relationship with all of my grandparents. As some of you know, we recently lost my grandfather, a man I truly admired and loved. I've published various pieces about him before (see links to the right for "What I Think My Grandmother is Thinking," "Mt. Auburn," and "The Man I Know"), but this weekend I was honored to write a new piece, one to deliver at his memorial service. Below is the eulogy I read at the service. I was limited to 3 minutes, but those of you who knew Grampy know that I could have spoken for days. I may later post the entire list of 101 Life Lessons mentioned in my eulogy, and I may later be able to compose a new piece to reflect on this loss. For now, my tired and grieving heart just wants to rest. Enjoy remembering this wonderful life, and feel free to share your own memories. You are also welcome to read his obituary , an impressive testament to a life well li...

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...

Yesterday I had lunch with my best friend in Nashville. We were at a tiny burger joint, and at 12:30pm on a Tuesday, it was filled with men. We managed to squeeze ourselves into a spot at the greasy counter, facing the grills and sharing elbow space with men all around. "I quit smoking," she said to me. I smiled, but didn't see the big deal, as she only smoked a few cigarettes a day to deal with the stress of her new business. "And I stopped eating white bread and sugar." "That's ... a lot to quit at once!" I said, wondering why she would bring up a new diet while we were eating burgers and fries. She smiled and looked directly at me.  "I'm having a baby." ______________ On Saturday my husband and I participated in A Novel Idea - Jumpstart , a one-day workshop for adults who want to write a novel. A staunch creative nonfiction writer, I was nervous, but ready for a new challenge: fiction. The untrue. The invented. The haven ...

This morning I started my day like any other. I woke up at 5:30, got dressed, went for a walk and called my sister. But instead of finishing off the routine with yoga before leaving for work, I called a 6th grade classroom in Florida for a Q&A session. My role in this session? The author. Did you always know you wanted to be a writer? Who is your favorite author? Are you going to write another book? * Six years ago I was in the Harvard COOP bookstore with my sister. I had just begun my MFA program, and was already dreaming about seeing my name on the cover of a book. We walked through the aisles and scanned the walls of must-reads before circling a round table with a sign that read "Summer Reading." It was the collection of books on required reading lists, the lists compiled by teachers, administrators, and school board members. These were the books that educators wanted their students to read, some because they are fixtures in the literary canon, and oth...

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! 

The new typewriter has sparked a new blog!  You can check it out at: http://smithcoronasisters.tumblr.com/ .  My co-author (and dear friend) Kristen and I decide on a writing prompt, respond independently on our Smith-Corona typewriters, then upload the images to the blog - you can see every typo, missing letter, and awkward spacing.  Ah, the world before computers...  Enjoy - comment - share!

On Sunday afternoon we bought this typewriter.  We had gone to browse our two favorite stores (8th Ave. Antiques and Pre-to-Post Modern Vintage) in search of used furniture and otherwise useful, cool things for our new house.  We've had great luck at both of these places, from which we've purchased a coffee table, end tables, nightstand, dressing mirror, desk, and artwork; our requirements are only that the item be useful, cheap, and better made than anything at Target.  On Sunday we considered this typewriter for a long time.  It's not particularly useful, as the store owner estimated it is probably from the 50's or early 60's (design on the typewriter, tweed case).  It wasn't particularly cheap (marked "Vintage Typewriter: $50").  And there's clearly no Target-brand typewriter to compare it to.  But it came home with us, and now sits on my desk where my laptop used to be.  We're by no means antiques collectors or experts (...

On Sunday our pastor read from 2 Samuel, in which Araunah says to God, "I would not make an offering that cost me nothing."  The story shed light on the true meaning of any kind of gift - someone gives up something for the sake of another.  This is why the idea of re-gifting has such shameful connotations in our society.  It's not that you didn't appreciate what was given to you, but that you've sacrificed nothing in order to give a gift.  It's easy, convenient, and superficial - if anyone can do it for free, it means very little. My husband loves Henry David Thoreau, and we have adopted one of his adages as a guiding principle: "The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."  The most important and valuable choices can cost a great deal of life, and the trick is knowing which ones are worth it. A cost I willingly absorb is the cost of keeping in touch - really keeping in touch - with extended family and far-away friends.  I a...

I did it. After three months of getting up, saying goodbye to my husband in the morning and spending the day at home on my computer, I have finally gotten myself a job. I realize that a job shouldn't seem like such a big deal - after all, I've been earning enough money as a freelance writer, editor, and online instructor to pay my share of our monthly bills and student loans. But I spent a good part of each day wondering where my next "hello" would come from, counting on one hand the number of physical people I interacted with, and trying to control my excitement when my husband came home and I could engage in a real conversation. The people at the farmer's market, grocery store, and post office were excellent for a quick fix of person-to-person contact, and my good friend with a newborn baby was a reliable source of company (admittedly, we spent most of our time together in her living room, watching Ellen and Oprah while I worked on my computer). But all o...