Why a Writing Residency Rocks

November 13th, 2014
The view from my studio window

The view from my studio window

So, I just got back from spending a week at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, a residency for writers, artist and composers in Virginia. I had a room, a studio, and nothing but time to write, read and take the occasional walk or run in beautiful rural surroundings.

At meals (which I didn’t have to cook! Huzzah!), I chatted with other residents. It is so damned refreshing and inspiring to be around other people who just get it — to hear about their work and their process and their frustrations and victories. There were people of all ages, at all different stages of their careers.

And everyone worked like crazy. A lot of people even worked at night — which, I’m sorry, I am too burnt out to do after a day of writing. Morning and late afternoon are my best times. Noon to two or three, I’m pretty much useless. Nighttime, all I want to do is unwind, read, go to raves, plan jewel heists, destroy property, do blow with hookers, etc. (I almost never do the last few, but I like keeping my options open.) Read the rest of this entry »


October 21st, 2014

Home is where the hearth is.

I’ve been in a bit of a funk over the past couple of months. Not depressed, mind you. (Although sometimes I feel like I’m on the edge of it.) Just…something.

I keep reminding myself that it makes sense. We just moved, which is a big adjustment. I love our new house (see exhibit A, fireplace, above), and I like our new town in theory, but don’t really feel firmly rooted in it yet — which, of course, also makes sense. I miss the sense of community we had in our old town, specifically among parents of other kids at the girls’ school — some of whom were close friends, and still are. But they live 15 minutes away now instead of 5. Funny what a psychological difference 10 minutes can make.

I also sometimes miss the more urban energy of where we lived before, as I suspected I would. We went into Cambridge recently to see the Honk! parade, which was fabulous and weird and lefty and fun (Honkfest is something we look forward to every year) and it made me miss being as close as we we used to be to the awesomeness of Somerville and Cambridge. That area was home to both Alastair and me, separately and together, for 18 years (!) minus two years in Iowa.

But the biggest change, of course, is Clio’s treatment being over. I touched on this in another post, but some part of me really does feel a strange sense of loss at the fact that we’re no longer in that world, in the mindset of treating her illness.

It was an awfully intense sense of purpose we had, saving our daughter’s life and all. It occupied a huge number of hours, and immense quantities of emotional energy. We cried about it, we sang about it, we wrote about it.

And we HATED it! God knows we hated it. If I could go back in time and use super-power cellular X-ray vision to find that asshole cancerous lymphocyte that just had to start reproducing out of control, because it thought it was so freaking great, and thought it was its God-given duty to make like-minded babies, and I could zap it with a cancer-killing laser beam (scientists are working on one of those, right?) I would.

I never want to be back in that world. If Clio relapsed, I would be devastated. Even going back to the clinic for her monthly check-ups brings back unpleasant memories and sensations — more so now because it’s so infrequent. Read the rest of this entry »

The new old Clio

September 30th, 2014

I took the girls to get haircuts this past Sunday morning.

That “s” on “girls” is a very big deal, as Clio hasn’t had a haircut in over two years — not counting the one where we buzzed off what was left of her rapidly thinning hair six months into her treatment.

She took the whole hair loss thing with such stoicism. I mean, she was self-conscious sometimes for sure, and I don’t think she exactly liked being bald or, later, having very short hair. But it wasn’t something that she was outwardly upset / sad / angry about.

These days, though, she’s very eager to get her hair back to looking the way it did way back when she was a healthy five-year-old: A cute, pin-straight bob. This is what it looked like:


Screen Shot 2014-09-30 at 3.57.58 PM

(Worn in this case with particularly goofy expression. I think it’s her “take the damned picture and get me off this bogus Santa’s lap, please” face.)

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Out of nowhere.

September 13th, 2014

So, the other day I was feeling sort of disoriented and disconnected,  in our quiet and lovely little neighborhood, here in this new town. As much as I love our house, and the peace and quiet, and the feng shui of being up at the top of a hill (a close second to being adjacent to a body of water), it’s decidedly strange to be living in a suburb after having lived in much more urban-ish places for the past fifteen-plus years. Not like we’re that much farther from Boston. But there’s definitely a different flavor to it.

Anyway, this town does have a bustling little Main Street (a little spookily healthy, actually; like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting), and there’s a new-ish Yoga and Barre studio I decided to check out. Barre is like a combo of pilates and yoga with a dash of ballet, and I’d never tried it before. It’s a pretty ass-kicking workout. And I mean that not in the sense of “this workout kicks ass!” but in the sense of: I got my ass kicked by this workout.

I mean, I could do it, and I’m in pretty good shape at this point in my life, having ramped up my fitness routine in the past couple of years (go figure). But it was hard. Good hard, though. I was “enjoying” it. I felt very present and focused, because when you’re trying with all your might to keep pulsing your leg up at a ninety degree angle behind you while holding onto the barre, and you feel like your ass about to fall off your body, you don’t have a choice.

Late in the class, after a grueling set of ab exercises,we flipped over onto our stomachs and did some lower back counter-stretches. A cobra pose, and then “swimming,” which, if you haven’t done pilates, is lifting your legs and arms off the ground at the same and paddling both as if you’re swimming. And as I was doing these lower back exercises, the weirdest thing happened:

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Out, Damned Port!

September 2nd, 2014
Upcyling oral syringes to make Pollock-esque masterpieces. Art > Cancer

Upcyling oral syringes to make Pollock-esque masterpieces. Art > Cancer

Hi there. It’s been a loooong time since I posted. The fact is, I’m feeling a little bit adrift as to what I want to blog about these days, and how I want to use this space now that the most intense and perilous  phase of our family’s cancer journey crappy little boat trip has come to a close (knock on wood).

In the months before Clio was diagnosed, I’d started feeling meh about blogging, and unhappy about the direction Babble, where I was blogging at that time, was heading.

Then, enter a Big Bad Life Event, and suddenly I was clinging to blogging like a life raft (I sure do like these boat metaphors, don’t I….) using it as a form of therapy and a source of support, while also maybe, I vaguely hoped, contributing something to the world. In that first year, I felt compelled to blog. But now…not so much. There are fewer stumbling blocks and milestones. Life is much more about just life. 

Meanwhile, after two years of putting attempts at a new novel on hold, I’m able to start that crazy climb again. (Mountains, marathons and drives at night in the fog seem better metaphors for book-writing than nautical excursions do). So I’m inclined to put my writing energy — and the precious few hours I have for non-work writing — there.

Anyway. I’m just musing here. Not declaring an end to blogging. Just acknowledging that my relationship with it is shifting yet again, and I’m not sure where it’s headed.

But enough about that. Let’s talk about Clio’s port removal. Woo-hoo! She no longer has a little piece of metal and plastic inside her chest, channeling blood and chemo, rudely collecting blood clots, and whatnot. We don’t have to panic when she gets a fever, because it might be an infection in her line. We don’t have to put a dab of Emla on her chest, covered with Press-n-Seal, before we head to the clinic to numb the area. (On the downside, when she goes for checkups now, she has to get blood drawn from her arm, which is no fun.) Read the rest of this entry »