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The Gravity of Grief

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In The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (more precisely, in Life, the Universe, and Everything), the great science fiction humorist Douglas Adams had a bit about flying that I love for many, many reasons. In my experience, it speaks to the process of writing, and, quite frankly, to just about everything important in life. I paraphrase here, so forgive me if I don’t get it exactly right, but in essence it is this:

“There is an art to flying,” he says, “or rather a knack. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.”

(If you Google around, or, better yet, take the time to read these spectacular novels, you’ll find the longer explanation of this, which is both hilarious and poignant.) Here is a link to the author reading it live. http://youtu.be/W_gz3YHYmMU

What helps you to miss, he says, is to be distracted at the crucial second so thoroughly that you completely forget to hit the ground, and gravity, in turn, forgets about you. Adams’ protagonist, Arthur Dent, discovers the knack of it when, as he is being chased across the hellscape of a desolate planet by a vengeful creature he has karmically wronged, he suddenly, impossibly, catches sight of the tote bag he lost a decade earlier at the Athens airport, back on an Earth which no longer exists.

Today, for me, that glorious bit about flying applies to grief, and the avoidance thereof. Just when I was supposed to hit the ground, bottom out on loss after my dad died and my husband and I split, something came along that was so surprising, so compelling, that instead of smashing face-first into the dirt as was right and proper, I swooped up to dizzying heights, “bobbing and floating,” as Adams put it, “floating and bobbing.” I forgot the ground entirely.

It was amazing. I felt like I could soar forever, dizzyingly happy. I felt I’d got hold of something so giddy I could just spin with the air currents, and laze about on clouds, and laugh at earthbound mortals.

I tried really, really hard to ignore that this was, patently, impossible. Because the problem is, the minute you start to believe in gravity again, gravity believes in you. And you plummet back to earth.

Yeah, that happened.

So now I’ve finally taken the splat I should have taken two months ago. There’s dirt in my teeth, my elbows and knees are raw, rashy scabs, and the wind’s all knocked out of me. I have landed in an unfamiliar country and I don’t know the landmarks. I’m still feeling my limbs to make sure nothing’s broken, and I’m not 100% sure nothing is.

I’m angry at myself for taking this detour when what I needed was to slog through the grief like any sane human. Had I done so, by now I might be in a headspace to write the rest of my novel, or go on cautious, careful little coffee dates, laugh and pull rueful faces and enjoy twilight barbeques with friends on a long summer night.

Or maybe that’s not the way grief works. Maybe the mind, all mischief, deposits that bag you lost on holiday in Greece ten years ago – the bag filled with cracked sunglasses, and crusty swimsuits, and that tin of good olive oil you bought at the airport – onto the ruined wastelands of a planet on the opposite arm of the galaxy (and quite possibly in a parallel universe) from the place where you actually lost it, just at the moment when you’re about to crash-land astoundingly hard on the surface. Maybe it knows you can’t cope with the gravity of grief all in one go, and it gives you the gift of distraction so you’ll have a little respite, some hope, a glimmer of happy things to come.

For Arthur Dent, once he learned the knack of flying, he got better and better at it, until at will he could take to the skies. He learned to come down gently. He even taught his girlfriend Fenchurch the trick of it, and they had many pleasant adventures.

For me, right now in this winded moment, I fear I may never savor that sweet dizzying pleasure again. I may never achieve such another extraordinary uplift. I fear I’ll be this heavy-shod, earth-shackled creature forever.

But maybe, just maybe, when the time is at hand, I might step off exactly the right ledge, in just the right frame of mind, and find myself bobbing gently, tenderly, a few inches above the ground.

Willy-Nilly

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I have been writing, I swear. It’s just that what comes out won’t please, won’t make you laugh and lollop with llamas and fit into the mold of lighthearted fiction. What I’m writing wakes me in the morning and makes my fingers fly, roars forth, rips tears from my makeup-from-the-night-before eyes.

I’m expelling, I’m sure. Vomiting forth grief, and shock, and bemusement and fear for the future. I thought this grief would be quick. I thought the horridness of my father would make for a smooth transition to fatherlessness. I thought the equanimity of my divorce, the already-deadness of the marriage would mean I wouldn’t feel the loss.

But I guess not.

Mother’s Day approaches, and I remember how Mom liked flowers as much as any woman, and probably more. How she’d point out every bulb bursting forth from every tree planter on our block from Third to Lexington, every first forsythia cascading yellow over the grey-brown walls of the Central Park transverses, and ooh over the roses in the Conservatory Gardens.

I thought I dispelled my grief for her over months and years and therapy and trips to Kripalu to cry and commiserate and breathe deep yoga-scented breaths. But by damn, a little dose of Mom would go down smooth right now.

What to do, Mom? Buy a house and settle here, alone? Make no sudden moves, stay in my less-than-special rental, or move back to the city you loved and a love of which you instilled in your kids ‘til neither of us could imagine an identity other than New Yorker?

I still get Dad’s subscription, forwarded on to Santa Fe with the rest of his estate-of mail. And I still let it pile up, too precious to dump, and only read it for the cartoons or not at all, shameful I know. I suspect the New Yorker is the most shame-inducing, least-read periodical of all time. Even you were backlogged three issues on the nightstand, Mom.

Anyhow, I thought I’d be better by now. Ready to date, ready to commit, ready to write lovely llamas and hot tub hippies and heroes with a twinkle in their eyes. And I’m trying, I’m doing it by drips and drabs, though damn the work is slow. Only forgive me, gentle folks, if I need a moment still to let the “what the FUCK?!” flow. I’m still in it, whether I wish or no. And I guess that’s how it’s gonna be a little while yet.

My friend Pam asked me to describe my writing process. At this moment I’m in my living process, and what I write won’t be bent to my will. It just needs release, so that’s what I’m doing, whether or not the rage and pain and sadness ever see the light of day. Bear with me, friends. The llamas will come.

The Things I Didn’t Expect

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A shadow of my former self...

A shadow of my former self…

I didn’t expect to ever check “divorced” on a form, or wake up realizing I’m on my side of the bed only out of habit.

I didn’t expect to change the high light bulbs myself, or roll the trash down to the end of the dirt road each week.

I didn’t expect to shop for one, or constantly catch sight of the dent on my fourth finger where my wedding band withered the flesh over the course of nearly seven years.

I didn’t expect to find myself on the cusp of my fortieth birthday, single, in a town two thousand miles away from the place of my birth.

I also didn’t expect to be happy.

And I am. I am fucking HAPPY.

Like, listen-to-80s-dance-music-and-writhe-around-the-living-room-in-my-skivvies happy.

Wha? How?

I don’t know, but I think it started with the last blog post I wrote. I cracked wide the fuck open as I wrote that; heaving sobs and spitting tears as the words just flowed out of me without need for craft or correction. I wrote, and I broke open all the way to my core.

I’ve started feeling so awake I’ve had to check my caffeine intake – but no, I’m still drinking decaf.

I’ve started singing along to the radio in the car – hell, I started digging up all my old CDs (yes, I still have all my music on CD – I’m nearly forty, damn it, now get off my lawn!) and blasting the music of my youth on the rather nice Bose system I inherited from my dad.

I’ve started to lollop along on my treadmill each morning to Concrete Blonde and the Clash, slinging sweat and singing harmony when breath allows.

It might seem lame, this half-crazed, greying girl listening to Nick Cave and the Psychedelic Furs at all hours of the day, barbequing alone in my PJs after dark. It might be lame. I may be every cliche in the book, but I have to say, I haven’t felt this amazing, this vital in more years than I care to count.

I’m not missing the man who was my partner for the last nine years. At all.

I feel ashamed of this.  Don’t I owe him more than to simply blank him out of my consciousness? Yet, while I wish him well, I don’t, right now, really want to know what he’s up to, or tell him little things about my day. I just want to have my own damn day and keep it for myself, a pleasure I savor to myself. I don’t feel his absence the way I expected to, or feel lonely. I just feel like me.

I suppose that says a lot about the rightness of the divorce. I’d no idea our relationship had died; I thought it was sick, yes, but that perhaps that was normal for a marriage after several years. That boredom and malaise were part of the package.

Now I see so many possibilities. I’m not stymied trying to accommodate someone who simply couldn’t want the same things I wanted. He’s not trying to please me, and making himself miserable in the process. Now it’s okay to want the things I want. It’s okay to enjoy Santa Fe, and listening to the Smiths, and to think about maybe making a permanent home here if I want.

I don’t know exactly what my next adventure may be. Maybe I’ll adopt an alpaca, or visit the Amalfi Coast. Maybe I’ll even learn to like green chile. I don’t need to know just yet. But the unexpected is beginning to feel more like a delight than a dread, and that’s progress.

Death, Divorce, and Moving… On?

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Today would have been my mother’s seventy-fourth birthday, had she not died of pancreatic cancer three and a half years ago. Eight weeks ago, my father died of lung cancer at the age of seventy-six. And just under a month ago, my husband asked me for a divorce.

Last weekend, he moved the rest of his stuff out, leaving dents in the carpets where his bookshelves used to be, and deep grooves in my heart where the little, kindly routines of our lives were supposed to intersect.

I wake up wanting to tell him about that weird dream I had, or an idea for how to get the cat to stop drinking out of my bedside water glass… and I stop short, remembering.

Gone.

What do I do now with all the little in-jokes, the puns, the cutesy phrases I made up just to make him smile? How could I ever again look at the dedication page of BLISS, where I thanked him so effusively for being my partner, without feeling like a schmuck?

The reasons for the split are all valid, even if the timing was awful. But that doesn’t make my feelings now any less bewildered, my panic each morning when I wake up and realize I’m on my own diminish.  No mom, no dad, no emergency contact.

Just me.

Well, me and three cats who don’t care if their person is grieving.

You better get up NOW, two-legs, and put kibble in that-there bowl. Never mind that it’s 6am and you just got to sleep at 2.

So I’m sitting in what was supposed to be my dream life, kind of shell-shocked, trying to figure out how I’m ever going to feel joy again. Trying to understand where everything went so wrong, and knowing it wasn’t the fault of some mustachioed villain, unless you want to call life itself a villain. Trying to write a next chapter, literally as well as metaphorically, and failing utterly to imagine a happy ending.

I can’t control cancer. I can’t control other people’s behavior. And honestly, right now, I can only control mine about a third of the time. I sit down to write, and I just weep. I try to be graceful or gracious about the split, and I end up acting like a twit and saying passive-aggressive crap that purely appalls me even as I fail to rise above it. I put one foot in front of the other but half the time I’m drowning in quicksand no matter how furiously I slog on.

I see the daffodils in town begin to blossom and their yellow crowns make my heart clutch. My mom was a flower fanatic, and each year around her birthday when the forsythia and the tulips and the daffs and crocuses would reemerge, she’d gloat like she was personally responsible. I wonder what she would say to me now? I think she’d be mad that I’ve managed to alienate my handsome goyishe husband. Tsk her tongue at me for hiring an accountant to do the estate taxes instead of handling them on my own.

Would she be proud of me at all in this moment? I honestly can’t ever recall her saying such words to me. (It was always, “Oh, you got an article published in the Huffington Post? That’s great… but too bad they don’t pay!)

At least I know I’ve done as much as she could have, given the same circumstances, and that’ll have to suffice.

As for my dad… right now if illness hadn’t intervened, he’d be gearing up for April in Paris with his new girlfriend, planning to enjoy some good cheese and wine and art and hobble down the left bank best he could on gimpy legs.  Instead, the new, monogrammed Tumi suitcases he never got to use sit in my closet, waiting for my next venture.

Whatever that may be.

Why I haven’t written

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Why haven’t I written? The short answer is, my father died a few weeks ago. So I haven’t written any blog entries, twitticisms, or posted on my Facebook page.

I also haven’t worked on Book Two.

I haven’t written, I haven’t written, I haven’t written. I have had no desire to write. I have had no desire to do anything but eat cheese and watch bad television.

So, 5 pounds heavier and no lighter of heart, I sit here three and a half weeks after my father’s last breath, wondering who the hell I am and what the hell I want in the future. In a few months’ time I must decide whether to stick it out in Santa Fe another year, or move back to New York City, or find some other thing to do with my life and some other place to do it in.  In three months’ time I ought to be delivering a finished book to my publisher.

Shit, where’s that cheese?

I still feel overwhelmed, and underwhelmed, anything but whelm-whelmed. My relationship with my father was challenging, but now that he’s not here I feel so unmoored, yet so much more expected to be an adult, like a title magically conferred without any sort of education or preparation.

I fret that the history of our family, its identity, is in danger of vanishing, and my brother and I are its only witnesses, only carriers. Is it worth carrying? Ought it all to be forgotten? Does it make me a different person to no longer have this father, that mother?

What I know is that my heart is low, my interest in llamas and alpacas and charming little fictitious New Mexico towns is nil, and yet I have to get back to the business of life, preferably before I cause an international cheese shortage. I wish it were easy. I wish I could slide into the next phase of my life. But right now that’s not the case.

So bear with me. Happier updates to come.

PS – One bright spot: I can report that Dad’s two cats are settling happily into their new home in Seattle with a loving forever-guardian who will look after them well.

Head in the Game, I’ve Got Alpacas to Tame!

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So much has been happening with my family this past month or so that it’s been tough to focus on Book 2.  Health issues with my nearest and dearest have been a worry and a distraction, though I’m happy to say it seems we may have a respite for a little while now.  But I can’t let the story slip from my grasp.  I mean, c’mon! These lovelies are waiting to have their tale told!

Three little alpacas are we...

Three little alpacas are we…

It’s odd how I’ve chosen to weave a story that is, itself, so much about tying things together. From fiber to finished product, my story needs to knit so many themes, be cozy and comfortable, and have lasting strength. But last night I dreamed I was in a yarn shop that no longer sold yarn! All that was left were souvenirs and junk no one could use. I hope that’s more anxiety than omen. In my mind, Merry’s tale is so vivid, her character so alive. Now it’s my responsibility to make sure my readers see the same things I do. Studly Sam needs my attention. Dolly the Llama Lady needs my attention. Jane and Marcus and Mazel Tov and Steve Spirit Wind and Needlepoint Bob all need my attention. Buddha and Severus and all the other beasties in the book need my attention.

And I so want to be there. There’s nothing better than when you’re deep in the world of your novel, crafting. Nothing better than being surprised and set on your heels by unexpected ideas and events that just make the whole book more delightful. That’s why I write. That’s why I want to write. But I need to have the head space to let creativity in. And that means letting stress out.

So let’s howl a big ol’ OHMMMMMM! and get to work.  Cheers, friends.

Who Knew? I’m a Ham!

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Last night I had the privilege of reading and signing copies of my novel BLISS at the venerable Collected Works Bookstore here in Santa Fe. (It is the premiere indie bookstore in town, woo hoo!) The owner Dorothy made me most welcome, and the very talented Candace Walsh, who wrote the memoir Licking the Spoon, was kind enough to introduce me.

Allowing the BLISS to wash over me, all windswept-like.

Allowing the BLISS to wash over me, all windswept-like.

I wore my favorite Anthropologie dress, and a pair of heels that hurt the hell out of my feet, but even so armored, I was quite nervous! My mouth was dry as dust, and my hands were trembling.  Until I stepped on the little stage, coughed into the mic, and started to read…

Me at the podium (ie, giant spatula-like thing)

Me at the podium (ie, giant spatula-like thing)

It took me a few sentences, but pretty soon I was really enjoying myself!  I even started doing some of my characters’ voices and gestures, drawing out lines for suspense…

Getting into the swing of things

Getting into the swing of things

And I felt rather saucy! I mention this only because I’m the last person who enjoys having a spotlight on her. My husband is an actor, and I’ve always admired his ability to lay it all out there on stage, while feeling “oh, I could never do that myself!” I’m a classic, garden variety introvert, and I like to be appreciated for my wit on the page, rather than the stage. But I do have to confess, it was a blast hearing people’s reactions to my words; getting the meaning across just the way I wanted it to be received, and getting instant feedback in the form of laughter and smiles.

Rapt audience?

Rapt audience?

And after I knocked ’em dead with chapter 4 (ok, mildly amused them), Candace did a little interview with me and I totally didn’t make a massive ass of myself.

Q&A with Candace after the reading

Q&A with Candace after the reading

I wouldn’t say this public speaking stuff is my forte, but I will say that it was a surprisingly fun time, and I’m looking forward to more!

Me hamming it up with BLISS

Me hamming it up with BLISS

Happy New Year! I’m Still Here!

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Hey friends. Apologies for dropping the ball (not the new year’s eve ball, the proverbial ball) and failing to update le blog. I’ve been visiting with family in NYC and things have been nutty.  (I have a new nephew!)  But today, I’m happy to share that I’ve got a new interview up on a blog called LitJuice, and I’m chatting about my writing process, crafting characters and the like, so check it out here if you care to look.  I think it came out pretty well.

Meanwhile, I’m neck-deep in book 2, brewing up romance, shenanigans, and mishaps for Merry Manning to hurdle. Latest drama: the centipede from hell!

Stay tuned for more updates, and happy new year to all.

When in doubt, add hippies

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The last few weeks of writing haven’t been fun. I’d like to claim writing is always some awesomely artistic endeavor, lifting you high on wings of inspiration as your fingers float languidly over the keys. When that happens–whoopie! I remember why I decided this career was a better idea than, say, hamster-wrangling.  When it doesn’t… I turn surly.

I’ve spent the past several writing sessions combing over pages I’ve already written, re-drafting, searching for inconsistencies in theme, plot, characterization. It’s necessary work, but it ain’t the stuff we writers dream of when we don our turtlenecks and berets in the morning. For me, at least, it leads to self-doubt, angst, anguish, and psychic constipation.

Is this book gonna be as good as the last?

Do I know what the everloving fuck I am doing?

Is that job at the hamster-hut still open?

Today, I took a break from the fine-tooth comb crap, and got back to what makes me happy–silly, wacky, totally expectation-free exploration.  And what did I end up with? Naked hot spring hippies, a rainbow-colored school bus, and one very stoned heroine.

And a happy writer, who got to goof off, while doing exactly what she’s supposed to do for a living.

Why Sweets and Sex Toys?

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One of the themes of BLISS is self-acceptance. In my experience, so much of our passion as women is stifled by what we “should” want, what’s appropriate, what won’t get us ridiculed. Eating cupcakes is something we should apologize for. Having a healthy sexual appetite is encouraged—but not too much.

I can remember one time when, as a teenager, a boy I had a crush on gave me a Sweet Sixteen present. I was so excited to tear into it at my party—even more so because he and his friends had wrapped it in about thirty feet of aluminum foil! Everyone was staring, whispering. What could it be? I wondered. A bouquet of—probably now smushed—flowers? A bottle of perfume? Candy? I unwrapped and unwrapped, reams of tinfoil crinkling to my feet as my friends looked on.

Nope.  Not candy. Not perfume. Not an “I HEART Hilary” necklace.

Dildo.

My cheeks flamed as the boys laughed. It was huge, studded with “pleasure nubs” that looked like some kind of hideous venereal disease. And it was the first sex toy I’d ever seen up close and personal.

I threw it across the room in disgust, shrieking, “Ew, you guys! Not funny!” even though I was secretly intrigued. It would have been seen as evidence that I was not a “nice girl” if I’d done as my character Serafina does in one scene—rock out with her cock out!

That damn dildo followed me all the way to college. The boy I’d liked ended up attending the same school I did, and he never stopped trying to make me blush. One day, I even opened my campus mailbox, and found the dong lying atop my mail! The thought of the inter-campus mail kids—kids in my class—“inserting it into my box” had the desired effect. I blushed so deep a crimson I had to go put a wet washcloth on my cheeks.

There was much merriment to be had, but of course it was always embarrassed, scandalized laughter. And even after college, when I was in my wild, experimental phase, dancing atop bars in tight corsets and short skirts for attention, I still couldn’t look at a sex toy without checking around furtively to see if anyone noticed my interest. A sex shop was something to enter, giggling, with one’s friends, snickering at edible undies and giving the vibrating plugs a serious case of side-eye. I would never have dreamed of being open about my interest in pleasure enhancements, as my character Pauline so blithely is.

Now, in my later thirties, I get tired of being told what to enjoy, and what’s embarrassing or even slutty. That’s why I created Pauline Wilde, who couldn’t give a flying f*#k about what other people think. And I created her niece, Serafina, to give voice to my own hang-ups, my hesitation and fears. For my own sake, I wanted to let my heroine explore the things that have held her back, and watch her flower into a woman like her aunt; someone who owns her sexuality and her place in this world, who goes for what she wants and doesn’t apologize for it.

So much for the sex toys. Why the sweets in BLISS?

Simple. I really, really love to bake. And eat. Which is another thing women often have to hide, choking down abstemious salads and murmuring “oh, I’m watching my figure” while we turn away the dessert cart when we’re eating out at a restaurant.

Dude. I like cupcakes. I like cookies. I like cheesecake, chocolate, and just about everything else sweet. Probably too much. But there it is. And I have a sneaking suspicion I’m not alone here.

Food and sexual fulfillment are two of the greatest passions there are, and the ones we as women are often expected to deny ourselves, simply to seem proper in this world. I’m not immune to this expectation. I’ve been on more diets than I care to admit, and I wouldn’t exactly call myself comfortable with my body. That’s why I created characters in BLISS who could explore the issues—and have the fun!—for me.

Serafina gets to be everything I aspire to: talented, surrounded by friends, loved by a wonderful man. She revels in sweets and sex—my two favorite things.

If you’ve ever found yourself too timid or embarrassed to go for what you want, take a page from Serafina’s aunt and let your freak flag fly. Maybe you’ll find your BLISS too!